An' when the evenin' settles,
A-waitin' for the dawn
Perhaps I'll hear the ground owl:
"She's gone — she's gone — she's gone!"
Anonymous.
THE COWBOY TO HIS FRIEND IN NEED
YOU'RE very well polished, I'm free to confess,
Well balanced, well rounded, a power for right;
But cool and collected,— no steel could be less;
You're primed for continual fight.
Your voice is a bellicose bark of ill-will,
On hatred and choler you seem to have fed;
But when I control you, your temper is nil;
In fact, you're most easily led.
Though lead is your diet and fight is your fun,
I simply can't give you the jolt;
For I love you, you blessed old son-of-a-gun,—
You forty-five caliber Colt!
Burke Jenkins.