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BILL NYE AND BOOMERANG;

Or, The Tale Of A Meek-Eyed Mule, And Some Other Literary Gems

By Bill Nye

Chicago, New York And San Francisco:

Bedford, Clarke & Co.

1883=


```"And now, kind friends, what I have wrote

```I hope you will pass o'er,

```And not criticise as some has done,

```Hitherto, herebefore."

`````Sweet Singer of Michigan.

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MY MULE BOOMERANG,


|Whose bright smile haunts me still, and whose low, mellow notes are
ever sounding in my ears, to whom I owe all that I am as a great man,
and whose presence has inspired me ever and anon throughout the years
that are gone.


THIS VOLUME,

this coronet of sparkling literary gems as it were, this wreath of
fragrant forget-me-nots and meek-eyed johnny-jump-ups, with all its
wealth of rare tropical blossoms and high-priced exotics, is cheerfully
and even hilariously dedicated

By the Author.




THE APOLOGY.

{In my Boudoir,

{Nov. 17,1880.

Belford, Clarke & Co.:

Gentlemen:--In reply to your favor of the 22d ult., I herewith transmit
the material necessary for a medium size volume of my chaste and unique
writings.

The matter has been arranged rather hurriedly, and no doubt in
classifying this rectangular mass of soul, I have selected some little
epics and ethereal flights of fancy which are not as good as others that
I have left out, but my only excuse is this: the literary world has been
compelled to yield up first one well known historical or scientific
work and then another, careful investigation having shown that they were
unreliable. This left suffering humanity almost destitute of a reliable
work to which it could turn in its hour of great need.

So I have been compelled to hurry more than I wanted to.

It affords me great pleasure, however, to know what a feeling of blessed
rest and childlike confidence and assurance-and some more things of that
nature-will follow the publication of this work.

Print the book in large coarse type, so that the old people can get a
chance at it. It will reconcile them to death, perhaps.

Then sell it at a moderate price. It is really priceless in value, but
put it within the reach of all, and then turn it loose without a word of
warning. The Author.

Laramie City, Wyoming.




OSTROPHE TO AN ORPHAN MULE.

```Oh! lonely, gentle, unobtrusive mule!

```Thou standest idly 'gainst the azure sky,`

``And sweetly, sadly singeth like a hired man.=

`````Who taught thee thus to warble`

``In the noontide heat and wrestle with`

``Thy ceep, corroding grief and joyless woe?`

``Who taught thy simple heart

```Its pent-up, wildly-warring waste`

``Of wanton woe to carol forth upon`

````The silent air?=

```I chide thee not, because thy`

``Song is fraught with grief-embittered`

``Monotone and joyless minor chords`

``Of wild, imported melody, for thou`

``Art restless, woe begirt and`

``Compassed round about with gloom,

`````Thou timid, trusting, orphan mule!

`````Few joys indeed, are thine,`

``Thou thrice-bestricken, madly`

``Mournful, melancholy mule.

```And he alone who strews

```Thy pathway with his cold remains

```Can give thee recompense

`````Of lemoncholy woe.=

```He who hath sought to steer`

``Thy limber, yielding tail`

``Ferninst thy crupper-band

```Hath given thee joy, and he alone.

```'Tip true, he may have shot`

``Athwart the Zodiac, and, looking`

``O'er the outer walls upon

`````The New Jerusalem,

```Have uttered vain regrets.=

```Thou reckest not, O orphan mule,

```For it hath given thee joy, and`

``Bound about thy bursting heart,

```And held thy tottering reason`

````To its throne.=

```Sing on, O mule, and warble`

``In the twilight gray,

```Unchidden by the heartless throng.

```Sing of thy parents on thy father's side.`

``Yearn for the days now past and gone:

```For he who pens these halting,

```Limping lines to thee

```Doth bid thee yearn, and yearn, and yearn.




A MINERS' MEETING--MY MINE--A MIRAGE ON E PLAINS.

Camp on the New Jerusalem Mine, May 28, 1880.


|I write this letter in great haste, as I have just returned from the
new carbonate discoveries, and haven't any surplus time left.

While I was there a driving snow storm raged on the mountains, and
slowly melting made the yellow ochre into tough plastic clay which
adhered to my boots to such an extent that before I knew it my
delicately arched feet were as large as a bale of hay with about the
same symmetrical outlines.

A miners' meeting was held there Wednesday evening, and a district to
be called Mill Creek District, was formed, being fifteen miles each way.
The Nellis cabin or ranch is situated in the center of the district.

I presided over the meeting to give it an air of terror and gloom. It
was very impressive. There was hardly a dry eye in the house as I was
led to the chair by two old miners. I seated myself behind the flour
barrel, and pounding on the head of the barrel with a pick handle, I
called the august assemblage to order.

Snuffing the candle with my fingers in a graceful and pleasing
style, and wiping the black off on my pants, I said: "Gentlemen of the
Convention: In your selection of a chairman I detect at once your mental
acumen and intelligent foresight. While you feel confident that, in the
rose- future, prosperity is in store for you, you still remember
that now you look to capital for the immediate development of your
district.

