3 2 



RECREA TION. 



ature would knock the tar out of the thick- 

 est hided burro. The devil's got his herd- 

 ers out, all the time, a lookin' up stray 

 stock and runnin' 'em towards the corral of 

 perdition. 



" Some times you see 'em behind the 

 bars of saloons, and they'll meet ye with a 

 good natured friendliness a shootin' out o' 

 their eyes. Sometimes you see 'em behind 

 the green covered gamblin' table, wearin' 

 good clothes and big diamonds; but they're 

 all herders o' Satan, an' you fool maverick 

 cowboys knows it jest as well as I do; for 

 you've all bin thar, en so have I. But 

 thank God, a rider from the big home ranch 



above got a rope on me — a rope o' sal- 

 vation — an' he put on my soul the brand o 

 the Redeemer. 



" Now boys, why will ye waller in the 

 mire o' sin while the pastures o' the good 

 Lord is afore ye? 



" Why don't ye take stock o' your con- 

 dition, as Prod did, and giv' the devil's den 

 the shake; start for the home corral; an' 

 never ease up on your gait, nor look back 

 on the trail till you're on the glorious 

 ranges o' Zion, luxuriatin' on the never 

 failin' feed of righteousness and eternal life, 

 and bearin' God's own brand, the holy 

 brand o' the Cross." 



SPRING. 



W. T. JONES. 



And here you are, agin. 



Been floatin' round with Winter, 



You naughty thing. 



Purty tough 



To have snow, flyin' low, an' 



Teeth chatterin' so I couldn't 



Say Gee, or Haw. 



Hot enough now, you bet. 



Fact I never seed horses sweat 



Worse 'n they did yesterday. An' say! 



It was a caution the way 



They took me round that land, 



For 'bout an nour. I can stand 



Right smart, 



Of trampin' yit; 



But I must say for my part 



I was dern glad when they quit 



Their racin' and settled down 



To a steady gait. Plowin' 



Aint the easiest work 



For horses, anyhow. 



Right down to it, no chance to " shirk,' 



So when they fret 



And jog along, 'bout four 



Mile an hour, you get 



Somewhat riled, and swear 



I guess; leastwise 'taint fair 



To blame a feller if he does. 



'Bout the " trynist " thing 't ever was. 



And this is Spring, 



You old sweet thing. 



Blow cold or hot 



Tist like as not 



Fish '11 bite. 



So everything is jist all right 



I guess. And we'll forgit 



About the snow; and yit 

 Only a week ago it quit. 



In writin' of this " owed " to Spring 



Perhaps I oughter try and ring 



In something 'bout bees, 



And birds, and leafy trees, 



And May apples, and sich; 



Like all good poets which 



Has the hankerin' for fame 



Would do. But I don't hanker 



Much as I used to. My sheet anker 



Aint 'zacly Spring nor Fall 



Nor June. But 'bout July, 



When bass is risin' to the fly 



And woodcock's loafin' along the river. 



Then we somehow diskiver 



That summer time 



'S good enough for us. 



Fact is we don't keer a cuss 



'Bout things we ust to; 



Sich as swings, and flyin' 



Jinnies, an' posies, an' tryin' 



To swing furder 'n any one; 



An' go in swimmin' Sunday; 



An' feel so ornry Monday 



Couldn't hoe, or plow, 



Or anything. Somehow 



I felt clean gone. 



But generally the blister on 



My back was on't for 'bout a week; 



" Suffered in silence " so to speak. 



Don't keer 'bout these things, I said; 



But lots o' other things 'bout as bad 



I do. And I'll gist say 



I aint 'zacly stuck on May, 



Or June, or Jinuary ; but I 



'M awful friendly tow'rds July. 



