I won't never hail old timers
To have a drink with me,
To learn the history of the range
As far back as seventy-three.
And the next time that I'm thirsty
And feeling kind of blue,
I'll step right up and drink alone —
Now I'm tellin' you!
From the Wild Bunch.
THE CLOWN'S BABY
IT was on the western frontier,—
The miners, rugged and brown,
Were gathered round the posters,
The circus had come to town!
The great tent shone in the darkness
Like a wonderful palace of light,
And rough men crowded the entrance,—
Shows didn't come every night!
Not a woman's face among them;
Many a face that was bad,
And some that were only vacant,
And some that were very sad.
And behind a canvas curtain,
In a corner of the place,
The clown, with chalk and vermillion,
Was "making up" his face.
A weary looking woman
With a smile that still was sweet,
Sewed on a little garment,
With a cradle at her feet.
Pantaloon stood ready and waiting,
It was time for the going on;
But the clown in vain searched wildly,—
The "property baby" was gone!
[p. 41]
He murmured, impatiently hunting,
"It's strange that I cannot find —
There, I've looked in every corner;
It must have been left behind!"
The miners were stamping and shouting,
They were not patient men;
The clown bent over the cradle,—
"I must take you, little Ben."
The mother started and shivered,
But trouble and want were near;
She lifted the baby gently,
"You'll be very careful, dear?"
"Careful? You foolish darling!"
How tenderly it was said!
What a smile shone through the chalk and paint!
"I love each hair of his head!"
The noise rose into an uproar,
Misrule for the time was king;
The clown with a foolish chuckle
Bolted into the ring.
But as, with a squeak and flourish,
The fiddles closed their tune
"You'll hold him as if he were made of glass?"
Said the clown to the pantaloon.