As she pulled away in the falling light He could see the gleam of her red tail-light.

Then the moon arose and the stars came out-- He was ditched on the Gila Monster Route.

Nothing in sight but sand and s.p.a.ce; No chance for a gink to feed his face; Not even a shack to beg for a lump, Or a hen-house to frisk for a single gump.

He gazed far out on the solitude; He drooped his head and began to brood; He thought of the time he lost his mate In a hostile burg on the Nickle Plate.

They had mooched the stem and threw their feet, And speared four-bits on which to eat; But deprived themselves of daily bread And shafted their coin for "dago red."

Down by the track in the jungle's glade, In the cool green gra.s.s, in the tules' shade, They shed their coats and ditched their shoes And tanked up full of that colored booze.

Then they took a flop with their skins plumb full, And they did not hear the harnessed bull, Till he shook them out of their boozy nap, With a husky voice and a loaded sap.

They were charged with "vag," for they had no kale, And the judge said, "Sixty days in jail."

But the John had a bindle,--a worker's plea,-- So they gave him a floater and set him free.

They had turned him up, but ditched his mate, So he grabbed the guts of an east-bound freight, He flung his form on a rusty rod, Till he heard the shack say, "Hit the sod!"

The John piled off, he was in the ditch, With two switch lamps and a rusty switch,-- A poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo On a hostile pike, without a show.

From away off somewhere in the dark Came the sharp, short notes of a coyote's bark.

The bo looked round and quickly rose And shook the dust from his threadbare clothes.

Off in the west through the moonlit night He saw the gleam of a big head-light-- An east-bound stock train hummed the rail; She was due at the switch to clear the mail.

As she drew up close, the head-end shack Threw the switch to the pa.s.senger track, The stock rolled in and off the main, And the line was clear for the west-bound train.

When she hove in sight far up the track, She was workin' steam, with her brake shoes slack, She hollered once at the whistle post, Then she flitted by like a frightened ghost.

He could hear the roar of the big six-wheel, And her driver's pound on the polished steel, And the screech of her f.l.a.n.g.es on the rail As she beat it west o'er the desert trail.

The John got busy and took the risk, He climbed aboard and began to frisk, He reached up high and began to feel For the end-door pin--then he cracked the seal.

'Twas a double-decked stock-car, filled with sheep, Old John crawled in and went to sleep.

She whistled twice and high-balled out,-- They were off, down the Gila Monster Route.

_L. F. Post and Glenn Norton._

THE CALL OF THE PLAINS

HO! wind of the far, far prairies!

Free as the waves of the sea!

Your voice is sweet as in alien street The cry of a friend to me!

You bring me the breath of the prairies, Known in the days that are sped, The wild geese's cry and the blue, blue sky And the sailing clouds o'er head!

My eyes are weary with longing For a sight of the sage gra.s.s gray, For the dazzling light of a noontide bright And the joy of the open day!

Oh, to hear once more the clanking Of the noisy cowboy's spur, And the south wind's kiss like a mild caress Making the gra.s.ses stir.

I dream of the wide, wide prairies Touched with their glistening sheen, The coyotes' cry and the wind-swept sky And the waving billows of green!

And oh, for a night in the open Where no sound discordant mars, And the marvelous glow, when the sun is low, And the silence under the stars!

Ho, wind from the western prairies!

Ho, voice from a far domain!

I feel in your breath what I'll feel till death, The call of the plains again!

The call of the Spirit of Freedom To the spirit of freedom in me; My heart leaps high with a jubilant cry And I answer in ecstasy!

_Ethel MacDiarmid._

WHERE THE GRIZZLY DWELLS[4]

I ADMIRE the artificial art of the East; But I love more the inimitable art of the West, Where nature's handiwork lies in virginal beauty.

Amidst the hum of city life I saunter back to dreams of home.

Astride the back of my trusty steed I wander away, losing myself In the foothills of the Rockies.

Away from human habitations, Up the rugged slopes, Through the timbered stretches, I hear the frightful cry of wolves And see a bear sneaking up behind.

Many nights ago, While herding a bunch of cattle During the round-up season, I lay upon the gra.s.s Looking at the mated stars; I wondered if a cowboy Could go to the Unknown Place, The Happy Hunting Ground, When this short life is over.

But, here or there, I shall always live In the land of mountain air Where the grizzly dwells And sage brush grows; Where mountain trout are not a few; In the land of the Bitterroot,-- The Indian land,--Land of the Golden West.

_James Fox._

[4] Fox is a halfbreed Indian who sent me a lot of verse. Although he had never heard of Walt Whitman, these stanzas suggest that poet. The spelling and punctuation are mine.

A COWBOY TOAST

HERE'S to the pa.s.sing cowboy, the plowman's pioneer; His home, the boundless mesa, he of any man the peer; Around his wide sombrero was stretched the rattler's hide, His bridle sporting conchos, his la.s.so at his side.

All day he roamed the prairies, at night he, with the stars, Kept vigil o'er thousands held by neither posts nor bars; With never a diversion in all the lonesome land, But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sage and sand.

Sometimes the hoot-owl hailed him, when scudding through the flat; And prairie dogs would sauce him, as at their doors they sat; The rattler hissed its warning when near its haunts he trod Some Texas steer pursuing o'er the pathless waste of sod.

With la.s.so, quirt, and 'colter the cowboy knew his skill; They pa.s.s with him to history and naught their place can fill; While he, bold broncho rider, ne'er conned a lesson page,-- But cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sand and sage.

And oh! the long night watches, with terror in the skies!

When lightning played and mocked him till blinded were his eyes; When raged the storm around him, and fear was in his heart Lest panic-stricken leaders might make the whole herd start.

That meant a death for many, perhaps a wild stampede, When none could stem the fury of the cattle in the lead; Ah, then life seemed so little and death so very near,-- With cattle, cattle, cattle, and darkness everywhere.

Then quaff with me a b.u.mper of water, clear and pure, To the memory of the cowboy whose fame must e'er endure From the Llano Estacado to Dakota's distant sands, Where were herded countless thousands in the days of fenceless lands.

Let us rear for him an altar in the Temple of the Brave, And weave of Texas gra.s.ses a garland for his grave; And offer him a guerdon for the work that he has done With cattle, cattle, cattle, and sage and sand and sun.

_James Barton Adams._