Public Domain Poetry And Stories - To The Pliocene Skull by Bret Harte (Francis)
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To The Pliocene Skull

    By Bret Harte (Francis)



    "Speak, O man less recent!
                        Fragmentary fossil!
    Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,
    Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum
                        Of volcanic tufa!

    "Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium;
    Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;
    Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions
                        Of earth's epidermis!

    "Eo - Mio - Plio - whatsoe'er the 'cene' was
    That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder, -
    Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches, -
                        Tell us thy strange story!

    "Or has the professor slightly antedated
    By some thousand years thy advent on this planet,
    Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted
                        For cold-blooded creatures?

    "Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest
    When above thy head the stately Sigillaria
    Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant
                        Carboniferous epoch?

    "Tell us of that scene - the dim and watery woodland,
    Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect,
    Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses,
                        Lycopodiacea, -

    "When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,
    And all around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus,
    While from time to time above thee flew and circled
                        Cheerful Pterodactyls; -

    "Tell us of thy food, - those half-marine refections,
    Crinoids on the shell, and Brachipods au naturel, -
    Cuttle-fish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo
                        Seems a periwinkle.

    "Speak, thou awful vestige of the Earth's creation -
    Solitary fragment of remains organic!
    Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence -
                        Speak! thou oldest primate!"

    Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,
    And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,
    With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication,
                        Ground the teeth together.

    And, from that imperfect dental exhibition,
    Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian,
    Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs
                        Of expectoration:

    "Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted
    Falling down a shaft in Calaveras county,
    But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces
                        Home to old Missouri!"

                Bret Harte.



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