﻿Note: Pronounce “elka-merno-re-all”: accent first, third and last soluble (as in Mont-real) = Montroyal)  
THE ARROYO SECO 
El Camino Real! 
Man mst be, know, see all, 
Live and learn and recall— 

And yet it cramps my style 
To engineer a smile 
The while I boil a mess of bile 
In the golden vial: 
This Hour of rampant guile! 
This Age of sophist wile 
This Life, predominantly vile. 
The Mooney-Billings trial! 
El Calmino Real!  
When and what will be all? 
What grim “fate” shall befall? 
The Royal Road itself is sweet 
But not vo sweet on royal feet 
The sum beats you of treat, complete— 
With heal replete steeped in deceit— 
Ah, brethern, that was burning meat 
Not of the kind the parsons eat— 
Hitch-hiking blisters do not cheat 
All that is left, the Royal Seat! 
The great baboon now learnt to bleat: 
El Camino Real! 
When I was admiral in the Swiss navy (or was it Irish?) I was almost elevated to high position in the yard-arm by a crew of irresponsible Kings Bosuns on account of lifting anchor for the Battle of Penokee Range without carrying aboard sufficient grog for medical purposes. 
I was also uplifted by the King to the title, Royal Horse-Doctor to his Royal Jackass which carried with it the title Chirurgeon-General of the King’s Tubs and Dobbs. 
Now it happened a bunch of patriots and halfwits got together and threw a peruna-party in honor of us war-scarred (not seared) heroes of the Battle of Penokee Range, just outside the Port of Hurley, Wisconsin—yes sir, sir. 
And it also happened that peruna was not the only steamulating elixir— we had raisin-jack, hair-oil, bay rum and brass-polish—and it wasn’t long till the world resounded to the martial air of “The Old Gray Mare” and other great melodies that inspire men to “go off” and kill somebody. Now peruna as I understand is not constipating—I believe the company gives a written guarantee to that effect—the ladies present can also be absolved of all responsibillity for the terrible things that happened— I lay it to peruna. 
It is with mingled feeling- somewhat mangled I must confess I was never caught breathing olive oil and row oysters while murmuring “angela mia”—that’s a highly technical statement; I may have been caught while not breathing the above, ingredients. It was only during the breathing of oil and oysters that I was not caught in the act of pronouncing those fatal words. It doesn’t say here anywhere that I did not murmur “angela mia”. It doesn’t say here I was never caught breathing olive oil and raw oysters. In fact the statement accounts only for a very short fraction of my life about 3 seconds, for first offence. (What I’ve been doing the rest of my life is nobody’s business.) (Our editors are growing cockeyed just from watching our majestic flow of language that doesn’t mean a thing.) Do you mean to say editor, that I should not defend my character and uphold the honor of the King’s navy? How do you get that way? 
I have not admitted for a single instant, in that statement, that I murmured “angela mia” with or without; or anything like it. Show me! 
Now that my character once more is above reproach we can take up these terrible incidents that came within an ace of scandalizing the whole seaboard. We can’t take ‘em up just now. editor! Some of our readers, which are legion, have forgotten the immortal words of that grand ballad of 49 years ago, The Old Gray Mare: 
It seems a young man was courting a girl and the pair was deeply in love with one another—almost too deeply. The old man, the father of the girl, had a sorrel mare that was gray. The young man not knowing the old man had settled all his wealth on the young pair, told the old man he would not marry the girl unless he was given the old gray mare. “It’s yours,” the old man said, with hearty curse, “it’s yours.” and he put his scads back in his purse. 
Quite a contretemps! He fought for the mare and got it. but lost a fortune. Tough titty! 
The girl getting wind of his bone headed play proceeded to take to the warpath and kicked him the full length of Iron County and into the discard—he didn’t even get the mare. 
He lost out three ways. 
As I said before, tough titty. 
Us officers of the king’s navy always sing that sweet ballad, when shot and shell are flying thickest—we feel that we are fighting for the old gray mare. 
The young men felt he could not return to his home port until he had built up his rear and time had healed the spots where she had heeled and trampled him—I don’t blame her—and it was twenty years before he showed his schnozzle over the backyard fence: 
“Remember me? Sweet Alice shy,” 
We hear him snort half in despair.— 
“And shure I do, ain’t you the guy 
That came to court our old gray mare?” 
Mebbe O don’t get it word for word, but then, what’s the odds—our readers have forgotten it word for word. 
At the peruna-party this beautiful ballad kept the girls in good humor and gave us veterans of foreign scars an opportunity to pay homage to the best tonic known to human concoction: Suddenly as if the ship had struck a rock there was a rumble in the bowels of the navy’s principle unit that sounded ominous. Being an admiral I immediately made a rush for the closet to say my prayers—unfortunately I had lift the nickel in the flagship’s strongbox and it was one of those pay-closets wherein prayers follow the contribution. 
Before I could reach for succor there was a terrific explosion like a crown sheat dropping out of a steamboiler and shooting out from both ends. The king’s admiral was a social, physical hygienic and spiritual wreck—raisinjack and peruna had had it out and I comited. 
“Boy, call me a taxi, in the name of the king!” On the way to the quay, me rapidly recovering my wellknown sobriety, we passed a jacksailor who was making heavy seaway, tacking from side to side.— “Stop! In the name of the king—pick up that drunken lout.” “Avast, me lad, can’t you see he can not navigate, pick him up.”— 
Together we struggled through a verse or two of the old gray mare and when we reached the quay I was sober to the point of supercilliness: “Officer of the Guard, arrest that man, throw him in the brig. Look at what he did to my cape and uniform. Remember! you saw what he did to my uniform. That’ll be all—when we go aboard come and get these clothes and have them cleaned—that’ll be all.” — 
When the clothes were returned to me in the pure state. I reminded the corporal, “you saw that he had comited all over me, that’ll be all.” — “Yes sir, but that isn’t all he did—he dirtied your underwear, too. 
“He did! I’ll have him court martialed and drummed out of the navy.” 
(Never mind how I got these—I’ve got ‘em, ain’t I? Possession is nine points in law.)