By permission of The National Wool Growers' Magazine
"Salute yer pardners, let her go,
Balance all an' do-se-do.
Swing yer gal, then run away,
Right, an' left an' gents sashay."
"Whoa, Mack, there's a letter in the Widow Miller's box."
The pony sidled gingerly toward the mailbox nailed to the trunk of a pine tree, his eyes and ears watching closely the white sheet of paper that lay on the bottom of the open box, held by a small stone which allowed one end to flutter and flap in the wind in a way that excited his suspicions.
When the Widow Miller wished to mail a letter she placed it, properly stamped, in her box and the first neighbor passing that way took it out and mailed it for her, she being some miles off the regular mail route.
"Gents to right, now swing or cheat,
On to the next gal an' repeat."
He chanted the old familiar frontier quadrille call as he tried to force the pony close to the box to reach the paper without dismounting.
"Stand still, you fool," he spurred the animal vigorously, "that there little piece of paper ain't going to eat you."
But the more he spurred the farther from the box went the animal. "Beats all what a feller will do to save unloading hisself from a hoss," he threw the reins over Mack's head, swung to the ground and strode toward the box.
"Balance next an' don't be shy;
Swing yer pards an' swing 'em high."