With pipin' treble the kid starts in, An' Hell! how that kid kin sing! "Yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin," He leads, an' the rafters ring; "Fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue," We shouts it with force an' vim; "Look ever to Jesus, he'll carry you through,"-- That's puttin' it up to Him! We ain't no saints on the ol' Bar-Z, But many a time an' oft When ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "Abide with me," Our hearts gets kinder soft. An' we makes some promises there an' then Which we keeps--till we goes to bed,-- That's the most could be ast o' a passel o' men What ain't no saints, as I said. _Percival Combes._ A COWBOY RACE A PATTERING rush like the rattle of hail When the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail, A long roll of hoofs,--and the earth is a drum! The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come! A rollicking, clattering, battering beat; A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet; A swift-swirling dust-cloud--a mad hurricane Of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane; Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun The gauntlet is flung and the race is begun! _J. C. Davis._ THE HABIT I'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown; I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone; From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill,-- For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. I settled down quite frequent, and I says, says I, "I'll never wander further till I come to die." But the wind it sorter chuckles, "Why, o' course you will." An' sure enough I does it 'cause I can't keep still. I've seen a lot o' places where I'd like to stay, But I gets a-feelin' restless an' I'm on my way. I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill, An', once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. I've been in rich men's houses an' I've been in jail, But when it's time for leavin' I jes hits the trail. I'm a human bird of passage and the song I trill Is, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still." The sun is sorter coaxin' an' the road is clear, An' the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear. It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill; For, once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. _Berton Braley._ A RANGER HE never made parade of tooth or claw; He was plain as us that nursed the bawlin' herds. Though he had a rather meanin'-lookin' jaw, He was shy of exercisin' it with words. As a circus-ridin' preacher of the law, All his preachin' was the sort that hit the nail; He was just a common ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger, And he labored with the sinners of the trail.