Complete Poetical Works. Bret Harte

       In his own peculiar grammar,

       With its linguistic disguises,

       La! the Arctic prologue rises:

       "Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad,

       Seein' ez 'twas all they had.

       True, the Springs are rather late,

       And early Falls predominate;

       But the ice-crop's pretty sure,

       And the air is kind o' pure;

       'Tain't so very mean a trade,

       When the land is all surveyed.

       There's a right smart chance for fur-chase

       All along this recent purchase,

       And, unless the stories fail,

       Every fish from cod to whale;

       Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see—

       'Twould be strange if there should be—

       Seems I've heerd such stories told;

       Eh!—why, bless us—yes, it's gold!"

       While the blows are falling thick

       From his California pick,

       You may recognize the Thor

       Of the vision that I saw—

       Freed from legendary glamour,

       See the real magician's hammer.