A COWBOY RACE
A PATTERING rush like the rattle of hail
When the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail,
A long roll of hoofs,— and the earth is a drum!
The centaurs! See! Over the prairies they come!
A rollicking, clattering, battering beat;
A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet;
A swift-swirling dust-cloud — a mad hurricane
Of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane;
Hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun
The gauntlet is flung and the race is begun!
J. C. Davis.
THE HABIT
I'VE beat my way wherever any winds have blown;
I've bummed along from Portland down to San Antone;
From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill,—
For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.