Laughter Kills Lonesome
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp fire, with rude humor, painted,
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race of wealth.
Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
To hear a tale anew.
And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of "Little Nell".
Perhaps 'twas the boyish fancy-for the reader
Was the youngest of them all,-
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;
The fir trees, gathered closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp with "Nell" in English meadows
Wandered, and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes-o'ertaken
And by some spell divine-
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire;
And he who wrought that spell?
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop vine's incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths entwine,
Deem it not all too presumptuous folly,-
This spray of western pine!
"Dickens In Camp"
A poem by Bret Harte