THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Eureka 
 
 M' VE waited Lo ! these many years 
 I 've looked, with eyes a-swim in tears, 
 While hoping, groping, lost my way ; 
 I found the Roycroft Shops one day, 
 When Fra Elbertus took my hand, 
 And smiling said, "I understand" 
 And so this "BRONCHO BOOK" I send, 
 With Love and Blessings of Your Friend, 
 
 In Clouds or Sunshine.
 
 [ TSe 
 
 f 
 
 Broncho Book 
 
 
 
 Being Buck-Jumps in Verse by 
 CAPTAIN JACK CRAWFORD 
 
 Roped for relief of the author, the diver- 
 
 tisement of tenderfeet, and the joy 
 
 of all those who love God's 
 
 Great Out -of -Doors 
 
 Our 
 
 Corralled into a volume by The Roycrofters at 
 their Book Ranch, which is in East Aurora, on 
 Buffalo Creek 3* Nineteen Hundred and Eight
 
 Copyright 
 
 by John Wallace Crawford 
 1908
 
 TO THOMAS F. WALSH 
 
 My companion of the camp, the cabin and the trail. 
 
 ; DEDICATE this crude bouquet 
 
 Of simple song and story; 
 I've culled it all along life's way, 
 I 've sprinkled it with nature's spray, 
 And should it win some wayward stray, 
 To God be all the glory. 
 
 And while I fling it in the crude, 
 
 It took some heart to win it. 
 My one ambition was for good 
 With Faith and Hope and Love imbued, 
 And though it be misunderstood, 
 
 Dear Tom, my heart is in it. 
 
 Yours in clouds or sunshine, 
 JOHN WALLACE CRAWFORD, 
 " CAPTAIN JACK." 
 
 626080
 
 HE BRONCHO BOOK
 
 To Thomas F. Walsh 
 
 C A few rhyme-thoughts suggested by our meeting 
 after many years have whirled off the reel of time since 
 the old days when we drank from the same black coffee 
 pot in the shadow of the Black Hills. 
 
 i EAR comrade, my soul is busted, 
 This big broncho soul of mine, 
 With its sunny glow 
 And its afterflow 
 Of love and laughter and rhyme, 
 Of love for all that is beautiful, 
 
 The good and the brave and true 
 There was no disguise 
 In your honest eyes 
 When I last shook hands with you. 
 
 Together again at the camp-fire 
 We sat in its ruddy glow, 
 And my heart went out 
 On a trembling scout 
 11
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 To the days of long ago, 
 To the days of storms and sunshine, 
 Of stories you 've never told, 
 Of desperate fights, 
 Of sleepless nights, 
 And death on the trail of gold. 
 
 And I want to tell you, Thomas, 
 
 That the vein I struck out there 
 
 On the Deadwood Hill 
 
 Is yielding still, 
 And is spreading everywhere ; 
 And my heart was full of gladness 
 When I struck your trail, old boy, 
 
 For I knew that day 
 
 That my soul's assay 
 Would bring you a ray of joy. 
 
 I needed the thorns and crosses 
 For the work that was mine to do 
 
 You needed the gold 
 
 That you might unfold 
 The soul that was born in you, 
 And so let us shake as brothers, 
 Though I don't know which is which 
 
 You 're a prince, old pard, 
 
 I 'm an humble bard, 
 But I 'm rich ; God knows I 'm rich ! 
 12
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 And I would n't trade my riches 
 
 For the riches on Fortune's tree, 
 
 For I want to live 
 
 And I want to give 
 What the good Lord gave to me, 
 As free as the sighing night- winds 
 That sounded taps in the glen 
 
 When we went to rest 
 
 On old Nature's breast 
 The bed of the bravest men. 
 
 Ah ! those were the brave days, comrade, 
 That tried the bravest hearts, 
 
 When the yell of the red 
 
 Through the air oft sped 
 As keen as his feathered darts! 
 When the breezes whispered, "Danger!" 
 Almost with their every breath ; 
 
 But our brave band then 
 
 Was composed of men 
 Who laughed in the face of death ! 
 
 Then we 'd roll in our trail-stained blankets 
 In the camp-fire's flickering light, 
 The roof that spread 
 'er our humble bed 
 Begemmed with the stars of night. 
 And our rifles were laid beside us, 
 
 13
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 For we never knew, you know, 
 When would come the cry 
 We must do or die 
 
 In the battle with savage foe. 
 
 Do you ever think, old fellow, 
 
 As you hobnob with men of fame, 
 
 Of the days of old 
 
 When the dream of gold 
 Kept the fires of the heart aflame? 
 Of the days when the best men roughed it, 
 Their possessions strapped to the back 
 
 Of the trials we knew 
 
 In the days when you 
 Were " Tom " and I " Captain Jack? 
 
 But time in its flight brings changes ; 
 You 've realized well your dream ; 
 The wealth you sought 
 And for which you fought 
 Came to you in golden stream; 
 And I have won wealth less golden, 
 But prized just the same to hear 
 The praise that is sung 
 By many a tongue 
 From souls I have filled with cheer. 
 
 14
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 The hearty acclaim of thousands 
 As my jubilant soul vibrates, 
 
 Framing gladsome words 
 
 As the songs of birds 
 From the East to the Western States ; 
 The songs that strike at the heartstrings 
 Till they ring with the thrill of joy; 
 
 I 'm blest every hour 
 
 With this God-sent power 
 Say, am I not rich, old boy? 
 
 And this is the song of the singer 
 
 That 's sent to your listening ear 
 
 Each fills the place 
 
 On the old earth's face 
 God meant when He placed us here ; 
 And I hope when our work is ended 
 We may look unregretfully back 
 
 O'er the trail we trod, 
 
 And will hear from God 
 A welcome for Tom and Jack. 
 
 15
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Whar' the Hand o' God is Seen 
 
 I like the city, stranger? 'Tis n't likely that 
 
 I would; 
 'T is n't likely that a ranger from the border 
 
 ever could 
 Git accustomed to the flurry an' the loud unearthly 
 
 noise 
 
 Everybody in a hurry, men an' wimmin, gals an' boys, 
 All a-rushin' like the nation 'mid the rumble an' the jar, 
 Jes' as if their souls' salvation hung upon their gittin' 
 thar. 
 
 Like it? No. I love to wander 
 
 'Mid the vales an' mountains green, 
 
 In the borderland out yonder, 
 Whar' the hand o' God is seen. 
 
 Nothin' thar but bricks an' mortar, towerin' overhead 
 
 so high, 
 
 That you never see a quarter o' the overhanging sky, 
 Not a tree nor grassy medder, not a runnin' brook 
 
 in sight, 
 Nothin' but the buildin's shadder makin' gloom 
 
 of Heaven's light. 
 E'en the birds are all imported from away acrost 
 
 the sea- 
 Faces meet me all distorted with the hand of misery. 
 
 16
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 oarin' railroad trains above you, streets by 
 
 workmen all defaced, 
 Everybody tryin' to shove you in the gutter 
 
 in their haste. 
 Cars an' carts an' wagons rumblin' thru the streets 
 
 with defen'n' roar, 
 Drivers yellin', swearin', grumblin', jes' like imps 
 
 from Sheol's shore, 
 Factories jinin' in the chorus, helpin' o' the din 
 
 to swell, 
 Auctioneers in tones sonorous, lyin' 'bout the goods 
 
 they sell. 
 
 Yes, I love the Western border ; pine trees wavin' 
 
 in the air, 
 Rocks piled up in rough disorder, birds a-singin' 
 
 everywhere ; 
 Deer a-playin' in their gladness, elk a-feedin* 
 
 in the glen; 
 Not a trace o' pain or sadness campin' on the trail 
 
 o' men. 
 Brooks o' crystal clearness flowin' o'er the rocks, 
 
 an' lovely flowers 
 In their tinted beauty growin' in that borderland 
 
 of ours. 
 
 Fairer picture the Creator 
 
 Never threw on earthly screen, 
 
 17
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Than my home, sweet home o' Natur' 
 Whar' the hand o' God is seen. 
 
 I 
 
 God's Ante Room 
 
 CANYON, grand and wild and free 1 
 You 've got a lariat on me. 
 My soul is broncho-busted, too. 
 My hat is off. I bow to you, 
 Almighty Hand, who cut this brand 
 That broncho souls can understand. 
 
 I gaze in awe and silence here ; 
 I want to laugh, I find a tear 
 That irrigates the joy I feel. 
 Mother Nature, I would kneel 
 And clasp and kiss thy mighty hand 
 And worship in this temple grand. 
 
 What 's that you say, you silly dude? 
 Such sentiments are weak and crude? 
 God! Yes, to brainless things like you 
 Whose soul no greatness could imbue, 
 To see, or feel, or understand 
 God's mighty hand. 
 
 18
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 You go to Europe, do you not? 
 Because you worship god, I wot 
 Yes, Fashion's god, a foolish dame, 
 And yet you love her just the same, 
 And bow and worship at her shrine 
 How different this god of mine ! 
 
 Almighty scar on mountain crest ! 
 My soul seems waking from the tomb, 
 And I, a mite on Nature's breast, 
 I never knew, I never guessed, 
 But now I know what is, is best, 
 And this is God's own ante room. 
 
 Mother Nature, hold my hand 
 And steady me a little while, 
 That I may feel and understand 
 This awe inspiring sight so grand, 
 God's greatest, most impressive brand 
 Clean cut, and deeper than a mile. 
 
 And now I see the lightning flash, 
 I hear the thunder roll and crash, 
 While echoes through the canyon dash 
 'Mid heaven's tears. 
 
 19
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Mother Nature, hold me tight 
 While fall the shadows of the night ; 
 My trembling soul is all affright 
 With holy fears. 
 
 Almighty scar! Almighty Hand 
 That smote thee, who can understand 
 And who describe this wondrous land 
 
 Beyond compare? 
 
 Can mortal paint the flower's perfume, 
 Or see beyond the mystic tomb, 
 Or e'en describe God's ante room, 
 
 So wondrous fair! 
 
 The Songs Unsung 
 
 H, I wish I could sing 
 The real songs that oft spring 
 From the musical depths of my soul; 
 
 There 's a symphony there, 
 
 With a melody rare, 
 
 Sweetest harmony blending the whole. 
 20
 
 HE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Like a paeon it seems 
 
 As it thrills through my dreams, 
 
 When the harp of my soul starts to play, 
 
 But the instant I sing 
 
 Like a bird on the wing 
 
 It trembles and flutters away. 
 
 Oh, I wish I could sing, 
 
 When the bells start to ring 
 
 The chimes that come soft through the air ; 
 
 When the birds and the bees 
 
 Hum and sing in the trees 
 
 And sweet life surges through, everywhere. 
 
 In the breeze as it floats, 
 I can hear the true notes, 
 To catch them I eagerly try; 
 Then I hum it again 
 Till the sweet minor strain, 
 Is turned to a tear and a sigh. 
 
 21
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Inspiration 
 
 X SCALE imagination's dreamy heights 
 And soar away beyond all earthly sights 
 And seek at Nature's best, such nourishment 
 As only comes with harmonies so blent 
 With vision, that in childhood's fairy-land 
 Were touched by magic of an unseen hand. 
 
 Thus seeing the unseen, imbibing more 
 Than ever was contained in richest store 
 Of literature, of poetry, or art, 
 Where mechanism forms the greater part 
 While Mother Nature hides within her breast 
 The flaming torch of truth and with it best 
 Of inspirations, pure and undefiled; 
 I felt her touch when I was yet a child. 
 
