CAMRONThe Indian-trader
Camron, the trader, had a way with him,
A something in his thin white thread of lip
When bargaining with Indians he sought to beat
Them down in prices put on huckleberries,
With dubious talk of markets glutted, falling.
Niggard he was in the currency of speech.
Out of a cold white mouth his words would click
And clatter on the hardwood desk like coins;
And when he deigned to drop a word of barter,
Cold and metallic, the squaws would pick it up,
And—so to speak—would bite upon its edge
And fling it down upon a slab of stone,
Spinning and clinking, to find if it was good.
A something in his thin white thread of lip
When bargaining with Indians he sought to beat
Them down in prices put on huckleberries,
With dubious talk of markets glutted, falling.
Niggard he was in the currency of speech.
Out of a cold white mouth his words would click
And clatter on the hardwood desk like coins;
And when he deigned to drop a word of barter,
Cold and metallic, the squaws would pick it up,
And—so to speak—would bite upon its edge
And fling it down upon a slab of stone,
Spinning and clinking, to find if it was good.
But every word he tossed them, good or specious,
The women soon or late would hold of worth;
When bellies are flat with hunger as a pike's
In spawning-season, any round glittering word,
The women soon or late would hold of worth;
When bellies are flat with hunger as a pike's
In spawning-season, any round glittering word,
