Image provided by: University of Oregon Libraries; Eugene, OR
About The west shore. (Portland, Or.) 1875-1891 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 13, 1890)
282 WEST SHORE. It; - ,ftlZi..il.-i'-'''' J 111 V . . i. r coiiws lament. Ah, Mat?, my old horse, we grow old, you and I, We have heard the faint click of the whips in the eky, The whips of the riders up there, far away, Who ride on the round-up for God all the day. But I know we are ready. Would God we could go, Ere the last of the grand trails are fenced here below, Ere the stock whip is silent, the chaparral torn, The mesquit plowed under and planted in corn! A CHRISTMAS DRESS PARADE. " All present," said the Adjutant, on Christmas morning, as his wife gave him a new dressing gown and slippers; "or accounted for," he added, when the bill for them came in on the first of the month. . tit ' MY CHRISTMAS rRESEST. I gave her ring, My love to declare ; Twaa the daintiest tiling, Not unworthy my fair Gold with diamonds there, Quaintly chased and embossed; And I scarcely should care To tell how much it coet. In return well, you see, I have nothing to show. Then she must have scorned me And my loving gift? No I What she gave me was-oh, Far more precious than this I Heart and soul overflow, For she gave me a klas, K. II. TrriiiKixoroN. y r ( IK J 'Tie no more than ten years, my MaW, since we rode From the Alamo's banks to where Bio Grande flowed, And with never a fence nor a farm in between ; Just the blue sky above, at our feet the fair green Of the prairie ; fresh air in our lungs. Not a sound Rrnba (ha nrimlflvA tilnnMl that miimed ill BTOUnd. s.) Save the crack of a whip, or a Colt, now and then, Or the neigh of a broncho. But then, that was ten Years ago. Now farms dot the plain ; the grand trail Is deserted those plowboys ship cattle by rail I Where the horns clustered thick, where the whips rang like shots, Bolls the cattle car now, close to city town lots. Where we camped in the night under God's own blue Bky, Bolls the smoke of the factory. So, you and I, My Male, we are both of us passed in the race, We are played out and useless there's no place For us here. The steers are all fenced up in corrals, The calves are all branded. And now we two old pals, Who have ridden the prairie these many years, Who have roped in and driven some thousands of steers In our time, we must step out of file. It is bard I But we go with fair Nature, whom man ever marr'd; We are soil of the prairie, we two, horse and man, When they tear up the prairie, they tear horse and man ; When they fence In the prairie, our breath comes and goes With a gasp, for they tie up our hearts with those Cedar post stakes. But it can't be long till the boss Of the great ranch above will compel yon to toss Me clear up from the saddle to receive his own brand. You have never bucked once since I broke you, Mat, But you'll do it tor me on that last, solemn day T Yes, you neigh; and I think, good old horse, that you'll go To some paradise fit for a cowboy's broncho. Ah, well I we mutt wait, till the lound-np in the sky Beaches us, and the whip cracks grow loud, then, good-bye. J. Pkhct Polurd.