 I dreamed the same sweet dream I 'm dreaming now 
 And sometimes plucked a pansy from her brow, 
 " Pansies for thoughts," as sweet Ophelia said, 
 And through sweet phantom thoughts my dreams 
 
 were led; 
 
 I wove it in a wreath of simple rhyme 
 And placed it on the brow of Father Time. 
 
 22
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 A Yuletide Bouquet 
 To You, My Friend 
 
 9 
 
 ROM out the larder of my soul, 
 
 Where nature's mystic posies blend 
 With fruits and flowers, I fill love's bowl, 
 And serve it warm to you, my friend. 
 
 I call the sweetest, wildest flowers, 
 Soft-tinted as the rainbow spray, 
 
 And fling to you from nature's bowers, 
 To mingle with December gray. 
 
 These are but echoes of the past, 
 To music set in memory's chimes ; 
 
 The silken nets that love has cast, 
 To catch the sunshine of my rhymes. 
 
 And isn't it sweet that some kind deed- 
 A memory throb, a God-sent tear 
 
 Oft' comes to cultivate the seed 
 
 That we are sure to sow each year? 
 
 And so, I 'm flinging this bouquet 
 Of thankfulness and love to you : 
 
 Sweet buds of reciprocity, 
 
 Besprinkled with affection's dew. 
 
 23
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 And with the cheerful Yuletide, 
 This is the hopeful wish I send : 
 
 That love of God and man abide 
 
 With you and yours, my faithful friend. 
 
 Hymn of Nature's Creed 
 
 eHERE 'S a glint of glory gleaming, 
 There 's a flag of love outstreaming 
 O'er the stronghold of the ramparts of your soul 
 There 's a flag of truce uplifting, 
 Clouds of care are passing drifting. 
 There 's a haven where the troubled waters roll 
 
 Cheer up and be glad, 
 
 Let the dead past be sad, 
 
 All hail the bright sunbeams to-day; 
 
 In your soul there 's a light 
 
 That will burn through the night, 
 
 And drive all the dark clouds away. 
 
 There 's a wondrous depth of feeling 
 
 We are wrongfully concealing. 
 
 Can't you feel it in the thrilling of your soul? 
 
 24
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 What you need is reconstruction 
 
 And a roborant eruption 
 
 In the glory you are striving to control. 
 
 Mother Nature's hand is reaching 
 You can hear her voice beseeching 
 That you, her child, will but her laws obey. 
 If you 're man enough to face her, 
 Don't abuse her but embrace her. 
 She will heal your wounds and make your heart 
 strings play. 
 
 I J ve Got The Brand 
 
 *M| OOK where the eagle builds his nest : 
 Far up on yonder mountain crest 
 And where his young in safety rest- 
 Without a care. 
 
 Look where the eagle plumes his flight, 
 And soars above the highest height, 
 Where starry vigils pierce the night 
 God's face is there. 
 
 25
 
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Look deep into the deepest dell, 
 Look deeper still where angels fell, 
 And in the depths of deepest hell, 
 
 And black despair. 
 
 Look straight with eyes that know no fear, 
 And you will see and feel and hear 
 The unafraid, and love to cheer 
 
 God's face is there. 
 
 Oh, brother mine, and sisters, too, 
 
 Love's lariat encircles you. 
 
 Don't stretch your good face out o' tune 
 
 Give me your hand. 
 
 You 're just a wayward maverick stray ; 
 Drive superstitious ghosts away, 
 And join God's brotherhood to-day 
 
 And take the brand. 
 
 God's brand! Why, every little flower 
 That blossoms in His richest bower 
 Is branded with His wondrous power, 
 
 And mighty hand. 
 And thus in everything I see, 
 From bursting buds to tallest tree, 
 God's face is peeping out at me 
 
 I 've got the brand. 
 
 26
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Thanksgiving 
 
 E thank Thee, God, the Giver of all 
 
 good, 
 For Peace of Justice, strenuous, 
 
 truth's uniting 
 
 For giving us that glorious Man who stood 
 Between the lines, and stopped inhuman 
 
 fighting : 
 For bounteous harvests, strong heroic souls 
 
 Who dare to follow him we call our Teddy 
 For truth and honor where Old Glory rules ; 
 For statesmen unafraid, true, strong and steady. 
 
 God speed the truth, let Justice reign supreme 
 
 Let Labor, Law and Loyalty combine 
 To make it real, our brightest, happiest dream 
 
 Of Liberty and Love and God's Sunshine ; 
 And when Thanksgiving Day returns once more 
 
 May Peace and Plenty strolling hand in hand, 
 Go on and on toward a richer store, 
 
 While Song and Laughter echoes through the 
 land. 
 
 And echoing from every hill and glen 
 Praise God from whom all blessings flow, 
 
 AMEN 
 
 27
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Mother's Way 
 
 HATE'ER my soul may long for, 
 Whate'er my eyes may see, 
 The simple faith of Mother 
 Is broad enough for me. 
 
 For years and years, for months, from day to day, 
 
 In camp or field where rainbow-tinted spray 
 
 Rises in misty monuments on high, 
 
 To mingle with the dew drops in the sky, 
 
 I 've heard a voice, sometimes in whispers low, 
 
 I 've felt a feathery touch like flakes of snow 
 
 Descending when the stars were hid from view 
 
 And not a silvery spray in heaven's blue ; 
 
 And yet, beyond it all I saw a light 
 
 That pierced the Stygian darkness of the night ; 
 
 And though my tired eyes were closed the while, 
 
 I saw the jeweled eyes the tender smile 
 
 That midnight gloom nor snowy clouds could smother ; 
 
 I heard I felt I saw the face of Mother. 
 
 Oh peaceful sleep that comes with thoughts like this. 
 
 That whispers peace, and bids me rise to kiss 
 
 The rod administered by unseen hand ! 
 
 Nor do I try to think I understand. 
 
 I only know, that as I sit me here 
 
 And note the soft, low whisperings in my ear, 
 
 28
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 That somewhere there 's a Master of my mind 
 That I can see and worship, though I 'm blind 
 And while He thus dictates I '11 have none other, 
 But God of Faith and Hope, Sunshine and Mother. 
 
 God is good and good is God, 
 And God and good together 
 
 Will keep us clean unsight unseen 
 Throughout life's changing weather. 
 
 The Scout's Retreat 
 
 CUBBY hole, a-sittin' on a crest, 
 An' scraggy peaks a-pointin' to the sky, 
 A mountain lair, above an eagle's nest, 
 A runnin' brook, a cataract close by, 
 An orchestra by Mother Nature led, 
 A herd o' deer a-browsin' at my feet, 
 God's shinin' gems a-sparkle overhead 
 And evening vespers in the Scout's Retreat. 
 
 Almighty King of kings and Lord of lords, 
 The lonely scout an' hunter hears thy voice ; 
 How with the birds an' bees an' brooks it chords, 
 An' earth an' heaven get closer an' rejoice ; 
 
 29
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Nor pomp, nor pride, nor hypocritic zeal, 
 Nor padded pews, nor soft an' springy seat, 
 Are needed where there 's nothing to conceal, 
 From Him, who watches o'er the Scout's Retreat. 
 
 The Old Kentucky Rifle 
 
 XAM crowdin' close to eighty, gittin' mighty near 
 the end, 
 My hair is white an' scattered, an' my back 
 
 has got a bend. 
 
 I am shaky on my trotters, an' my eyes has got so dim 
 I kin scarcely see yon mountain that so of en I 
 
 have clim. 
 I 've gathered up some treasures that I value mighty 
 
 high, 
 An' thar's one which all the money of the earth 
 
 could never buy. 
 Among my goods an' chattels here I prize it more 
 
 than all, 
 That ol' Kentucky rifle hangin' thar ag'in the wall. 
 
 Its stock is scarred an' battered, an' its bar'l is full 
 o' nicks; 
 
 30
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Its lock is worn with sarvice till I scarce kin hear 
 
 its clicks. 
 
 It 's lost the shinin' beauty 'at it had when I was young, 
 But when it speaks it has 'nt lost the sharpness 
 
 of its tongue. 
 It was my lone companion when this country was a 
 
 wild, 
 
 I loved it dear as father ever loved a favored child. 
 An' I 've seed some skeery moments when to me 
 
 't was all in all, 
 That ol' Kentucky rifle hangin' thar ag'in the wall. 
 
 Lots o' deer has fell before it ; yes, an' many a panther, 
 
 too, 
 An' in early days some Injuns knowed about what it 
 
 could do. 
 An' a squir'l's eye peepin' at me from the very tallest 
 
 tree, 
 I could bu'st all into bits an' bring the critter 
 
 down to me. 
 An' the Chris'mas shootin' matches, master mine ! 
 
 but wa'n't they fun? 
 An' I reckon I surprised 'em with the shootin' 
 
 'at I done. 
 Every turkey 'at I drawed on caught the vengeance 
 
 of a ball 
 From that ol' Kentucky rifle hangin' thar ag'in the 
 
 wall. 
 
 31
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 I have seed the new inventions they are makin' 
 
 now-a-days, 
 
 An' I own they 're mighty slick in a variety o' ways ; 
 They are han'some fur to look at, you can load 'em 
 
 with a snap, 
 An' you never have to bother with a flint-lock or a 
 
 cap; 
 You kin shoot 'em mighty lively when you bring 'em 
 
 to the scratch, 
 Never have to ram yer bullets, never have to cut a 
 
 patch. 
 But fur close an' hair-breadth shootin' I could one day 
 
 down 'em all 
 With that ol' Kentucky rifle hangin' thar ag'in the wall 
 
 Thar 's one thing makes me love it as I never did afore 
 When I heered the ringin' summons callin' loyal 
 
 men to war. 
 
 All the fire that nerved my daddy in the Revolution days 
 Got a-surgin' in my bosom till my heart was all ablaze. 
 Then I shouldered that ol' rifle, filled my bullet-pouch 
 
 with lead, 
 Put that ol' warm cap o' coonskin sort o' keerless 
 
 on my head, 
 An* I offered them the sarvice of a mighty keen-eyed 
 
 man 
 For to do some fancy shootin' under glorious old 
 
 Berdan. 
 
 32
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Through the bloody war I packed her, and brought 
 
 her home ag'in 
 
 Proud an' sassy o' the record that I tuk her in to win ; 
 An' when age was creepin' on me an' I could n't shoot 
 
 no more, 
 With my shaky hands I hung her up to rest behind 
 
 the door. 
 When this ol' an' worn-out body underneath 
 
 the ground they hide, 
 
 I 've asked 'em fur to lay it sort o' lovin' by my side, 
 An' when Gabriel blows his trumpet I '11 march up'ard 
 
 at the call, 
 Hangin' on to that ol' rifle over thar ag'in the wall. 
 
 The Unseen Hand 
 
 r -NIGHT I take my humble pen in hand, 
 Without a thought or stanza aptly planned, 
 But how they come ! I scarce can write 
 
 them down; 
 
 And laugh and tear is oft-times turned to frown 
 Because I have no language to express 
 The songs of love and joy and tenderness 
 
 33
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 That light my soul and lift me up on high, 
 Till angel voices far beyond the sky 
 Seem joining in my wild and sweet refrain 
 And then I tumble back to earth again. 
 
 And yet, I envy none, though many kings 
 Might envy me, when poised on f eath'ry wings 
 Of tender fancy, as my soul expands 
 And I can feel the touch of unseen hands, 
 That take the pencil from my grasp and write, 
 While I in happy dreamland float to-night : 
 And well I know without some greater pow'r 
 I could not even cull a prairie flow'r. 
 
