"Have you got any speakin' why the sentence ain't proper? Here, take you a drink from the old whiskey flask. Ar' not dry? Well, I am, an' will drink ter yer, pard, An' wish that this court will not bungle this task. There, the old lasso circles your neck like a fixture; Here, boys, take the line an' wait fer the word; I am sorry, old boy, that your claim has gone under; Fer yer don't meet yer fate like the low, common herd. "What's that? So yer want me to answer a letter,-- Well, give it to me till I make it all right, A moment or two will be only good manners, The judicious acts of this court will be white. 'Long Point, Arkansas, the thirteenth of August, My dearest son James, somewhere out in the West, For long, weary months I've been waiting for tidings Since your last loving letter came eastward to bless. "'God bless you, my son, for thus sending that money, Remembering your mother when sorely in need. May the angels from heaven now guard you from danger And happiness follow your generous deed. How I long so to see you come into the doorway, As you used to, of old, when weary, to rest. May the days be but few when again I can greet you, My comfort and staff, is your mother's request.' "Say, pard, here's your letter. I'm not good at writin', I think you'd do better to answer them lines; An' fer fear I might want it I'll take off that lasso, An' the hoss you kin leave when you git to the pines. An' Jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell her That a wee bit o' writin' kinder hastened the day When her boy could come eastward to stay with her always. Come boys, up and mount and to Denver away." O'er the prairies the sun tipped the trees with its splendor, The dew on the grass flashed the diamonds so bright, As the tenderest memories came like a blessing From the days of sweet childhood on pinions of light. Not a word more was spoken as they parted that morning, Yet the trail of a tear marked each cheek as they turned; For higher than law is the love of a mother,-- It reversed the decision,--the court was adjourned. _Sherman D. Richardson._ THE VIGILANTES WE are the whirlwinds that winnow the West-- We scatter the wicked like straw! We are the Nemeses, never at rest-- We are Justice, and Right, and the Law! Moon on the snow and a blood-chilling blast, Sharp-throbbing hoofs like the heart-beat of fear, A halt, a swift parley, a pause--then at last A stiff, swinging figure cut darkly and sheer Against the blue steel of the sky; ghastly white Every on-looking face. Men, our duty was clear; Yet ah! what a soul to send forth to the night!