A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



inches in his socks, every inch of it cowman and 

 horseman. He came to the ranches at thirteen years 

 of age — a much misunderstood kid. But he had 

 grown Into a manhood of sweetness and strength, 

 which had surrounded him with the love and respect 

 of every man, woman, and child in the country. Mage 

 was a dead-game sport, a rider whose skill and dar- 

 ing are still traditions in the big-pasture country. His 

 stories and personal reminiscences, told with rare 

 humor and dramatic force, made a journey with him 

 a real entertainment. I always sparred for an open- 

 ing to get him going when we made drives together. 

 At 7 o'clock he was on hand to the minute, talking to 

 the mares as though they were human. We were 

 off — "heads up and tails over the dashboard." As 

 we swung into the main thoroughfare the people on 

 the street turned round to watch Mage handle the 

 mares. They were having their little fun before set- 

 tling to the steady distance-killing gait, and they 

 were a pair to look at: Beauty a deep chestnut, both 

 wilful and beautiful, and Black Dolly, with her sleek 

 sable coat, still at the giddy age. Mage had the 

 stage driver's trick of coming into town or going out 

 in style. The mares knew his voice and hand, and 

 the light that shone in his eyes told where his heart 

 was. For two hours we chatted or were silent by 

 spells, as is the habit on long drives. The moon 

 came up in her soft fullness — one of those southern 

 moons like the ripeness of love, a perfect heart full. 



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