 The Sculptor and The Scout 
 
 MFELT the touch of Nature's fire 
 Inflate my soul. His soul's desire 
 Was in the clay his fingers wrought- 
 His touch upon a tender spot 
 Seemed like a mellow note that swells 
 Like distant echo of the bells 
 That chime before the organ peals ; 
 The softening symphony that steals 
 
 34
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Into our senses as we kneel, 
 
 And one deep touch of reverence feel. 
 
 And so the sculptor's eye revealed 
 
 The glow of genius unconcealed, 
 
 That lighted up his eager face ; 
 
 And as he moved with ease and grace 
 
 I sat and watched him carve and mould, 
 
 While I some stirring story told, 
 
 Of camp and trail and field and strife, 
 
 Of love and home and faithful wife, 
 
 Who watched and prayed sometimes alone- 
 
 That God would bring him to his own. 
 
 When on some dangerous mission bent, 
 Without the shelter of a tent 
 And only stars to point the way 
 Oft fearful of his horse's neigh, 
 Watchful on this dangerous scout 
 Of hostile Indians breaking out, 
 He takes the trail through canons grand 
 While eyes and nostrils wide expand, 
 Dilating with intense desire, 
 Until he sees the hostile's fire 
 Locates the camp and rides all night 
 To lead the soldiers to the fight 
 But not until the fight is won 
 Comes rest and peace, his duty done. 
 
 35
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Those are the times when men must think, 
 
 As every moment on the brink 
 
 Of danger and the grasp of Death 
 
 How oft I 've felt his icy breath! 
 
 'T was then I thought of fearsome things 
 
 Of nightmare hells when angel wings 
 
 Seemed fluttering down the atmosphere ; 
 
 And many a time I 've felt a tear 
 
 Escape and trickle down my cheek 
 
 And somehow, every time I 'd speak 
 
 The echo seemed to answer true : 
 
 " Fear not, for God is watching you." 
 
 So, as this sculptor friend of mine 
 Is modeling while I think and rhyme 
 My fleeting thought, promiscuous here, 
 I somehow feel that I am near 
 To Nature's fountains, and the swell 
 Of echoes reach me from the dell, 
 While towering pines on mountain's brow 
 Seem waving, bending o'er me now, 
 And sunshine spreads in glory there 
 With benediction everywhere. 
 
 For rocks and trees and running brooks 
 Tell me a story that the books 
 Can never tell for Nature's shrine 
 Holds treasures that are more sublime 
 
 36
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Than hand of man has ever penned; 
 And as I through their fastness wend 
 My upward way, I catch the fire 
 That may my humble pen inspire. 
 
 A Successful Failure 
 
 CHERE is one absorbing 
 question 
 
 And on it hangs much stress ; 
 " Has Mr. Crook much money 
 And is he a success?" 
 Oh, never mind the getting 
 Or what he did to get, 
 But did he really get it 
 And has he got it yet ? 
 
 " Of course he has, but cut it, 
 Unless you have a barrel 
 Like Mr. Thomas Lawson, 
 To liquidate your quarrel, 
 Your ' buts' are too expensive ; 
 You 're innocent, I guess. 
 The thief, if rich, is honest, 
 For money is SUCCESS." 
 
 37
 
 THE B R O N C HOB O O 
 
 You lie, there is no falsehood, 
 
 So cowardly as that, 
 
 You are a craven parvenue 
 
 A false aristocrat. 
 
 Dishonesty successful 
 
 Is failure's greatest knave, 
 
 And what are you, I 'd ask you, 
 
 But failure's abject slave? 
 
 You cringe before your master, 
 
 Old Pluto, till his heel 
 
 Has pressed his brand upon you, 
 
 And then, abject you kneel 
 
 And fawn and lie for pointers 
 
 Till, subsequently, you 
 
 Are clean sold out and labeled 
 
 " Successful failure," too. 
 
 This Ain't Poetry It's God's Truth 
 
 ON'T dilly-dally, when you know you 're 
 
 right. 
 Don't count the cost in case you have 
 
 to fight- 
 As fight you must, if you would dare assail 
 The outlaws that will camp upon your trail 
 
 38
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 And lay for you, like cowards that they are, 
 Too cunning to declare an open war. 
 
 Perhaps religion's cloak may serve to blind 
 
 The people for a time ; but you will find 
 
 That strength of character and spinal grit 
 
 Will win against deceit and polished wit; 
 
 Nor rank, nor pull, nor high exalted station 
 
 Nor brains, nor form, nor bogus reputation 
 
 Can stand against the strenuous, staunch and 
 
 steady, 
 Brave, true and honest followers of Teddy. 
 
 To Hades with the frenzied finance tricks! 
 His army has increased since nineteen-six 
 Despite the millions and the billions that's behind 
 " The House of Lords," men of senate-senile 
 
 kind, 
 May influence some, there 's those who can't be 
 
 bought ; 
 
 And even senatorial thieves are caught 
 Like what 's-his-name convicted, thank 
 
 the Lord 
 
 Convicted, yes and killed ; they can't afford 
 To live and that 's why that one died 
 A simple case of grafter's suicide. 
 
 39
 
 It Does n't Pay 
 
 " What 's gone and what 's past help, should be past 
 
 grief." Shakespeare 
 
 E should thank the bard of Avon for this 
 
 truthful sentiment ; 
 His wisdom, his philosophy, his sunny 
 
 merriment 
 Have conquered many a sorrow made light of many 
 
 a care, 
 
 And turned the gloom of worriment to sunlight clear 
 and fair. 
 
 
 I love to steal his thunder, when it rumbles in my soul ; 
 The flashes of his lightning oft light me to my goal. 
 And thus, while I reflect him, in my simple, rustic 
 
 ways, 
 Some rustic folk may read him, who could never read 
 
 his plays. 
 
 Because their understanding, undeveloped, cannot 
 
 grasp 
 What their souls may drink with pleasure, if I open 
 
 up the clasp 
 
 In a simple transformation or a rustic bas-relief. 
 " What 's past and can't be mended should, indeed, 
 
 be past all grief." 
 
 40
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 So I ask of you, my brother, or my comrade, does it pay 
 To cloud your splendid intellect with what has passed 
 
 away? 
 
 To dwarf the possibility of reaching yonder goal 
 To handicap your genius with wet blankets on your 
 
 soul? 
 
 Get wise, my friend, let wisdom take the place of false 
 
 pretense ; 
 There 's only one thing needful, that 's a bit 
 
 of commonsense. 
 
 If you '11 only make an effort, you '11 get it right away, 
 And your answer to my question will be, " No, 
 
 it does n't pay." 
 
 If Roosevelt Had Been Bad 
 
 He 'd have been the baddest man that ever was, 
 his daughter says. 
 
 OU never spoke a greater truth, 
 
 For baddest of the men were best, 
 Who in their boyhood and their youth 
 Had drifted to the strenuous West; 
 
 41
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Big, whole-soul'd, generous Mother's Boys, 
 With tender hearts, and souls aglow, 
 
 With hopes, ambitions, and the joys 
 That make good fellows love them so. 
 
 Some broke their bonds and ran away, 
 
 Some slowly drifted with the tide, 
 Some saw the blood-and-thunder play 
 
 Where many a Bowery redskin died. 
 And some were college boys, and bred 
 
 In homes where Christian parents knelt ; 
 And some were strenuous, cultured, read, 
 
 And brave, like Papa Roosevelt. 
 
 Many a noble Mother's Boy 
 
 Has carved a fortune and a name, 
 Whose coming back brought tears of joy 
 
 And happiness, as well as fame. 
 And others, just as pure, alas! 
 
 And just as honest, true and brave, 
 Have toyed too often with the glass, 
 
 And only filled a felon's grave. 
 
 Have pity then, Oh, Daughter fair, 
 Of Him who best can understand 
 
 The hearts of splendid men who dare 
 As dared the boys of his command. 
 
 42
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Have pity and compassion, too, 
 On those unfortunates who fell, 
 
 Who wear the stripes instead of blue, 
 And yet, who love their country well. 
 
 For half the men behind the bars, 
 
 In Western pens across the plains, 
 Are fit to fight in freedom's wars 
 
 As men of courage, heart and brains. 
 And don't forget that many men 
 
 Too often fall as life begins, 
 And many a man in prison pen 
 
 Is suffering for another's sins. 
 
 Does it Pay? 
 
 MX 'S easy enough to be funny, 
 It 's easy enough to be glad, 
 When the larder is flowing with honey 
 And the body in comfort is clad ; 
 And it 's easy enough to be frisky, 
 To frolic and laugh and be gay 
 While you drink to your sweetheart in whiskey, 
 But tell me, my boy, does it pay ? 
 
 43
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 It 's easy enough to be jolly 
 
 When out for a lark with the boys, 
 And away from dear mother and Molly, 
 
 Who 'd share all your sorrows and joys. 
 And it 's easy enough to deceive them 
 
 Their sweet loving hearts to betray ; 
 But it 's selfish and brutal to grieve them 
 
 And tell me, my boy, does it pay? 
 
 But it 's easier far to be truthful, 
 
 Straightforward in all that you do. 
 Keep your heart and your soul always youthful, 
 
 To mother and sweetheart be true. 
 And, boys, let me give you a motto, 
 
 To keep in your heart every day 
 Though you drive a wheelbarrow or auto, 
 
 Whatever you do, make it pay. 
 
 A Bit of Doggerel 
 
 rHE most faithful dog that I ever knew, 
 Most lovable and kind and true, 
 Was a yellow cur, tender and brave, 
 Whose great heart broke on his master's grave. 
 
 44
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 If You Should Die To-night 
 
 UPPOSE that you should die to 
 night; 
 Just stop and think and hold your 
 
 breath 
 
 Remember, there is just one wink 
 'Twixt you and Death old sure-thing 
 Death. 
 
 Suppose that you should die to-night; 
 Would some one miss a sunny ray? 
 Would some one kiss the face of clay? 
 Would some one watch and pray? 
 
 Suppose that you should die to-night; 
 Would some dear heart, with love for you 
 A drop impart of heaven's dew, 
 For friendship that was branded " true?" 
 
 Ah, yes, if I should die to-night, 
 I know that some my smile would miss ; 
 Some little waif might kneel to kiss 
 The hand that signs my name to this 
 If I should die to-night. 
 
 45
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 The Harvest 
 
 HEN your head is bowed 
 
 in sorrow 
 And your soul is out of 
 
 tune, 
 When the prospects of to-morrow 
 
 Are behind a veil of gloom, 
 Can't you see the light beyond it 
 
 Just a glimmer of the prize? 
 Keep a-groping and you '11 find it 
 But a blessing in disguise. 
 
 Did you ever climb the mountain, 
 
 Weary, foot-sore and afraid 
 You would never reach the fountain 
 
 On the summit in the shade? 
 Then a sudden glint of glory 
 
 Seemed to flash before your eyes, 
 And the sequel to the story 
 
 'T was a blessing in disguise. 
 
 Courage is the only asset 
 
 That will conquer in the fight, 
 
 If you have the will to mass it 
 On the lines of truth and right. 
 
 And when at last victorious, 
 From the conflict you arise, 
 
 46
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 You '11 reap a harvest glorious 
 From your blessings in disguise. 
 
 The Soul of Song 
 
 H, what would I give 
 If again I could live, 
 
 Renewing the battles unwon ; 
 With courage to dare, 
 And with patience to bear 
 The struggles so often begun. 
 
 But the Springtime of life, 
 With its pleasures and strife 
 
 Entwined in my sensitive soul 
 The good and the bad, 
 With the joy-time and sad, 
 
 Were each in their turn in control. 
 
