He was thronged with kneeling suitors In the midst of the dusty ring, And he held his court right royally,-- The fair little baby king,-- Till one of the shouting courtiers,-- A man with a bold, hard face, The talk, for miles, of the country, And the terror of the place, Raised the little king to his shoulder And chuckled, "Look at that!" As the chubby fingers clutched his hair; Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!" There never was such a hatful Of silver and gold and notes; People are not always penniless Because they don't wear coats. And then, "Three cheers for the baby!" I tell you those cheers were meant, And the way that they were given Was enough to raise the tent. And then there was sudden silence And a gruff old miner said, "Come boys, enough of this rumpus; It's time it was put to bed." So, looking a little sheepish, But with faces strangely bright, The audience, somewhat lingering, Flocked out into the night. And the bold-faced leader chuckled, "He wasn't a bit afraid! He's as game as he's good-looking! Boys, that was a show that _paid_!" _Margaret Vandergrift._ THE DRUNKEN DESPERADO I'M wild and woolly and full of fleas, I'm hard to curry below the knees, I'm a she-wolf from Shamon Creek, For I was dropped from a lightning streak And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee! I stayed in Texas till they runned me out, Then in Bull Frog they chased me about, I walked a little and rode some more, For I've shot up a town before And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee! Give me room and turn me loose I'm peaceable without excuse. I never killed for profit or fun, But riled, I'm a regular son of a gun And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee! Good-eye Jim will serve the crowd; The rule goes here no sweetnin' 'lowed. And we'll drink now the Nixon kid, For I rode to town and lifted the lid And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee! You can guess how quick a man must be, For I killed eleven and wounded three; And brothers and daddies aren't makin' a sound Though they know where the kid is found And it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee! When I get old and my aim aint true And it's three to one and wounded, too, I won't beg and claw the ground; For I'll be dead before I'm found When it's my night to hollow--Whoo-pee! _Baird Boyd._ MARTA OF MILRONE I SHOT him where the Rio flows; I shot him when the moon arose; And where he lies the vulture knows Along the Tinto River. In schools of eastern culture pale My cloistered flesh began to fail; They bore me where the deserts quail To winds from out the sun.