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HOME > Children's Novel > Uncle Josh's Punkin Centre Stories > Yosemite Jim, or a Tale of the Great White Death
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Yosemite Jim, or a Tale of the Great White Death
     YOSEMITE JIM wuz the name he had,           And he came from no one knowed whar;
      Quiet, easy goin' sort of a cuss,
          And wuz reckoned on the squar'.
      Ridin' a route for the Wells Fargo folks
          May have made him stern and grim;
      But thar wasn't a man that crossed the divide
          But 'ud swar by Yosemite Jim.
      He wa'n't one of the regular sort
          What you'd meet thar any day,
      But as near as the camp could figure it out,
          In a show down he'd likely stay.
      A shambling, awkward figure,
          Rawboned, tall and slim,
      And his schaps and togs in general
          Jist looked like they'd fell on him.
      I wuz somewhat of a tenderfoot then,
          Hadn't jist got the lay of the land;
      Thar wuz a good many things in them thar parts
          As I couldn't quite understand.
      But I took a likin' to Yosemite Jim,
          Wuz with him on my very first trick;
      And from that time on I stuck to him
          Like a kitten to a good warm brick.
      Our headquarters then wuz the valley camp,
          It wuz down by the redwood way,
       With Chaparel across the spur,
          'Bout1 fifty miles away.
      Wall, what I'm goin' to tell you, pard,
          Happened thar whar the trail runs into the sky;
      And if it hadn't a-bin fer Yosemite Jim,
          Wall, I'd be countin' my chips on high.
      The galoot that wuz punchin' the broncos fer me
          Wuz a greaser from down Monterey;
      And Jim used to say, "Keep your eye on him, pard,
          I don't think he's cum fer to stay;
      His eyes are too shifty and yeller,
          And his face is sullen2 and hard;
      And 'taint3 that so much as a feelin' I have;
          Anyhow, keep your eye on him, pard."
      One day when the mercury wuz way out of sight,
          And the frost it wuz on every nail,
      With jist the mail sack and specie box,
          The greaser and I hit the trail.
      We picked two passengers up at Big Pine,
          And while the broncos were changed that day
      I noticed them havin' a sneakin' chat
          With the greaser from down Monterey.
      Did you ever hear tell of the Great White Death,
          That creeps down the mountain side,
      Leavin' behind it a ghastly track
          Whar those who have met it died?
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