 But the musical spray 
 That 's a-sprinkle to-day, 
 
 And the buds that are sprouting by night, 
 Will nourish the flow'rs 
 In my soul's tropic bow'rs 
 
 I catch the perfume as I write. 
 
 47
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 And all that I ask 
 
 Is the grace to unmask 
 
 Each motive that 's selfish and wrong 
 And that some one as wild, 
 With the heart of a child, 
 
 Will catch the real soul of my song. 
 
 What Do I Know? 
 
 HAT do I know? Poor little 
 
 me, 
 
 I need a microscope to see 
 What I do know ; 
 
 The overflow 
 
 Of nature's riches, all aglow 
 
 And sparkling with the stars and dew, 
 
 I only know beyond the blue 
 
 I cannot see. 
 
 Poor little me. 
 
 What do I know? I know but this : 
 I know my ignorance is bliss 
 Most wisely planned. 
 
 I understand 
 
 48
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 That tow'ring pines and mountains grand 
 Are dear and beautiful to me ; 
 Beyond their peaks I cannot see, 
 But God is there, 
 
 And everywhere, 
 And this is good enough for me. 
 
 Sunshine 
 
 NEVER like to see a man a-'rastlin' 
 
 with the dumps 
 'Cause in the game of life he does n't always 
 
 catch the trumps ; 
 
 But I can always cotton to a free and easy cuss 
 As takes his dose, and thanks the Lord it is n't any 
 
 wuss. 
 
 There ain't no use o' kickin' and swearin' at your luck, 
 Yer can't correct the trouble more 'n you can drown 
 
 a duck. 
 Remember, when beneath the load your sufferin' head 
 
 is bowed, 
 
 That God '11 sprinkle sunshine in the trail of every 
 cloud. 
 
 49
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 If you should see a fellow man with trouble's flag 
 
 unfurled, 
 And lookin' like he did n't have a friend in all 
 
 the world, 
 Go up and slap him on the back, and holler " how 
 
 d' you do," 
 And grasp his hand so warm he '11 know he has a friend 
 
 in you. 
 Then ax him what 's a-hurtin' 'im, and laugh his 
 
 cares away, 
 And tell him that the darkest night is just afore the 
 
 day. 
 Don't talk in graveyard palaver, but say it right out 
 
 loud, 
 That God '11 sprinkle sunshine in the trail of every 
 
 cloud. 
 
 This world at best is but a hash of pleasure 
 
 and of pain. 
 Some days are bright and sunny, and some all sloshed 
 
 with rain. 
 And that 's just how it ought to be, for when the clouds 
 
 roll by, 
 We '11 know just how to 'predate the bright and 
 
 smilin* sky. 
 So learn to take it as it comes, and don't sweat 
 
 at the pores 
 
 50
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Because the Lord's opinion does n't coincide 
 
 with yours; 
 But always keep rememberin', when cares your path 
 
 enshroud, 
 That God has lots of sunshine to spill behind 
 
 the cloud. 
 
 A Sunshine Boomerang 
 
 HEN a bit of sunshine 
 
 hits ye, 
 After passing of a cloud, 
 When a fit of laughter gits ye 
 
 An' yer spine is f eelin' proud, 
 Don't fergit to up and fling it 
 
 At a soul that 's f eelin' blue, 
 For the minit that ye sling it, 
 It 's a boomerang to you. 
 
 51
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 If I But Could 
 
 MF I could clothe each jeweled thought 
 That comes to me from Nature's bowers 
 In classic language, such as taught 
 Away from western woods and flowers, 
 If I could sing the sweet refrains 
 
 That in my soul in silence cluster, 
 From many a heart I 'd strike the chains, 
 And give the star of hope new lustre. 
 
 If I could scatter all the gems 
 
 That light my soul in darkened places, 
 Could pluck the hope-buds from their stems, 
 
 And wreathe them o'er despondent faces, 
 If I but had the power to stay 
 
 The blighting hand of pain and sorrow, 
 The human flowers that wilt to-day 
 
 Would raise their heads and bloom to-morrow. 
 
 If from the Master Hand above 
 
 To me the longed-for power was given 
 To change all bitterness to love, 
 
 Of every earthly hell make heaven, 
 The lowering clouds would quickly flee 
 
 Before the light which followed after, 
 And every wave of Life's broad sea 
 
 Would gleam and shine with sparkling laughter. 
 
 52
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 A Sermon to Myself 
 (Or to You if it Fits) 
 
 ON'T be blue just be true 
 To yourself and smile. 
 Don't you know clouds will go 
 In a little while? 
 
 Have some grit up an' git! 
 
 What 's the recompense 
 Fret and stew! keepin' blue, 
 
 Lackin' commonsense? 
 
 Take it cool. Whoa, you mule, 
 
 Kickin' like a steer ! 
 Half your trouble 's but a bubble : 
 
 What you got to fear? 
 
 Friends are honey when you 've money, 
 
 Otherwise they 're few. 
 Then, dod rot it, PLAY YOU 'VE GOT IT- 
 
 And you '11 git it, too ! 
 
 53
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 A Broncho's Philosophy 
 A New Year " Pome" 
 
 lON'T blame the world. It 's better 
 Than the man who wants to be 
 A somebody, but lives to save 
 The undertaker's fee. 
 For surely he 's a dead one 
 
 On our strenuous preserves. 
 A wooden coat, six feet of earth, 
 Is all that he deserves. 
 
 Go chase yourself around the block, 
 
 Then chase around some more, 
 And start the blood to circulate, 
 
 And sweat from every pore. 
 Then change your face and change your sox, 
 
 And change your atmosphere, 
 And change your dope for Heaven's brew, 
 
 To start the glad New Year. 
 
 Now this is my advice to you 
 But have you got the sand 
 
 To buck against temptation, 
 And to play a winnin' hand? 
 54
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 If so, then shake ! God speed you on ; 
 
 You '11 win, just persevere. 
 And if you 've never been a man, 
 
 Begin with the New Year. 
 
 Some Broncho Philosophy 
 
 M WONDER is it perfume of the flow'rs 
 I 'm smelling now, 
 Or the laurel being woven will it fit my 
 
 sun-tanned brow ? 
 And I wonder will they bring it while life's vistas 
 
 onward spread, 
 
 Or wait, before they fling it, till the heart is cold and 
 dead? 
 
 It is not so much the roses or the laurel that I crave, 
 But the sunshine of the friendship and approval 
 
 of the brave, 
 Who are not afraid to speak it and to grasp a fellow's 
 
 hands 
 When he 's slipping cogs and sinking in the world's 
 
 uncertain sands. 
 
 55
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 That 's the time to fling a lasso, with a wreath 
 
 upon the rope. 
 Let its coils of strength encircle some poor struggler's 
 
 ray of hope ; 
 For the moment that you yank him where his feet 
 
 will hit bed rock, 
 There 's a heap of good set going and a premium 
 
 on your stock. 
 
 And I cannot help believing that the sunny smiles 
 
 we fling, 
 The bits of fun we scatter, with the songs we love 
 
 to sing, 
 Are the harbingers of blessings on the scrimmage line 
 
 of hope 
 That will light the trail with sunshine as we journey 
 
 o'er Life's slope. 
 
 Greeting 
 
 HEN your rainbow of hope, be it near 
 
 or afar, 
 
 Is throwing its searchlight on you ; 
 When you feel that the gate of success is ajar 
 And the star in hope's crescent peeps through. 
 
 56
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Don't leave a poor brother or sister behind, 
 There are many hard pulls on life's slope ; 
 
 And some weary brother, nearsighted, might find 
 His star through your own telescope. 
 
 And sometimes a word or a look or a touch 
 
 Of nature, that makes us all kin, 
 A smile or a slap on the back, will do much 
 
 To help modest merit to win. 
 
 Come, join me, Oh ye who have struggled and won 
 
 Just a mite, with a smile and a tear, 
 And hark to a voice that will whisper, " Well done," 
 
 And enjoy a real happy New Year. 
 
 The Sunshine Trail 
 
 r HERE'S a world of satisfaction 
 In this broncho soul of mine. 
 Though I have n't got a dollar 
 Of my own, I 'm feeling fine ; 
 For I 've just got down to bed rock, 
 
 And the nuggets that I find, 
 I scatter with the sunshine, 
 On the trail I leave behind. 
 
 57
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 With a stomach like an ostrich, 
 
 And a glorious appetite; 
 With a God-sent reciprocity 
 
 That greets me every night, 
 When with love and song and laughter, 
 
 Hope and charity combined, 
 I scatter wads of sunshine 
 
 On the trail I leave behind. 
 
 Brother, mine, the Eldorado 
 
 Where your soul will strike it rich, 
 You will find in waifs of slumville 
 
 And your brothers in the ditch. 
 Shed your kids and patent leathers, 
 
 To all ridicule be blind, 
 For there 's millions in the sunshine 
 
 On the trail you leave behind. 
 
 A Cure for Insomnia 
 
 rHERE 'S a song that I sing, when my 
 soul is aglow 
 
 With the rapture of love undefiled; 
 When the wealth of the world I would gladly bestow 
 For the innocent laugh of a child. 
 
 58
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 When alone on the mountain a bright, shining star 
 From God's jeweled crown seems to peep, 
 
 While some one is holding the gateway ajar, 
 I sing, " Mother, rock me to sleep." 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Rock me to sleep, let me dream of my childhood, 
 Back to the mountains and fountains and wild-wood. 
 Dear mother in heaven, thy sweet song repeat 
 And rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 
 
 There 's a song that I sing when my soul is in tune 
 
 With the birds and the flow'rs and the bees, 
 When green buds are sprouting and blossoms 
 abloom, 
 
 And laden with perfume, the breeze. 
 At night, when unbidden, my troubles appear 
 
 And sometimes I nervously leap, 
 I just keep repeating, " Dear mother is near," 
 
 And then I sing, " Rock me to sleep." 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Rock me to sleep, let me dream of my childhood, 
 Back to the mountains and fountains and wild-wood. 
 Dear mother in heaven, thy sweet song repeat 
 And rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 
 
 59
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 There 's a song that I sing, when I fain would forget 
 
 Every sorrow that darkens my sky, 
 And I think of the hearts that are loving me yet, 
 
 And the clouds that are passing me by. 
 In closing my eyes a sweet vision appears, 
 
 Her vigil she still seems to keep, 
 I think, till my eyes are all swimming with tears, 
 
 And mother dear rocks me to sleep. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Rock me to sleep, let me dream of my childhood, 
 Back to the mountains and fountains and wild- wood. 
 Dear mother in heaven, thy sweet song repeat) 
 And rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 
 
 Resigned 
 
 'M a-croonin' to de baby 
 
 Jes' a little ebenin' song. 
 A'm a-rockin' ob de cradle, 
 Kase his mammy is n't strong. 
 Fo' she 's been a-workin' steady, 
 She 's ma honey good an' kind, 
 An' ah kain't do much to help her 
 Or de baby, fo' a 'm blind. 
 
 60
 
 BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Chorus 
 
 But a 'm hopin' an' a 'm gropin' 
 
 An' a 'm singin' all de while, 
 An' it sort o' cheers ma honey 
 
 When she sees me wid a smile. 
 
 A 'm a-whistlin' to de baby 
 
 As ah hoi' his little han', 
 An' ah pray de Lord to watch him 
 
 Till he gits to be a man. 
 An' when clouds a-hover over 
 
 An' de win's a-howlin' strong, 
 Ah rock-a-bye ma baby 
 
 An' ah sing ma little song. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 But a 'm hopin' an' a 'm gropin' 
 An' a 'm singin' all de while, 
 
 An' it sort o' cheers ma honey 
 When she sees me wid a smile. 
 
