When the dull, cold nigh makes the heart sink low; And the death watch ticks in the wall, And the soul lies crouched like a harried foe, Comes the cricket's merry call. In the hour of fear, With his note of cheer, Rings his sprightly madrigal. (_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 17, 1896.) My Broncho Yoho! Away o'er the mesquite sward, With stirruped foot and a slackened rein; With drumming hoofs, the hills toward. And our track the boundless grassy plain; Light in the saddle and ready hand; Ride in the teeth of the wind and sand, Wind, and sand, and rain. Knees pressed tight on the saddle flap Where the lasso dangles from its string Over the rifle scabbard strap, And the canteen and suaderos swing; The wind sings hollow in my ear, Nor sail nor wheel could follow near, Sail, nor wheel, nor wing. On dusty roads and streets there prowl Bent riders perched on noiseless wheels; Misshapen things with mannish scowl; Strange crafts with unknown bows and keels; Queer fish enmeshed in Folly's net; Scare human, flesh, or fowl--scarce yet Red herring, flesh, or fowl. Yoho! O'er the hills and far away, My broncho spurns the gravel slope; This is the ride for a man alway; The valleys at gallop, the hills at a lope; Who would exchange for the senseless wheel The life and strength that the horsemen feel? Life, and strength, and hope. (_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.) The Modern Venus The golden apple Paris gave To the most beautiful, To the fairest Aphrodite fell, Although she had no pull. She did not need to plead her cause, Nor canvass, sue or beg; She did not run her rivals down, Nor pull her best friend's leg. She stood in beauteous youthfulness, Incarnate rose of love; When Paris held the apple forth She did not scrouge or shove. Alas! our modern Venuses Far different methods use To gain the palm of loveliness Whenever one we choose. Towns, churches and societies Now offer prizes rare To one among the pretty girls Who is adjudged most fair. Our modern Venus hustles forth And campaigns all the town, And begs men to buy votes for her; Smith, Johnson, Jones and Brown. 'Twas not thus Venus Victrix gained The gift of Priam's son. By beauty, not by begging, was The golden apple won. (_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, May 3, 1896.) Celestial Sounds With three men on the bases, And one to tie the score, The batter rubs sand on his hands, The runners play off more. He hits a home run o'er the fence, The air is full of cheers; The sharp crack of the ball and bat Is music of the spheres. (_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.) The Snow