That’s where the West begins.
“By golly,” said Billy, half to himself and half to the poem, “that’s where she begins, all right.”
Then he smiled and took off his hat; for the maker of the tantalizing pies was looking at him through the screen door. She was about as good as anything he had ever looked at. No wonder the pies smelled good! She was a demure little brunette, with cheery red lips and laughter; hair waving and done in a fashion half girlish and half womanish.
“Oh!” she said.
Billy traced his finger over the poem; he held his sombrero in the other hand.
“How do y’ do?” he answered.
She nodded pleasantly; her black eyes were not critical like those of most girls; her smile was encouraging.
“I was just reading this here poem. The fellow that wrote it sure had an idee about the West.”
She was frank and kindly.
“Do you like it?” She looked down at his chaps and at his high-heeled boots. It was as if he had walked out of the poem.