 When de pa'son comes to see us- 
 Pa'son Sam, so good an' kind, 
 
 He bress de Lord an' tells me 
 Ah is happy an' resigned. 
 
 61
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Ah don' jes' know his meanin' 
 But he says it good an' strong, 
 
 An' he shouts a hallelujah 
 When ah sing ma little song. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 But a 'm hopin' an' a 'm gropin* 
 An' a 'm singin' all de while, 
 
 An' it sort o' cheers ma honey 
 When she sees me wid a smile. 
 
 The Music of Life 
 
 A Recitation to be recited to music 
 
 ( Music " London Bridge is Falling Down." ) 
 
 s W sweet, how fair in the dawn of 
 
 life, 
 
 In the world with woe and folly 
 rife, 
 
 To hear the ring of childish song, 
 As burden-bent we trudge along 
 
 62
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 f 
 
 And backward, through the vanished years, 
 
 In childhood's dreams forgot Fate's frown, 
 Our hearts join in the children's play 
 
 When " London Bridge is Falling Down." 
 
 II 
 
 (Music " Come, my Love, the Stars are Shining ") 
 " Old Madrid " 
 
 O'er " London Bridge" how short the span 
 'Twixt child and maid, 'twixt boy and man 1 
 The tender song from maiden lips, 
 Like harp-strings 'neath Love's finger-tips, 
 Is Love's own heaven-born gift of song, 
 As its wings first flutter in earthly flame, 
 Ere its tune grows false and its rhythm wrong, 
 And man not love is all to blame. 
 
 Ill 
 
 (Music" Rock-a-bye Baby," or " Sleep, 
 Baby, Sleep ") 
 
 But sweeter far in the noon of life 
 The song of the fairer, happier wife 
 As she croons to her babe a lullabye 
 That ringeth a song of joy on High. 
 
 63
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 She finds a solace for every care 
 In the rich reward of Motherhood : 
 
 The fervent answer to every pray'r; 
 The vessel that holdeth all of good. 
 
 IV 
 
 (Music " Rock of Ages ") 
 
 But when the night and storm comes on, 
 And wife and mother bows alone, 
 When Fate has carried all away 
 Who filled that happier, brighter day ; 
 With none to trust and all to fear, 
 Tis then her faith and strength we see, 
 As through the storm her voice rings clear, 
 " 0, Rock of Ages Cleft for Me!" 
 
 (Music" Nearer My God to Thee ") 
 
 And thus with calm, unfurrowed brow, 
 
 To where the deeper waters flow, 
 
 Guided by unseen hands along, 
 
 Turned to the highest praise her song 
 
 Fearless of rock, of hidden reef, 
 
 Up, as the lark, swift-winged, will flee 
 
 64
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Her song will rise, through joy, through grief, 
 " Nearer, Oh nearer, God, to Thee." 
 
 Serenade in the Hills 
 
 HERE are joy bells in the drilling 
 
 While I 'm shooting through the hill. 
 There is music in the hammer 
 As it bounces from the drill, 
 And at every stroke I 'm thinking 
 What the next discharge will do ; 
 Will it bring me luck and fortune? 
 Will it bring me back to you? 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Love grows strong in the mountains, my own, 
 
 Hearts in the wild woods are true. 
 Men grow kind and tender, dear heart, 
 
 And my heart is sighing for you. 
 Wait for me, dearest, I need your love, 
 
 Your trust you never shall rue. 
 A prayer and a tear, for your absent one, dear, 
 
 To bring me to mother and you. 
 
 63
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 When I hear the night-birds singing 
 
 Near my little mountain home, 
 When the stars are all a-twinkle 
 
 In the blue of heaven's dome, 
 When the evening tasks are over 
 
 And there 's no more work to do, 
 Then I find my soul is singing 
 
 Tender serenades to you. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Love grows strong in the mountains, my own, 
 
 Hearts in the wild woods are true. 
 Men grow kind and tender, dear heart, 
 
 And my heart is sighing for you. 
 Wait for me, dearest, I need your love, 
 
 Your trust you never shall rue. 
 A prayer and a tear, for your absent one, dear, 
 
 To bring me to mother and you. 
 
 I 
 
 66
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 The Optimistic Warbler 
 
 ING a cheerful song, or whistle 
 
 If you don't know how to sing, 
 And remember that the thistle 
 Beats the daisies in the Spring ; 
 That the gloomy clouds of sorrow 
 Which o'erhang your sky to-day 
 Will unfold a bright to-morrow 
 When the clouds have passed away. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 I 'm an optimistic warbler 
 
 And I whistle, laugh and sing, 
 Bringing gladness out of sadness 
 
 With the sunshine that I fling. 
 While a heap of satisfaction 
 
 Snuggles underneath my vest, 
 As I laugh and sing and whistle 
 
 Ere I lay me down to rest. 
 
 Oh, I wish that I could muster 
 On the heights of Nature's crest, 
 
 A great army that would trust her 
 With their happiness and rest. 
 
 She would soothe their every sorrow, 
 And with chiming joy bells bring 
 
 67
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Floods of sunshine on the morrow 
 If they 'd whistle, laugh and sing. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 I 'm an optimistic warbler 
 
 And I whistle, laugh and sing, 
 Bringing gladness out of sadness 
 
 With the sunshine that I fling. 
 While a heap of satisfaction 
 
 Snuggles underneath my vest, 
 As I laugh and sing and whistle 
 
 Ere I lay me down to rest. 
 
 The Keystone of the Union 
 
 I SOVEREIGN state, thy name we 
 
 hail, 
 Our hearts aglow with patriot 
 
 pride, 
 Thy praises ring in ev'ry vale, 
 
 From ev'ry lofty mountain side. 
 We love thy rocks, we love thy rills, 
 Thy fruitful fields and rivers broad, 
 We love thy old historic hills, 
 Whose winding paths our Fathers trod. 
 
 68
 
 HE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Chorus 
 
 0, mighty state; 0, sov'reign state, 
 Thou bulwark of our land so great, 
 To thee our love we consecrate, 
 0, Keystone of the Union. 
 
 Deep in each mountain's wounded side, 
 
 Hid from the sun's enliv'ning beams, 
 In gloomy caverns dark and wide, 
 
 The lamp of toiling miner gleams. 
 A million hearts their labors cheer, 
 
 Their product spreads o'er land and sea, 
 It gladdens homes in ev'ry sphere, 
 
 And drives the wheels of Industry. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 0, mighty state ; 0, sov'reign state, 
 Thou bulwark of our land so great, 
 To thee our love we consecrate, 
 O, Keystone of the Union. 
 
 When war's alarm swept o'er the land, 
 And treason's hand on Sumpter fell, 
 
 Thy loyal sons with valor grand 
 Upheld the cause they loved so well. 
 
 69
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 On many a field with crimson stained, 
 
 And on the ever restless sea, 
 Thy honor well their arms maintained, 
 
 Thy flag they bore to victory. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 0, mighty state ; 0, sov'reign state, 
 Thou bulwark of our land so great, 
 To thee our love we consecrate, 
 0, Keystone of the Union. 
 
 We honor those who fought and bled 
 
 When Duty called our warrior braves ; 
 We bless the mem'ry of the dead, 
 
 Now sleeping in their honored graves. 
 Should e'er again the trumpet sound, 
 
 And guns in angry discord roar, 
 Thy loyal sons would rally round 
 
 The flag their sires so nobly bore. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 0, mighty state ; 0, sov'reign state, 
 Thou bulwark of our land so great, 
 To thee our love we consecrate, 
 O, Keystone of the Union. 
 
 70
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Come Back, Papa 
 
 Y heart was bowed down with 
 sadness, 
 
 My soul was aflame with despair, 
 When a voice with a ripple of gladness 
 
 Came floating to me through the air, 
 The voice of a little one, ringing 
 
 Like joy bells from over the lea. 
 And this is the song she was singing : 
 " Oh, come back, dear papa, to me." 
 
 Chorus 
 
 " Come back to me, Oh, come back to me ; 
 Mama and Dolly are watching for thee. 
 Come back, dear papa, from over the sea; 
 Mama and baby are waiting for thee." 
 
 My arms were soon folded around her, 
 
 She snuggled close up to my breast ; 
 I blessed the dear spot where I found her, 
 
 And carried her into our nest. 
 And while 'round my neck she was clinging, 
 
 The sunburst of love seemed to be 
 Aflame in the soul that was singing, 
 
 " Oh, come back, dear papa, to me." 
 
 71
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Chorus 
 
 " Come back to me, Oh, come back to me ; 
 Mama and Dolly are watching for thee. 
 Come back, dear papa, from over the sea; 
 Mama and baby are waiting for thee." 
 
 Or Bill Reynolds's 'Dopted Boy 
 
 all looked down on the little cuss 
 When he come to school with the rest 
 
 of us, 
 
 Just 'cause he war' an adopted boy, 
 From an orphan 'sylum in Illinoy. 
 He had no parents, leastwise he said, 
 Fur all he knowed both on 'em war' dead 
 " Died 'fore I was born," he said to me, 
 Wen I chaffed him about his pedigree. 
 
 He did n't seem fur to have a bit 
 
 O' fightin' metal or spunky grit, 
 
 But tuk our slurs in a quiet way, 
 
 An' endured our torments day after day,
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Without so much as a sass-back word, 
 No matter how off 'n or hard we spurred ; 
 The butt o' the scholards fur wicked fun 
 War' 01' Bill Reynolds's 'dopted son. 
 
 He larnt his lessons the teacher said, 
 W'en the term war' over he 'd be ahead 
 Of all us scholards, sartin an' shore, 
 If we did n't 'tend to our knittin' more. 
 An' w'en the examination come, 
 The Board o' Directors jes' struck us dumb 
 By givin' the prizes, every one, 
 To 01' Bill Reynolds's 'dopted son. 
 
 This made us wild, an' we up an' swore 
 We would n't go to that school no more 
 Unless the Directors 'd fix it so 
 That little reperbate could n't go. 
 But afore the school tuk up we heard 
 That 01' Bill Reynolds somehow perferred 
 To send him into the city, whar' 
 A big, hifalutin' academy war'. 
 
 He come to Bill's on a visit twice, 
 Dressed up an' lookin' uncommon nice, 
 But never showed up on the village street, 
 Jes' like he was 'feard of us boys he 'd meet. 
 
 73
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 * 
 
 'T war' a wise perceedin', fur none of us 
 'D associate with the nameless cuss 
 That had no pedigree more 'n the one 
 Of 01' Bill Reynolds's 'dopted son. 
 
 It sorter surprised us w'en some one read 
 A piece in the city paper 'at said 
 That Honer'ble Senator Blake had set 
 On him fur a West Point School cadet. 
 01' Bill moved East, an' we never heard 
 'Mongst all us boys not another word, 
 Till the big Secession War 'd begun, 
 Of 01' Bill Reynolds's 'dopted son. 
 
 Most of us ol* schoolfellers went 
 
 At the fust break-out o' the devilment, 
 
 An' I reckon thar' was n't a wilder cuss 
 
 Than me in that hull rebellion muss. 
 
 Dissipatin' an' playin' cards, 
 
 The scum o' the rigiment fur my pards 
 
 Never stopped fur a breathin' spell 
 
 In my reckless run fur the gates o' hell I 
 
 It seems like a nightmare, lookin' back 
 A gamblin' quarrel a pistol's crack 
 A schoolboy comrade by my hand slain 
 A hand impelled by a rum-crazed brain. 
 
 74
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 The dread court-martial, my quick-drawn breath, 
 As I heard the words, " To be shot to death !" 
 The nameless terror that clung to me 
 As I peered o'er the brink of eternity ! 
 
