The weekly Butte record. [volume] (Oroville [Calif.]) 1866-1887, 1866-11-03
For the BUTTE RECORD
VOICE OF THE WATER.

VOICE OF THE WATER.
DEAR REcoRD:-I, there 60 again, all over the
clean sheet using the first person singular. that
has Lately become 50 unpopular in the United
States that it is called esotism; but if the Chief
Magistrate of our Nation offers the precedent, GER
tainly l. one Of the "peops' might use 1t without
being called disloyal; but do not wish TO touch
the political situation, because | am no polit-
clan, i would rather have the merit to be called
Bohemian; and think in the Presidents case il
should be called eccenricity. instead of gotisIn.
The fact is the President and were raised boys
together, could throw him down in a w.re=tle, but
he always got the better Of me in ground scufie,
as ii is caed-we went to the same school until We
got all the education out of that school, and both
graduated at the same time, but here We took d.
vergent courses, he commenced making coats, and
commenced teaching the juvenile underground
how to vegetate-anOn he. mounted the political
stump and with his impassioned eloquence, Patrick
Henry like carried all before him, and was sent
to Washington, while l. mounted a mule and amid
sun and storm toiied across the American continent
to dig gold in the brown hills of California, but it
useless to pursue the parallel any further still if he
should get the RECORD find me out, and send me
some bread and butter, ! would Ike it hugely;
the Republicans says he has an immense amount of
it at the white house.
But how strangely men loose sight of an objective
point, it has been my fault through lfe-l started
to say, that there is poetry in every thing of art
and nature from the little tea kettle that SINNERS
on the store, to the mighty steamer that gdes
across the deep blue sea: from the little rivulet
that sings in the rocky to the hOarse music
of old Oceans tune-there is no silence in the
world it has thousand voices, harp of thou
sand strings singing. weeping, moaning, crying,
signing, and laughing: from the lowest insect
hun from the safest whisper of the breeze, it rises
to the screaming locomotive, and the terrible
electric crash in the heavens.
Two years ago | was mining in Butte cannon,
and had my bunk located on a large boulder, near
the rushing water, and lying at night half way to
dream land. could hear the babblng water with
its many tongues, seeming sometimes to talk al
most intelligibly;
Pale moonshine on the mountain lay
Like sheets of fading glory.
And seemed to give double day
To messy peaks all hoary.
1t starry summer night
With zephyrs softly creeping
Among the clustring leaves that hung
Above where l was sleeping.
Nv bunk was on a boulder then,
Close by the rushing river,
Whose wafer echoed thro' the glen,
In lqaid semiqpiver.
With changing voices sometimes II wept,
Like sorrow's children crying,
And when the breeze its bosom swept,
1t fell to plautive signing.
Anon its accents sounded harsh,
Just like a scolding mother,
And seemed to say, o get away (child)
Your always such bother.
Again it murmured sweet and low
Perhaps twas only fancy,
Forgotten words 50 long ago
Of my dear sweetheart Nancy.
And then again its voice Was used,
In moduating phraaes,
That memery holds of other days,
In childhoods happy mazes.
It seemed at times like some poor wretch
just drowning in the billow,
The pash, the struggle, and the stritch
To grasp a dropping willow.
Twas like colloquy again,
ct lovers fondly wooing,
TIE sighing of the happy twain,
The smothe' d billing, cooag.
And when the rushing breezes past
In haste along the margin,
IT sounded like trumpet blast
And squadrons fercely charging.
Sometimes it groaned like one in pain,
Which made me feel panic,
As tho lay AMID the slain,
Upon the Rappahannock
Then like maiden's happy laugh,
So free from guile and sorrow
II fell upon my dreaming ear
And made me think Of "auli lang syne.
Pres.