Pearson’s Magazine (UK), April 1910
Out in the silent Rockies,
Tracking the Teddy-bears,
There’s a man whose brow is furrowed,
Whose hairs are silvered hairs.
Folks in that far-off region
Know him as “Jaundiced Jim”;
And now I’ll tell you his story.
How do I know it? I’m him!
* * * *
Once I was gay and mirthful,
Ready with quip and jest,
Strong men shook at the stories
That I would get off my chest.
I knew no doubts nor sorrows;
I was filled with the joy of youth.
But I dished my life in one second
Through a morbid passion for truth.
Angela Grace Maguffin
Was the belle of the county then.
Suitors? Including me—well,
There must have been nine or ten.
But I put in some tricky work, and
Cut out the entire batch
Till the fatal day that undid me—
The day of the Ladies’ Match.
Cricket was not my forte.
I never won a match
With a fifty made against time, or
A wonderful one-hand catch.
Rude men called me a rabbit;
So I thought it were best that day,
Lest Grace should have cause to despise me,
To umpire and not to play.
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(Why did no guardian angel
Down to my rescue swoop,
And hiss in my ear: “You juggins!
Desist, or you’re in the soup!”
Why did the Fates permit me
To tackle that evil job?
Why did I offer to umpire?
Why did—excuse this sob.)
Everything went like clockwork,
The sky was a gentle blue;
The sun was shining above us,
As the sun is so apt to do.
Everything went, as stated,
Like the wheels of some well-made clock:
There wasn’t a sign of disaster
Till Grace came in for her knock.
Nature seemed tense, expectant,
All round was a solemn hush.
She murmured: “What’s this, please, umpire?”
I said: “Two leg,” with a blush.
Down to the crease moved the bowler . . .
Ah! Fate, ’twas a scurvy trick.
My Grace swiped out—and I heard it . . .
Yes, an unmistakable click.
“ ’S that?” cried the cad of a bowler.
“How was it?” yelled slip, the brute,
For a moment I stood there breathless—
Breathless, and dazed, and mute.
“How was it?” All creation
Seemed filled with a hideous shout,
I wavered an instant, gulping . . .
Then hoarsely I muttered: “Out!”
* * * *
Down where the grizzly grizzles;
Out where the possums poss;
Where the boulders fall from the hill-side,
And, rolling, gather no moss;
Where the wild cat sits in the sunshine,
Chewing a human limb,
There’s a thin, sad, pale, grey hermit:
Folks know him as “Jaundiced Jim.”