 My mother came, with her pale, sad face, 
 From our village home to my prison place 
 Came with the old-time, glad voice hushed 
 Came with a heart my hand had crushed, 
 Kissed and embraced me as of yore, 
 Called me her darling o'er and o'er, 
 Humbly knelt by my side and prayed 
 That the stern hand of justice might be stayed. 
 
 Her face reflected her heart's keen pains 
 As she heard the ring o' my clankin' chains ; 
 Eyes that beamed love in the bygone years 
 Were dulled with sorrow's most bitter tears. 
 Her hand on my burnin' head she laid, 
 An' bade me pray as I never prayed, 
 As for me with trembling steps she went 
 With one last hope to the General's tent. 
 
 The ensuin' hour seemed a year to me 
 As I waited thar' in my misery. 
 The sentry with sympathetic face 
 Marched to and fro with a funeral pace. 
 
 75
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 O'er the face o' the sun thar' crept a cloud, 
 
 Filmy and white as a coffin shroud, 
 
 An' a raven on distant wooded slope 
 
 Seemed to croak the warnin' : " No hope, No hope !" 
 
 Down through the aisles o' the tented camp 
 Came a squad of guards with a tramp, tramp, tramp. 
 Half dazed I marched 'mid the glistenin' guns, 
 Borne proudly by Union's blue-clad sons, 
 Marched to headquarters an' stood before 
 The great commander, whose broad brow wore 
 Undyin' laurels his skill had won 
 On a dozen fields 'neath the Southern Sun. 
 
 My brain war' awhirl ! The events now seem 
 As the shadowy memories of a dream ; 
 The smile o' my mother, sad but sweet, 
 As she sat on a stool at the General's feet. 
 I can see the General's courtly grace, 
 As he raised his eyes to my pallid face 
 " My boy, your mother's prayers have won ; 
 You are pardoned by Reynolds's 'dopted son I" 
 
 76
 
 THE' BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 The Veteran and His Grandson 
 
 OLD on ! Hold on ! My goodness, you take 
 
 my breath, my son, 
 A-firin' questions at me, like shots from 
 
 a Gatlin' gun: 
 
 Why do I wear this eagle an' flag an' brazen star, 
 An' why do my old eyes glisten when somebody 
 
 mentions war? 
 An' why do I call men " comrade," an' why do my 
 
 eyes grow bright 
 When you hear me tell your grandma I 'm going 
 
 to post to-night? 
 Come here, you inquisitive rascal, an' set on your 
 
 grandpa's knee, 
 
 An' I '11 try an' answer the broadsides you 've been 
 a-firin' at me. 
 
 * 
 
 Away back there in the sixties, long afore you were 
 
 born, 
 The news come a-flashin' to us, one bright and sunny 
 
 morn, 
 That some of our Southern brothers, a-thinkin', no 
 
 doubt, 'twar' right, 
 Had trained their guns on our banner, and opened 
 
 a nasty fight ; 
 The great big guns war' a-boomin,'an' the shot flyin' 
 
 thick an' fast, 
 
 77
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 An' troops all over the Southland were rapidly being 
 
 massed ; 
 An' a thrill went through the nation, a fear that our 
 
 glorious land 
 Might be split, divided an' ruined by mistaken brother's 
 
 hand. 
 
 Lord ! but wa'n't there excitement, an' did n't the boys' 
 
 eyes flash! 
 An' did n't we cuss our brothers for being so foolish 
 
 and rash ! 
 An' did n't we raise the neighbors with loud an' 
 
 continued cheers 
 When ol' Abe sent out that document a-callin' 
 
 for volunteers! 
 An' did n't we flock to the standard when the drums 
 
 began to beat 
 An' did n't we march with strong, proud step along 
 
 the village street ! 
 An' did n't the people cheer us when we got aboard 
 
 the cars, 
 With the flag a-wavin' o'er us, and we went away 
 
 to the wars ! 
 
 I '11 never forget your grandma as she stood outside 
 
 o' the train, 
 Her face as white as a snowdrift, her tears a-fallin' 
 
 like rain 
 
 78
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 She stood there quiet and deathlike, 'mid all o' the rush 
 
 and noise, 
 For the war were a-takin' from her, her husband 
 
 and three brave boys 
 Bill, Charley and little Tommy just turned eighteen, 
 
 but as true 
 
 An' gallant a little soldier as ever wore the blue ; 
 It seemed almost like murder for to tear her poor 
 
 heart so, 
 But your grandad could n't stay, baby, an' the boys 
 
 war' determined to go. 
 
 The evenin' afore we started she called the boys 
 
 to her side, 
 An' told 'em as how they war' always their mother's 
 
 joy an' pride; 
 An' though her soul was in torture, an' her poor heart 
 
 bleedin' an' sore, 
 An' though she needed her darlings, the country 
 
 needed 'em more. 
 She told 'em to do their duty, wherever their feet 
 
 might roam, 
 An' to never forget in battle their mother war' prayin' 
 
 at home ; 
 An' if ( an' the tears nigh choked her) they should fall 
 
 in front o' the foe, 
 She 'd go to her blessed Savior an' ax Him to lighten 
 
 the blow. 
 
 79
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Bill lays an' awaits the summons 'neath Spott- 
 sylvania's sod, 
 
 An' on the field of Antietam Charley's spirit went 
 back to God; 
 
 An' Tommy, our baby Tommy, we buried one star 
 lit night 
 
 Along with his fallen comrades, just after the Wilder 
 ness fight. 
 
 The lightnin' struck our family tree, an' stripped it 
 of every limb, 
 
 A-leavin' only this bare old trunk, a-standin' alone 
 an' grim. 
 
 My boy, that 's why your grandma, when you kneel 
 to the God you love, 
 
 Makes you ax Him to watch your uncles, an' make 'em 
 happy above. 
 
 That 's why you sometimes see her with tear-drops 
 
 in her eyes ; 
 That 's why you sometimes catch her a-tryin' to hide 
 
 her sighs ; 
 That 's why at our great reunions she looks so solemn 
 
 and sad; 
 That 's why her heart seems a-breakin' when the boys 
 
 are jolly an' glad ; 
 That 's why you sometimes find her in the bedroom 
 
 overhead, 
 
 80
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Down on her knees a-prayin', with their pictures 
 
 laid out on the bed ; 
 That 's why the old-time brightness will light up her 
 
 face no more, 
 Till she meets her hero warriors in the camp on the 
 
 other shore. 
 
 An' when the great war was over, back came the 
 
 veterans true, 
 With not one star a-missin' from that azure field 
 
 of blue; 
 An' the boys, who on field o' battle had stood the 
 
 fiery test, 
 Formed posts o' the Grand Army in the North, South, 
 
 East an' West. 
 Fraternity, Charity, Loyalty, is the motto 'neath which 
 
 they train 
 Their object to care for the helpless, an' banish 
 
 sorrow an' pain 
 From the homes o' the widows an' orphans o' the boys 
 
 who have gone before, 
 To answer their name at roll-call, in God's Grand 
 
 Army Corps. 
 
 An' that 's why we wear these badges, the eagle 
 
 an' flag an' star, 
 Worn only by veteran heroes who fought in that 
 
 bloody war ; 
 
 81
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 An' that 's why my old eyes glisten while talking 
 
 about the fray, 
 An' that 's why I call men " comrade " when I meet 
 
 'em every day ; 
 An' that 's why I tell your grandma, " I 'm going 
 
 to post to-night," 
 For there 's where I meet the old boys who stood 
 
 with me in the fight. 
 And, my child, that 's why I 've taught you to love 
 
 an' revere these men 
 Who come here a-wearin' badges, to fight their 
 
 battles again. 
 
 For they are gallant heroes who stood 'mid shot 
 
 an' shell, 
 An* followed those flying colors right into the mouth 
 
 o'hell; 
 They are the men whose valor saved this land from 
 
 disgrace an' shame, 
 An' lifted her back in triumph to her perch on the 
 
 dome o' fame ; 
 An' as long as you live, my darling, till your lips 
 
 in death are mute, 
 When you see that badge on a bosom, take off your 
 
 hat an' salute ; 
 An' if any ol' vet should halt you, an' question why 
 
 you do, 
 
 82
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Just tell him you 've got a right to, for your grandad's 
 a comrade, too. 
 
 I 
 
 At the Mission Door 
 
 LITTLE newsboy, weeping, 
 
 stood 
 
 Outside the Waif's Retreat; 
 A shaggy dog, his only friend, 
 
 Was crouching at his feet 
 With attitude of perfect trust, 
 
 And tender, lovelit eye. 
 I saw the boy bend over him 
 With tear- wet cheek and sigh. 
 
 I asked him why those bitter tears ; 
 
 He turned away his head, 
 And answered: "Dere 's me only frien' 
 
 Since dad and mam is dead. 
 An' dose folks in de Mission say 
 
 Dat Tip he can't come in ; 
 Dat lovin' of a dog like dis 
 
 Ain't notin' but a sin. 
 
 83
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 " Well, boss, I don't know notin' much, 
 
 But say, when mudder died 
 Tip foun' me at her grave at night, 
 
 An' laid down by me side ; 
 An' when I cried dere all alone 
 
 His head was on me knee, 
 An' sometin' in his eyes jes' said 
 
 He 'd be a frien' to me. 
 
 " Now, boss, you look into dem eyes, 
 
 An' say if he can't speak. 
 I tells yer, Tip 's a gentleman, 
 
 If he ain't nice and sleek. 
 He don't snap like no low-down cur, 
 
 His ways is high an' fine ; 
 An' when I t'ink how good he is 
 
 I *m mighty proud he 's mine." 
 
 Tip seemed to feel his master's praise, 
 
 He looked so very wise, 
 As though some sad, imprisoned soul 
 
 Were shining through his eyes. 
 I took the boy's brown hand in mine 
 
 And wiped his tears away ; 
 I told him that no nobler friend 
 
 Had man on earth to-day. 
 
 84
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Both boy and dog crept to my heart, 
 
 And they have now become 
 The sunshine on my cheerless hearth 
 
 The blessings of my home. 
 And all that I shall ask of Him 
 
 Who keeps the heavenly log 
 May I be worthy that boy's love, 
 
 The friendship of his dog. 
 
 Thar' Was Jim 
 
 ILDEST boy in all the 
 
 village, 
 Up to every wicked lark, 
 Happy at a chance to pillage 
 Melon patches in the dark. 
 Seemed a 'tarnal mischief breeder, 
 
 Fur in every wicked whim, 
 Put your hand upon the leader 
 Thar' was Jim. 
 
 He war' eighteen when the summons 
 Come for Union volunteers, 
 
 An' the fifin's an' the drummin's 
 An' the patriotic cheers, 
 
 85
 
 THE BRONCHO B O O K 
 
 Made us with excitement dance, Sir 
 Even old men, staid and prim ; 
 
 An' among the fust to answer, 
 Thar' was Jim. 
 
 One day when Gin'ral wanted 
 
 Volunteers to charge a place fc 
 Whar' the rebel banners flaunted 
 
 Imperdently in our face, 
 Seemed as though the cannons' bellers 
 
 Had no skeerishness for him, 
 Fur among the foremost fellers, 
 
 Thar' was Jim. 
 
 How we cheered 'em at the startin' 
 
 On that fearful charge they made. 
 Fur it seemed that death was sartin 
 
 In that fiery ambuscade. 
 Once the smoke riz up a-showin' 
 
 Them as up the hill they clim', 
 An' ahead, an' still a-goin', 
 
 Thar' was Jim. 
 
