Page:Life of John Boyle O'Reilly.djvu/700

 654 Where is it?" The sawyer grew weak, but still

His brown face gleamed with a desperate will.

"Where is it?" he heard, and the red knife's drip

In his slayer's hand fell down on his lip.

"Will you give it?" "Never!" A curse, the knife

Was raised and buried.

Of Samuel Jones, known as "Number Ten"

On his Ticket-of-Leave; and of all the men

In the Western Colony, bond or free,

None had manlier heart or hand than he.

In digging a sawpit, while all alone,—

For his mate was sleeping,—Sam struck a stone

With the edge of the spade, and it gleamed like fire,

And looked at Sam from its bed in the mire.

Till he dropped the spade and stooped and raised

The wonderful stone that glittered and blazed

As if it were mad at the spade's rude blow;

But its blaze set the sawyer's heart aglow

As he looked and trembled, then turned him round,

And crept from the pit, and lay on the ground,

Looking over the mold-heap at the camp

Where his mate still slept. Then down to the swamp

He ran with the stone, and washed it bright,

And felt like a drunken man at the sight

Of a diamond pure as spring-water and sun.

And larger than ever man's eyes looked on!

Then down sat Sam with the stone on his knees,

And fancies came to him, like swarms of bees

To a sugar-creamed hive; and he dreamed awake

Of the carriage and four in which he'd take

His pals from the Dials to Drury Lane,

The silks and the satins for Susan Jane,

The countless bottles of brandy and beer

He'd call for and pay for, and every year