GOLF IN CACTUS CENTER.
We were propped against the 'dobe of that joint o' Poker Bill's,
When a tenderfoot was spotted, actin' queerlike in the hills;
He'd a ball of gutta-percha, and was puttin' in his licks,
Jest a-knockin' it to glory with a bunch o' crooked sticks.
Well, we went up there quite cur'us, and we watched him paste the ball,
'Til a itchin fer to try it seemed to get a holt of all.
And at last Packsaddle Stevens asked to give the thing a swat,
And we gathered round to see him show the stranger what was what.
Well, the golfer stuck the speroid on a little pile o' dirt,
And Packsaddle swiped and swatted, but he didn't do no hurt.
He barked his shins terrific, and he broke his little stick,
And when he heard a snicker his guns came out too quick.
We dropped behind the cactus, with some holes clipped in our clothes,
While the golfer for the sky-line wagged his checker-boarded hose;
And when we took home Stevens and three others that was hurt
The golf-ball still was settin' on its little pile o' dirt.
So we ain't no new St. Andrews, and we hope no golfer thinks
He can cut loose here in Cactus with a set of oatmeal links;
We go in fer games that's quiet, and stir up no blood and fuss,
And down in Cactus Center poker's good enough for us.
From an Old Scrap Book.