“Tennessee’s Partner” by Bret Harte

 

I do not think that we ever knew his real name. Our ignorance of it certainly never gave us any social inconvenience, for at Sandy Bar in 1854 most men were christened anew. Sometimes these appellatives were derived from some distinctiveness of dress, as in the case of "Dungaree Jack;" or from some peculiarity of habit, as shown in "Saleratus Bill," so called from an undue proportion of that chemical in his daily bread; or from some unlucky slip, as exhibited in "The Iron Pirate," a mild, inoffensive man, who earned that baleful title by his unfortunate mispronunciation of the term "iron pyrites." Perhaps this may have been the beginning of a rude heraldry; but I am constrained to think that it was because a man's real name in that day rested solely upon his own unsupported statement. "Call yourself Clifford, do you?" said Boston, addressing a timid newcomer with infinite scorn; "hell is full of such Cliffords!" He then introduced the unfortunate man, whose name happened to be really Clifford, as "Jaybird Charley,"—an unhallowed inspiration of the moment that clung to him ever after.

Another from the 100 Best roster—the 3^rd from Mr. Harte.

Again, the epitome of the jocular raconteur. Such an easy offhandedly detailed style. It never bogs or feels forced and again, the lightness of tone suffuses all and, bafflingly, he tells a tale of loss and grief wrapped in a gossamer of affectionate humor that adds to the poignancy.

It is a marvelous feat to pull off. He does it handily.