Lights were low in the bunkhouse and on full in the cook-car. The absorbing job of “feeding” was now in process.
All these things Cheerio noted vaguely, with a gentle sort of delight and approval. They were all part of the general beauty of life on this remarkable ranch. He was conscious of a big, uplifting sense. He wanted to shout across the world praise of this new land that he had discovered; of the utter peace and joy of ranching in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains; of the girl of girls who was more to him now than anything else on earth.
A wide moon was now overhead, and the country was bathed in a silvery light. The skies were star-spotted, and alive with mystery and beauty.
Snatches of poetry sang in his head, and for the first time since the days when he had penned his boyish love lyrics to Sybil Chennoweth, Cheerio indited new ones to Hilda, the girl he now loved:
“Oh, Hilda, my darling, the sky is alive,
And all of the stars are above;
The moon in her gown of silvery sheen—
She knows of my love—my love.”
It mattered not to the lover whether his verses were of a high order from a critical point of view. They were heartfelt—an expression of what seemed surging up within him. He needed a medium through which he might speak to Hilda. On the back of an envelope, he scratched:
“Hilda of the dark brown eyes