But, before we let her go--shameful sort o' trick!-- Made her kiss us all good-night; "Doc" took his right slow. I just sucked my breath all in an' hustled through it quick; Still, she didn't seem to mind; guess she didn't know.-- "Now," says I, "my homesick friend" (to him on Halsted Street), "You're a painful sort o' sight, crackin' up Broadway. Kimball, Brule County, was an ace-high flush to beat An' I'd backed her to the limit fer a winner in the play. "But the beauty-spot on Kimball an' the boys that made her hum Was the fact that rye an' roulette didn't petrify their souls; Simply tip 'em to the theory that yer luck was on the bum An' they'd cut the game instanter an' deliver up their rolls. "An' if I'd a wife an' children an' was billed fer Canaan's Strand I'd take a sight more pleasure in a-turnin' up my toes If I left 'em to the mercies o' that old Dakota land Than in your plug-hat city where the money-grubber grows." [Illustration: 072] A LAMENT |RAWHIDE" Smith's gone crazy. "Rawhide" was my pard. Used to be a daisy; Say, it's mighty hard! Down at Twin Buttes City "Rawhide" met a maid, Young an' slim an' pretty An' she turned his haid. We jest started dancin' Frolicsome an' gay-- Hang the pay-day prancin' When it ends that way! Say! that little creature Got him roped all right; First I knew, a preacher Had spliced 'em good an' tight. Now he's gone to farmin' Way off from the range. Says his place is charmin'; Lord, he's gettin' strange! No more pal to cheer me Ridin' herd at night; No more comrade near me, Game fer fun or fight. One coat did fer cover Cold nights when it stormed, But them nights is over; "Rawhide" Smith's reformed! JESUS GARCIA |DOWN in Sonora's wide, white lands, Lost in the endless waste of sands, Lies, like a blot of gray and brown, Nacozari, a desert town. All day long through its narrow street Children play in the dust and heat, Naked of limb and dark of face, Lithe as fawns in their careless grace, Chattering shrill in a half-caste speech Far from the Spanish the school rooms teach. All day long by the doorways small Cut through the thick adobe wall, Or in the narrow belts of shade Here and there by the flat roofs made, Lounge the indolent, swarthy men, Moving sluggishly now and then Better to scan their dicing throws Under their low-tipped sombreros. But, for the most, content to lie Drowsing the listless hours by, Watching, each, as the thin, blue jet Curls from his drooping cigarette. All day long, from the dawn's first flush When the mass is said in the morning hush Till fall of eve, when the vesper's peal Calls the faithful again to kneel, Nothing rouses the quiet place, Lulled in the desert's hushed embrace, Save when out of the distance dim, Over the far horizon's rim,