Let them loaf if they will, for the railroad's in sight! Come, strap up the saddle Whose lap you have felt; So flap up your holster And snap up your belt; Good-bye to the steers and the long chaparral; There's a town that's a trump by the railroad corral! CHRISTMAS EVE AT KIMBALL |MET a chap the other night, down on Halsted Street, Holdin' up Mike Kelley's bar, sippin' mint an' rye; I'd just hit the Stock Yards with a cattle-train o' meat, Loped around to Kelly's place, singein' hot an' dry. This here chap was somethin' rare; Henglish tweeds an' gloves, Stripey collar round his neck, sparks to throw away, He was givin' 'em a song, 'bout the town he loves, How they hit "the pace that kills," down on old Broadway. Heaved a wistful, weepy sigh 'twould make a bay steer groan When he told us what a spangled, rompin' time he'd had Christmas Eve a year ago, just before he'd blown Out into the "Woolly," where we don't know shrimps from shad. Claimed along 'bout three a. m. they found an apple girl Sleepin' in a doorway; stole her fruit to raise a fuss, Then they made her do a Midway Turkish dancin' whirl 'Fore they'd pay the damage--an' he called that generous! Awful homesick yarn it was. 'Peared he couldn't find Nothin' in the whoopin' line warm enough out West. Made me sort o' weary, so, to ease my mind, I dug up a Christmas tale an' let him take a rest. Mind the Northwest homestead boom, twenty-odd years back, When Dakota stuck her nose above the waves o' fame? I was pottin' coyotes from a Brule County shack, Burnin' hay an' eatin' pork an' holdin' down my claim. Not a strictly stirrin' life; quite a lot less gay Than workin' in a grave-yard, a-plantin' of remains. Notion hit me Christmas time to take a holiday; Roped the cayuse, strapped my guns, an' struck across the plains. Galloped into Kimball 'long 'bout milkin' time, Wind a-whoopin' from the North, cold as billy hell-- Ever known a prairie town in its infant prime? Kimball was a corker an' I've seen some pretty swell. Just a bunch o' dry goods boxes dumped along a rise, Cracks plugged up with pitch an' tar, stove-pipes stickin' through, But, you bet, that little burg was sure enough the prize Fer stirrin' up a tinted time an' startin' it to brew. Thought I'd have a quiet night; Lord, it wa'n't no use! First bumped into Billy Stokes, up from Bijou Hills, We wandered into "Rancher's Rest," spang onto "Shorthorn" Bruce, Charlie Gates an' "Doc" Lemar, curin' of their chills. Well, that closed the "quiet" act; things was due to burn. Dabbled with the red-eye till the lamp-lights ringed an' soared. Then Lemar got wealthy an' thought he'd take a turn Spinnin' out his sinkers on the racy roulette board. Oh, the time was lovely (fer the man behind the wheel!)