YES, o' cose it's interestin' to a feller from the range, Mighty queerish, too, I tell you,--sich a racket fer a change; From a life among the cattle, from a wool shirt and the chaps To the biled shirt o' the city and the other tony traps. Never seed sich herds o' people throwed together, every brand O' humanity, I reckon, in this big mountain land Rounded up right here in Denver, runnin' on new sort o' feed. Actin' restless an' oneasy, like they threatened to stampede. Mighty curious to a rider comin' from the range, he feels What you'd call a lost sensation from sombrero clar to heels; Like a critter stray that drifted in a windstorm from its range To another run o' grazin' where the brands it sees are strange. Then I see a city herder, a policeman, don't you know, Sort o' think he's got men spotted an' is 'bout to make a throw Fer to catch me an' corral me fer a stray till he can talk On the wire an' tell the owner fer to come an' get his stock. Yes, it's mighty strange an' funny fer a cowboy, as you say, Fer to hit a camp like this one, so unanimously gay; But I want to tell you, pardner, that a rider sich as me Isn't built fer feedin' on sich crazy jamboree. Every bone I got's a-achin', an' my feet as sore as if I had hit a bed o' cactus, an' my hinges is as stiff From a-hittin' these hot pavements as a feller's jints kin git,-- 'Taint like holdin' down a broncho on the range, a little bit. I'm hankerin', I tell you, fer to hit the trail an' run Like a crazy, locoed yearlin' from this big cloud-burst o' fun Back toward the cattle ranches, where a feller's breath comes free An' he wears the clothes that fits him, 'stead o' this slick toggery. Where his home is in the saddle, an' the heavens is his roof, An' his ever'day companions wears the hide an' cloven hoof, Where the beller of the cattle is the only sound he hears, An' he never thinks o' nothin' but his grub an' hoss an' steers. _Anonymous._ THE OLD COWMAN I RODE across a valley range I hadn't seen for years. The trail was all so spoilt and strange It nearly fetched the tears. I had to let ten fences down,-- (The fussy lanes ran wrong) And each new line would make me frown And hum a mournin' song. Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! Hear 'em stretchin' of the wire! The nester brand is on the land; I reckon I'll retire. While progress toots her brassy horn And makes her motor buzz, I thank the Lord I wasn't born No later than I wuz! 'Twas good to live when all the sod, Without no fence nor fuss, Belonged in partnership to God, The Government and us. With skyline bounds from east to west And room to go and come, I loved my fellowman the best When he was scattered some.