A COWBOY RACE

A PATTERING rush like the rattle of hail When the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail, A long roll of hoofs,--and the earth is a drum!

The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!

A rollicking, clattering, battering beat; A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet; A swift-swirling dust-cloud--a mad hurricane Of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane;

Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun The gauntlet is flung and the race is begun!

_J. C. Davis._

THE HABIT

I'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown; I've b.u.mmed along from Portland down to San Antone; From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill,-- For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.

I settled down quite frequent, and I says, says I, "I'll never wander further till I come to die."

But the wind it sorter chuckles, "Why, o' course you will."

An' sure enough I does it 'cause I can't keep still.

I've seen a lot o' places where I'd like to stay, But I gets a-feelin' restless an' I'm on my way.

I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill, An', once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.

I've been in rich men's houses an' I've been in jail, But when it's time for leavin' I jes. .h.i.ts the trail.

I'm a human bird of pa.s.sage and the song I trill Is, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."

The sun is sorter coaxin' an' the road is clear, An' the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear.

It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill; For, once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.

_Berton Braley._

A RANGER

HE never made parade of tooth or claw; He was plain as us that nursed the bawlin' herds.

Though he had a rather meanin'-lookin' jaw, He was shy of exercisin' it with words.

As a circus-ridin' preacher of the law, All his preachin' was the sort that hit the nail; He was just a common ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger, And he labored with the sinners of the trail.

Once a Yaqui knifed a woman, jealous mad, Then hit southward with the old, old killer's plan, And n.o.body missed the woman very bad, While they'd just a little rather missed the man.

But the ranger crossed his trail and sniffed it glad, And then loped away to bring him back again, For he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny border And his business was to hunt for sinful men!

So the trail it led him southward all the day, Through the shinin' country of the thorn and snake, Where the heat had drove the lizards from their play To the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake.

And the mountains heaved and rippled far away And the desert broiled as on the devil's p.r.o.ng, But he didn't mind the devil if his head kept clear and level And the hoofs beat out their clear and steady song.

Came the yellow west, and on a far off rise Something black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim, And he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyes While he cussed the southern hills for growin' dim.

Down a hazy 'royo came the coyote cries, Like they laughed at him because he'd lost his mark, And the smile that brands a fighter pulled his mouth a little tighter As he set his spurs and rode on through the dark.

Came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higher Through the mountains that look into Mexico, And the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wire And the miles and minutes dragged unearthly slow.

Then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fire And the canyon walls flung thunder back again, And he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbled That his bridle arm had weight enough for ten.

Though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slack And he grabbed for leather at his hawse's shy, Yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation back That convinced the sinner--just above the eye.

So the sinner sprawled among the shadows black While the ranger drifted north beneath the moon, Wabblin' crazy in his saddle, workin' hard to stay a-straddle While the hoofs beat out a slow and sorry tune.

When the sheriff got up early out of bed, How he stared and vowed his soul a total loss, As he saw the droopy thing all blotched with red That came ridin' in aboard a tremblin' hawse.

But "I got 'im" was the most the ranger said And you couldn't hire him, now, to tell the tale; He was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger And he labored with the sinners of the trail.

_Charles Badger Clark, Jr._

THE INSULT

I'VE swum the Colorado where she runs close down to h.e.l.l; I've braced the faro layouts in Cheyenne; I've fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin' swine An' swallowed hot tamales and cayenne;

I've rode a pitchin' broncho till the sky was underneath; I've tackled every desert in the land; I've sampled XX whiskey till I couldn't hardly see An' dallied with the quicksands of the Grande;

I've argued with the marshals of a half a dozen burgs; I've been dragged free and fancy by a cow; I've had three years' campaignin' with the fightin', bitin' Ninth, An' I never lost my temper till right now.

I've had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes; I've grabbed an army mule plum by the tail; But I've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' mad As when you up and hands me ginger ale.

_Anonymous._

"THE ROAD TO RUIN"[2]

I WENT into the grog-shop, Tom, and stood beside the bar, And drank a gla.s.s of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar.

The same old kegs and jugs was thar, the same we used to know When we was on the round-up, Tom, some twenty years ago.

The bar-tender is not the same. The one who used to sell Corroded tangle-foot to us, is rotting now in h.e.l.l.

This one has got a plate-gla.s.s front, he combs his hair quite low, He looks just like the one we knew some twenty years ago.

Old soak came up and asked for booze and had the same old grin While others burned their living forms and wet their coats with gin.

Outside the doorway women stood, their faces seamed with woe And wept just like they used to weep some twenty years ago.

I asked about our old-time friends, those cheery, sporty men; And some was in the poor-house, Tom, and some was in the pen.

You know the one you liked the best?--the hang-man laid him low,-- Oh, few are left that used to booze some twenty years ago.

You recollect our favorite, whom pride claimed for her own,-- He used to say that he could booze or leave the stuff alone.

He perished for the James Fitz James, out in the rain and snow,-- Yes, few survive who used to booze some twenty years ago.