 Git thar'? Wai, yer jest a-screamin', 
 Nothin' could have stopped them men, 
 
 Each one seemed a howlin' demon 
 Chargin' on a fiery pen. 
 
 86
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Purty tough w'en next I found him, 
 Fur with face all black an' grim, 
 
 Dead, with dead men all around him, 
 Thar' was Jim. 
 
 Friend o' mine? I reckon, sorter- 
 Met him fust one winter night 
 
 Lord! but wan't that storm a snorter 
 W'en I went fur Doctor White I 
 
 W'en I heard my wife a-pleadin' 
 Me to come an' look at him, 
 
 Lyin' in her arms a-feedin', 
 Thar' was Jim. 
 
 " 
 fit 
 
 The Heavenly Telephone 
 
 HEN baby Bess knelt at my knee to say 
 
 her evening prayer, 
 She cutely asked me if it went by telephone 
 
 up there. 
 And wondered why the Master did n't answer right 
 
 away 
 
 Just as her papa answered from the office every day. 
 Next morn I found her at the 'phone, tiptoeing 
 on a chair 
 
 87
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 And crying, " Hello, Central," with such a roguish 
 
 air. 
 She said, " Now, mama, go away ; this talk is all 
 
 my own. 
 I want to ask Dod if he hears the pares I telephone." 
 
 In one short week our baby lay upon her dying bed, 
 And ev'ry heart seemed breaking, as in feeble tones 
 
 she said, 
 " I 'm going up to Heaven, where the little angels 
 
 play, 
 
 And I will be an angel, too, if I can find the way ; 
 But, mama, dear, I 'm 'fraid I '11 be so lonesome 
 
 when I go, 
 Because I ain't acquainted with a soul up there, 
 
 you know; 
 But if you '11 kneel down by my bed, I '11 try real hard 
 
 to wait 
 Until you telephone to God to meet me at the gate." 
 
 The baby's wished-for message from a bleeding heart 
 
 was sent, 
 And then her spotless spirit to the heavenly mansions 
 
 went, 
 There at the pearly gates I know the loving 
 
 Master stood 
 To welcome her with gentle smile as she so hoped 
 
 He would. 
 
 88
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Her prattling voice forever will be lingering in my ear, 
 And when I miss her toddling step, and all seems dark 
 
 and drear, 
 I seek the quiet churchyard, where we laid her 'neath 
 
 the sod, 
 And kneeling by her little grave, I " telephone " 
 
 to God. 
 
 Hello, Central 
 
 XT was Christmas eve and Central heard a 
 robust voice exclaim : 
 " What 's the reason I can't get her? Please, 
 
 oh, please do try again. 
 Thanks ; you 're awful kind. Oh, how I want to hear 
 
 her voice once more 
 As I heard it in the garden, in the glad old days of yore. 
 
 Hello, Central ! Hello, Central ! Hell o ! yes, yes, 
 
 if you please. 
 No, I have n't got her yet my ! it 's cold enough 
 
 to freeze! 
 Out in country? Yes, I know it. Send a cab to bring 
 
 her in? 
 
 I must talk to her God bless her Don't you dare 
 to wink and grin. 
 
 89
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Have n't seen her for a year, Sir. Oh, I want to hear 
 
 her voice 
 And the music of her laughter won't her waiting 
 
 heart rejoice, 
 When she knows that I 'm returning, that I 've kept 
 
 the vow I swore 
 To be true and brave and sober! See, this is the ring 
 
 she wore ; 
 And she placed it on my finger, while the tears 
 
 ran down her cheek, 
 As she said : ' Good bye, God bless you ; trust in Him, 
 
 for flesh is weak.' 
 And the brilliant gems that sparkled from the casket 
 
 of her soul 
 Lit the pathway of temptation kept me ever 
 
 in control; 
 And I saw those shining glories in the twinkle 
 
 of the stars, 
 In the dew-drops on the daisies, in the blood of battle 
 
 scars. 
 And in dreams I saw her standing, as I seem to see 
 
 her now, 
 In the garden where we parted with a halo 
 
 on her brow, 
 And Hello ! What 's that? Yes, dearest. This is Tommy 
 
 at the 'phone. 
 Are you well, dear heart? And happy? Darling, 
 
 I am coming home ! 
 
 90
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Yes, to-morrow I shall see'you with a world of love 
 
 and cheer, 
 Dearest, sweetest, earthly angel Good night 
 
 darling, Mother dear." 
 
 Sister 
 A Wartime Story 
 
 HE bore a cross on the sunniest face 
 I have ever seen. There seemed no trace 
 Of sorrow or sadness upon her brow. 
 In her sable garments I see her now 
 As she stood by my cot, when a soldier boy, 
 And brought to the wounded a gleam of joy. 
 
 I was thinking of mother one cloudy day, 
 When she took my hand in a motherly way, 
 And it seemed so easy for her to smile 
 As she smoothed my pillow so tender the while 
 And said, a tear and a smile on her face, 
 "Let me sit for a moment in mother's place. ' * 
 
 91
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Her soft hand touched my aching head ; 
 It seemed but an instant all pain had fled. 
 And as I closed my eyes she wept. 
 Her cross seemed heavier while I slept, 
 For none were there to mark the change 
 Which made her face so sadly strange. 
 
 But when I awoke, I found her there 
 With smile as sweet and free from care. 
 Whatever secret, pain or woe, 
 Her own brave heart was doomed to know, 
 None marred the sunshine spread for me 
 By that sweet Sister of Charity. 
 
 Bronte 
 A Bit of Dogral 
 
 rHEY say I am a tricky dog. 
 Not so 
 I think, I reason, else how can I 
 
 know 
 What those who love and feed me think 
 
 about? 
 If you are honest I will bark it out. 
 
 92
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Taught first by love and kindness to obey, 
 Instinct and reason then began to play, 
 And when I heard "to be or not to be," 
 I wondered if there was a heaven for me. 
 
 Have you a soul? Then look into rny eyes 
 And see reflected there without disguise 
 The purest love that soul has ever given, 
 And if for dogs like me there is no heaven, 
 Then woe is me, alas, alas, alack, 
 God pity Master Will and CAPT. JACK. 
 
 The Shadow of a Curse 
 
 XSAW it first when roses bloomed 
 Upon the cheek pressed close to mine ; 
 When in her arms I laughed and 
 
 crooned, 
 
 And I, a bit of God's sunshine, 
 Was sent to seal her woman's love- 
 To bind her closer to her fate. 
 No trusting, cooing turtle-dove 
 Was ever truer to her mate, 
 
 93
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 I saw it as a toddling child, 
 
 Nor knew the cause of mother's tears, 
 Till later reckless though, and wild, 
 
 I shared in all her hopes and fears. 
 I saw it snatch the crust of bread 
 
 From lips of starving child, and then 
 I saw it lay its victims dead, 
 
 In home and church and prison pen. 
 
 I saw it in the humble cot 
 
 Amid the towering pines afar ; 
 I saw it in degraded sot, 
 
 A libel foul of what we are. 
 And stalking through the busy marts 
 
 Of towns and cities every day, 
 You '11 find it breaking tender hearts 
 
 And dooming manhood to decay. 
 
 You '11 see it drive away the blush 
 
 That steals, a halo, to the cheek, 
 And in its stead a burning flush 
 
 Will change, with shame, the pure and 
 
 meek. 
 It comes in spite of woman's tears, 
 
 In spite of mother's strong appeals, 
 And hearts, deep sorrowing for years, 
 
 Are crushed 'neath its relentless wheels. 
 
 94
 
 THE B RONCHO BOOK 
 
 It comes to murder innocence 
 
 To torture ere the final blow- 
 To hold its victims in suspense, 
 
 While knowing death is sure, though slow. 
 And while misleading mother's boys, 
 
 With painted sirens for a bait 
 Poor fool ! he plays with the decoys, 
 
 And pays the cost, alas ! too late. 
 
 It comes to dig a million graves 
 
 Of noblest men God ever made. 
 Great hearts and brains are quickest slaves, 
 
 And easiest started down the grade. 
 Of all the plagues that ever spread, 
 
 And all the instruments to slay, 
 None ever claimed so many dead 
 
 As Demon Drink can claim to-day. 
 
 And yet, if people would but think 
 
 Of all the bitterness and woe 
 That come from the foul fountain's brink 
 
 With aching hearts and heads bowed low, 
 They would suppress this crying curse, 
 
 And make our country grandly free, 
 Increasing wealth of brain and purse, 
 
 And truly give us liberty. 
 
 95
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 A Message from the Dead 
 
 were playmates. 
 Little Tommy 
 Was the sweetest, 
 
 brightest boy 
 I had ever known, the object 
 
 Of his mother's pride and joy. 
 I had oft heard people saying, 
 
 "He will make his mark some day; " 
 But I saw that mother praying 
 When they led her son astray. 
 
 I remember oh how vivid 
 
 Comes the picture that I saw 
 When I found my comrade, Tommy, 
 
 In the clutches of the law ; 
 And a broken-hearted mother 
 
 With a dry and anguished eye 
 Kissed her darling boy at parting 
 
 When she left him but to die. 
 
 Cigarettes they were the starter, 
 Then dime-novels with their curse ; 
 
 Then 't was wine and wicked women 
 Leading Tom from bad to worse, 
 
 96
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Till at last he died in prison 
 
 In a felon's narrow cell, 
 And he bade me give the warning 
 
 Of the road that leads to Hell. 
 
 Boys, I wish that I could tell you 
 
 While the tears are in my eyes, 
 When my soul is irrigated, 
 
 Of the false pretense and lies 
 That are told by men you worship 
 
 In your honest innocence. 
 And the papers help to boom them 
 
 In their vicious, false pretense. 
 
 This is just a simple story, 
 
 But, so help me God, 't is true ; 
 And my dying comrade, Tommy, 
 
 Bade me tell it straight to you. 
 Will you heed this honest warning 
 
 When to-night you go to bed? 
 Think it over and remember 
 
 It 's a message from the dead. 
 
 I 
 
 97
 
 THE B R O NCHO BOOK 
 Mother's Prayers 
 
 Written under a pine tree in the Black Hills 
 in June, 1876 
 
 KN the dreary hours of midnight, 
 When the camp 's asleep and still, 
 Not a sound save rippling streamlets, 
 Or the voice of Whippoorwill, 
 Then I think of dear, loved faces, 
 
 As I steal around my beat 
 Think of other scenes and places, 
 And a mother's voice so sweet. 
 
 Mother, who in days of childhood, 
 
 Prayed as only mothers pray : 
 "Guard his footsteps in the wild- wood, 
 
 Let him not be led astray!" 
 And when danger hovered o'er me, 
 
 When my life was full of cares, 
 Then a sweet form passed before me, 
 
 And I thought of mother's prayers. 
 
 Mother's prayers! Ah! sacred memory, 
 I can hear her sweet voice now, 
 
 As upon her death-bed lying, 
 With her hand upon my brow, 
 
 98
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Calling on a Savior's blessing, 
 
 Ere she climbed the Golden Stairs. 
 
 There 's a sting in all transgressing, 
 When I think of mother's prayers. 
 
 And I made her one dear promise 
 
 Thank the Lord, I 've kept it, too ; 
 Yes, I promised God and mother 
 
 To the Pledge I would be true. 
 Though a hundred times the tempter 
 
 Every day throws out his snares, 
 I can boldly answer, "No, Sir!" 
 
 When I think of mother's prayers. 
 
 And while here I tell the story 
 
 Why my boyhood's days were sad, 
 Is there not some boy before me 
 
 Who will make a mother glad? 
 Swell her heart with fond emotion, 
 
 Drive away life's bitter cares, 
 Sign and keep the Pledge for mother 
 
 Heed, oh, heed her earnest prayers ! 
 
