"_'Here, we have nothing to do but yarn of the days that have long gone by, And our singing it doesn't fit in up here though we tried it for old time's sake; Our hands are itching to swing a rope and our legs are stiff; that's why We ask you, Marster, to turn us loose--just give us an even break!'_" Then the Lord He spake to the Cherubim, and this was His kindly word: "He that keepeth the threefold keys shall open and let them go; Turn these men to their work again to ride with the starry herd; My glory sings in the toil they crave; 'tis their right. I would have it so." Have you heard in the starlit dusk of eve when the lone coyotes roam, The _Yip! Yip! Yip!_ of a hunting cry and the echo that shrilled afar, As you listened still on a desert hill and gazed at the twinkling dome, And a viewless rider swept the sky on the trail of a shooting star? _Henry Herbert Knibbs._ LASCA I WANT free life, and I want fresh air; And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, The crack of the whips like shots in battle, The medley of hoofs and horns and heads That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads; The green beneath and the blue above, And dash and danger, and life and love-- And Lasca! Lasca used to ride On a mouse-grey mustang close to my side, With blue serape and bright-belled spur; I laughed with joy as I looked at her! Little knew she of books or creeds; An Ave Maria sufficed her needs; Little she cared save to be at my side, To ride with me, and ever to ride, From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide. She was as bold as the billows that beat, She was as wild as the breezes that blow: From her little head to her little feet, She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro By each gust of passion; a sapling pine That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff And wars with the wind when the weather is rough, Is like this Lasca, this love of mine. She would hunger that I might eat, Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; But once, when I made her jealous for fun At something I whispered or looked or done, One Sunday, in San Antonio, To a glorious girl in the Alamo, She drew from her garter a little dagger, And--sting of a wasp--it made me stagger! An inch to the left, or an inch to the right, And I shouldn't be maundering here tonight; But she sobbed, and sobbing, so quickly bound Her torn rebosa about the wound That I swiftly forgave her. Scratches don't count In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.