Page:California Inter Pocula.djvu/398



"What ye  got  there?" demanded Pat,  as  his  sharp eye caught  the  glorious  color  beneath  the  rubbish. '* O,  nothing  much,"  Sinclair  replied,  "my  men  brought it in."  "Ain't  ye  afraid  somebody  will  steal  it  ?"  asked Pat,  as  he  threw  off  the  articles  that  covered  it,  and took  a  long  and  deep  look  into  it.  "  I  don't  lie  awake nights about  it,"  Sinclair  said.  "You  may  have  it, Pat, if  you  will  carry  it  away ;  yes,  if  you  will  lift  it but  three  inches  from  the  ground."  Sinclair  was  a man  of  his  word,  but  McChristian  knew  well  enough the  feat  to  be  impossible.  Nevertheless,  he  could  not resist  the  temptation  of  plunging  his  hands  into  it,  of stirring  it  up  and  smoothing  it  down,  and  finally,  just for  the  fun  of  it,  of  taking  a  tug  at  it.  "  Only  three inches from  the  ground,"  again  Sinclair  quietly  re- marked, "and  it  is  yours,  so  help  me."

Pat lifted,  straining  himself  into  seriousness,  strain- ing until he  saw  sky-rockets  and  shooting  stars. It was of  no  use. The measure  clave  to  the  ground  as if  riveted  there. It would  not  leave  it  a  hair's breadth,  and  Pat  was  obliged  to  go  forth  and  content himself with  increasing  his  fortune  by  slower  degrees.

The quality  of  their  fellowship  was  rare  indeed. Not more  singular  and  hearty  in  verse  was  the  wel- come Horace gave  Lucius  Varius,  his  friend  and fellow-student at  Athens,  and  the  fellow-soldiers  at Philippi,  than  that  given  in  reality  by  these  rough digging men  to  a  returned  comrade.

•' Pour  till  it  touch  the  shining  goblet's  rim, Care-drowning massic;  let  rich  ointments  flow From amplest  conchs  ! No measure  we  shall  know ! What ! shall we  wreaths  of  oozy  parsley  trim

Or simple  myrtle  ? \^niom will  Venus  send To rule  our  revel  ? Wild my  draught  shall  be As  Thracian  Bacchanals',  for  'tis  sweet  to  me To  lose  my  wits,  when  I  regain  my  friend. "

Under the  shaggy  uncombed  locks  were  finely tempered brains  puzzling  over  the  body's  destiny; and beneath  gray  woolen  shirts  were  hearts,  some large some  small,  beating  to  the  measures  now  of celestial  songs  and  now  of  Abaddon's  wing-fiaps.