"I am free to state that, although I have been but a few hours in your
locality, I am highly gratified with your appearance, and I cheerfully
assure you that the coffers which I command are at your disposal. In me
you behold a capitalist who proposes to develop the country, regardless
of expense.

"I also recognize your good sense in selecting an old miner and mineral
expert to preside over your meeting. Although it may require something
of a mental strain for your chairman to detect the difference between
porphyry and perdition, yet in the actual practical workings of a mining
camp he feels that he is equal to any emergency.

"After the band plays something soothing and the chaplain has drawn up
a short petition to the throne of grace, I shall be glad to know the
pleasure of the meeting."

Round after round of applause greeted this little gem of oratory. A
small boy gathered up the bouquets and filed them with the secretary,
when the meeting proceeded with its work. Most of the delegates came
instructed, and therefore the business was soon transacted.

I located a claim called the Boomerang. I named it after my favorite
mule. I call my mule Boomerang because he has such an eccentric orbit
and no one can tell just when he will clash with some other heavenly
body.

He has a sigh like the long drawn breath of a fog-horn. He likes to come
to my tent in the morning about daylight and sigh in my ear before I
am awake. He is a highly amusing little cuss, and it tickles him a good
deal to pour about 13 1/2 gallons of his melody into my car while I am
dreaming, sweetly dreaming. He enjoys my look of pleasant surprise when
I wake up.

He would cheerfully pour more than 13 1/2 gallons of sigh into my
ear, but that is all my ear will hold. There is nothing small about
Boomerang. He is generous to a fault and lavishes his low, sad,
tremulous wail on every one who has time to listen to it.

Those who have never been wakened from a sweet, sweet dream by the
low sad wail of a narrow-gauge mule, so close to the ear that the warm
breath of the songster can be felt on the cheek, do not know what it is
to be loved by a patient, faithful, dumb animal.

The first time he rendered this voluntary for my benefit, I rose in my
wrath and some other clothes, and went out and shot him. I discharged
every chamber of my revolver into his carcass, and went back to bed to
wait till it got lighter. In a couple of hours I arose and went out to
bury Boomerang. The remains were off about twenty yards eating bunch
grass. In the gloom and uncertainty of night, I had shot six shots into
an old windlass near a deserted shaft.

Boomerang and I get along first-rate together. When I am lonesome I
shoot at him, and when he is lonesome he comes up and lays his head
across my shoulder, and looks at me with great soulful eyes and sings to
me.

On our way in from the mines we saw one of those beautiful sights so
common in this high altitude and clear atmosphere. It was a mirage.

In the party were a lawyer, a United States official, a banker and
myself. The other three members of the quartet, aside from myself are
very modest men and do not wish to have their names mentioned. They were
very particular about it and I have respected their wishes. Whatever
Messrs. Blake, Snow or Ivinson ask me to do I will always do cheerfully.

But we were speaking about the mirage. Across to the northeast our
attention was at first attracted by a rank of gray towers growing taller
and taller till their heads were lifted into the sky above, while at
their feet there soon appeared a glassy lake in which was reflected the
outlines of the massive gray walls above. It was a beautiful sight. The
picture was as still and lovely to look upon as a school ma'am. We all
went into raptures. It looked like some beautiful scene in Palestine. At
least Snow said so, and he has read a book about Palestine, and ought to
know.

There was a silence in the air which seemed to indicate the deserted
sepulchre of other days, and the grim ruins towering above the depths of
clear waters on whose surface was mirrored the visage of the rocks and
towers on their banks, all spoke of repose and decay and the silent,
stately tread of relentless years.

By and by, from out the grey background of the picture, there stole the
wild, tremulous, heart-broken wail of a mule.

It seemed to jar upon the surroundings and clash harshly against our
sensitive natures. Some one of the party swore a little. Then another
one came to the front, and took the job off his hands. We all joined, in
a gentlemanly kind of way, in condemning the mule for his lack of tact,
to say the least.

All at once the line of magnificent ruins shortened and became reduced
in height. They changed their positions and moved off to the left,
and our dream had melted into the matter of fact scene of twenty-two
immigrant wagons drawn by rat-tail mules and driven by long-haired
Mormons, with the dirt and bacon rinds of prehistoric times adhering to
them everywhere.

What a vale of tears this is anyway!

We are only marching toward the tomb, after all. We should learn a
valuable lesson from this and never tell a lie.




THE TRUE STORY OF DAMON AND PYTHIAS.




CHAPTER I.


|The romantic story of Damon and Pythias, which has been celebrated
in verse and song, for over two thousand years, is supposed to have
originated during the reign of Dionysius I., or Dionysius the Elder as
he was also called, who resigned about 350 years B.C. He must have been
called "The Elder," more for a joke than anything else, as he was by
inclination a Unitarian, although he was never a member of any church
whatever, and was in fact the wickedest man in all Syracuse.

Dionysius arose to the throne from the ranks, and used to call himself