 Oh, my brother, do not drink it, 
 Think of all your mother said ; 
 
 While upon her death-bed lying 
 Or perhaps she is not dead ; 
 
 99
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 < 
 Don 't you kill her, then, I pray you, 
 
 She has quite enough of cares ; 
 Sign the Pledge, and God will help you 
 If you '11 think of mother's prayers. 
 
 A Plea to the Boys 
 
 Y most sincere and earnest 
 
 prayer, 
 
 Is not for wealth or fame 
 And yet my castles in the air 
 
 Keep growing, just the same. 
 And if at times I sigh for wealth 
 
 I say it frank and true 
 I want not riches for myself, 
 But for the good 't will do ! 
 
 And what I want to do and do 
 
 When fortune favors me, 
 Is just to find a boy or two 
 
 And tell them earnestly, 
 Impressed with all sincerity, 
 
 Which boys can understand 
 Recount with all austerity 
 
 The truth at my command. 
 100
 
 THE B R O N C H O BOO K 
 
 I like to talk to reckless boys, 
 
 The black sheep and the rest, 
 About the sorrows and the joys 
 
 Of roughing it out West. 
 And how a thousand boys or more 
 
 On false, dime-novel trails, 
 Who ran away in days of yore, 
 
 Are now in Western jails. 
 
 Oh, if the boys will only heed 
 
 The truth, that I know best, 
 I 'm sure they never more would read 
 
 Those nightmares of the West. 
 And all the long-haired scouts who claim 
 
 They took scalps by the score 
 Have lied they only gained their fame 
 
 As showmen, nothing more. 
 
 Suppose you found a rattlesnake 
 
 Coiled up beside his nest; 
 You would n't pick him up and take 
 
 His snakeship to your breast? 
 Well, boys, the man who signs his name 
 
 To stories such as these, 
 Will strike and sting you just the same. 
 
 Don't read such nonsense, please. 
 101
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 And so, dear boys, my daily prayer 
 
 Is not for wealth or fame ; 
 But I have had to do and dare 
 
 A lot, in honor's name. 
 And all I ask is for a chance 
 
 To prove this lesson true, 
 My broncho soul will be a-dance 
 
 When I can talk to you. 
 
 Some day I mean to organize 
 
 A Juvenile Crusade, 
 With honest hearts and sunlit eyes, 
 
 "Determined, unafraid," 
 To march to Washington en mass, 
 
 And there unmask the fakes 
 To pray our law-makers to pass 
 
 An act to kill the snakes. 
 
 In Donegal 
 
 [, would that I again a boy could be, 
 Roaming barefooted by the Irish Sea ; 
 My world so small, 
 
 Watching the flocks that grazed beyond the shore, 
 Wrapped in the cast-off coat my father wore, 
 
 In Donegal. 
 102
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 I see myself, bareheaded in the breeze, 
 Wading the shoals, salt water to my knees. 
 
 The sea-gulls call 
 
 In wake of passing ships that greeted me, 
 En route to God's sweet land of liberty, 
 
 From Donegal. 
 
 Then comes a loved vision on the strand 
 A blue -eyed Irish lass who took my hand 
 
 In hers so small, 
 
 And said to me, in accents sweet and low, 
 "You'll ne'er forget the girl that loved you so, 
 
 In Donegal. " 
 
 Oh, sweet and holy love of ten years old, 
 Mary of Donegal with hair of gold, 
 
 With rippling fall. 
 
 "Good bye, God bless you, little playmate, Jack. 
 You won't forget some day you will come back 
 
 To Donegal ! " 
 
 Years passed again I found me on the strand, 
 And I was just a boy once more unmanned, 
 
 Bare feet and all; 
 I sighted for Mary as in days of yore, 
 But whispering waves made answer, 
 "Nevermore!" 
 
 In Donegal. 
 
 103
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Molly 
 
 H, Molly, dear Molly, 
 I 'm feelin* quite jolly, 
 Your dear little, sweet little letter to me 
 Has only just reached me: 
 Once more you've beseeched me 
 To come back to Erin, dear Molly, and thee. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Oh, Molly, darlin* blue-eyed Molly, 
 
 I 'm happy as an Irish lad can be ; 
 
 Sure it 's money that I 'm makin', 
 An' the steamer soon I 'm takjn', 
 
 Dear Molly, I am comin' back to thee. 
 
 Dear Molly, I 'm merry 
 
 With thoughts of old Derry, 
 An' up on the wall a fair picture I see : 
 
 That night when we parted 
 
 You made me light-hearted 
 You said you'd be waitin' an' watchin' for me. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Oh, Molly, darlin' blue-eyed Molly, 
 I *m happy as an Irish lad can be ; 
 
 104
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Sure it 's money that I 'm makin', 
 An' the steamer soon I 'm takin', 
 Dear Molly, I am comin' back to thee. 
 
 God bless the old mother, 
 
 On earth there's no other 
 Whose prayers I can feel and whose tears I can see. 
 
 Such love none can measure 
 
 Our mother, our treasure 
 Will always be happy with Molly an' me. 
 
 Last Chorus 
 
 Look for me, darlin' faithful Molly ; 
 
 The ship will soon be sailin', love, with me. 
 An' the money that I 'm bringin' 
 Sure will keep the kittle singin' 
 
 For mother, Jack an' Molly 'cross the sea. 
 
 105
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 The Irish Lover 
 
 MLEFT a little colleen in the isle beyond the sea 
 A pretty blue-eyed maiden, who is all in all 
 
 to me. 
 
 And as her tears were fallin', across the waters callin', 
 She said, "Oh don't forget your other heart is waitin'." 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Sure you're a part of me, Rosie, sweetheart of me, 
 Rosie the pride of me, bride of me heart ; 
 
 I will be true for you, what won't I do for you, 
 Never, oh, never again shall we part. 
 
 Her letter I 've been readin' an' it 's blurred across 
 
 with tears. 
 "Sure, Teddy dear, it seems as if you're gone a dozen 
 
 years. 
 
 But don't ye be uneasy for I have n't any fears ; 
 You won't forget your other heart is waitin'. " 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Sure you 're a part of me, Rosie, sweetheart of me, 
 Rosie the pride of me, bride of me heart. 
 
 I will be true for you, what won't I do for you, 
 Never, oh, never again shall we part. 
 
 106
 
 THE BRON-CHO BOOK 
 
 The ship will soon be sailin', an* I 'm comin' back, 
 
 ashore. 
 I 'm comin' with your passage an' I 've got a good 
 
 dale more ; 
 I 've got a pretty cottage, an* there 's room enough 
 
 for four, 
 So darlin', I won't keep ye longer waitin'. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Sure I have two hearts, they're both of them true hearts, 
 
 One is me own and the other is yours ; 
 I know mine is lovin' ye, sure yours is lovin' me 
 
 An' drawin' me back to old Erin's green shores. 
 
 A Tribute to Father Judge 
 
 HRIST died for men and so 
 
 did he 
 The sweetest soul I ever knew, 
 And when he grasped the hand of me, 
 
 His honest laughing eyes of blue 
 Dispelled the clouds from out my sky, 
 And warmed the chill from off my heart ; 
 And when it comes my time to die 
 I pray we won't be far apart. 
 
 107
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 But if there is a gulf between 
 
 The Father and the wayward stray, 
 His love will tell what might have been, 
 
 And Christ will open up the way. 
 And true as there 's a God above 
 
 I know with all my heart and soul 
 That all who suffer for the love 
 
 Of truth, will reach the heavenly goal. 
 
 Not for a creed or circumstance 
 
 Would he a helping hand refuse ; 
 Nor pomp, nor power, nor great finance 
 
 Could change his broad and noble views. 
 He saw his duty. Who can tell 
 
 How much we loved him in the West? 
 But He, who doeth all things well, 
 
 To his tired soul had whispered, "Rest." 
 
 When last I gazed into his face 
 
 His dear, dead face, so truly kind, 
 A halo seemed to light the place, 
 
 For God had left the smile behind. 
 And hardy miners bowed their heads 
 
 And felons wiped a tear away, 
 And fever patients in their beds 
 
 Were conscious of a loss that day. 
 
 108
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 God's martyr His adopted son 
 
 He died, dear friends, for you and me ; 
 He surely died as Christ had done 
 
 In love, in truth, in poverty. 
 I crave not wealth nor care for fame, 
 
 Nor wealth nor fame do I begrudge, 
 But, Lord, permit me once again 
 
 To clasp the hand of Father Judge. 
 
 When Ben King Died 
 
 ^fc* ROM out the sunny, flowery South 
 
 The fateful message swiftly sped, 
 And quickly flew from mouth to mouth 
 In trembling tones, "Ben King is dead!" 
 As thunder from the clearest sky 
 
 It came, and no one tried to hide 
 The tears which trembled in each eye 
 When Ben King died. 
 
 His last soft-spoken, low farewell 
 
 Yet echoing lingered in our ears, 
 When came the wire-flashed words to tell 
 
 The story of his death, and tears 
 
 109
 
 THE B R O N C HOB O O K 
 
 Welled up in eyes unused to weep, 
 
 As spray from love's soft-rolling tide, 
 For one we loved sank into sleep 
 When Ben King died. 
 
 Just stepping forth with timid feet 
 Into the flowery paths of fame, 
 
 Just tasting of the waters sweet 
 
 Which from the living fountains came, 
 
 When plashings of the boatman's oar 
 Came softly o'er the mystic tide 
 
 A gentle spirit left the shore 
 When Ben King died. 
 
 Full many a face grown sad with pain, 
 Full many a heart grown tired of earth 
 
 Glowed with the light of hope again 
 Beneath the flashings of his mirth. 
 
 The homely rhymes he held so dear, 
 The music-freaks which were his pride 
 
 Again came to us, quaint and queer, 
 When Ben King died. 
 
 How sweet the one consoling thought 
 That when the summons came to Ben 
 
 His passing over was not fraught 
 With pangs of misery and pain, 
 no
 
 H E BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 An angel came with soothing hand 
 
 And brushed the pains of death aside, 
 And led the soul to Spiritland 
 When Ben King died. 
 
 No trusting babe by tender hand 
 Clasped to a loving mother's breast 
 
 E'er sought the shores of Slumberland 
 More sweetly than he sank to rest. 
 
 No pain-clouds hung above his bier, 
 No suffering his spirit tried, 
 
 No fiend of torture hovered near 
 When Ben King died. 
 
 But in the peaceful calm of night, 
 When beacon stars hung in the sky, 
 
 His gentle spirit plumed its flight 
 To realms of endless bliss on high. 
 
 No anguished cries or sobs subdued 
 From stricken hearts anear his side, 
 
 But all was peace and quietude 
 When Ben King died. 
 
 If it should be that clouds of care 
 At times o'ershadow souls in heaven, 
 
 And if 'neath mirth's heart-warming glare 
 The woe from stricken hearts is driven 
 
 If humor there can banish pain, 
 And sweep the mists of grief aside, 
 111
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Then our deep loss was heaven's gain 
 When Ben King died. 
 
 I 
 
 Jane 
 
 >OME, mother, put your knittin' down; you've 
 
 done enough to-night; 
 It is n't good for them old eyes to work 
 
 by candlelight. 
 
 They ain't as flashy as they was some thirty years ago 
 When at the old red meetin' house I first became 
 
 your beau. 
 
 The big pertracted meetin' was a-runnin' at the time, 
 An' Preacher Giles' sermons jist a-makin' sinners 
 
 climb ; 
 The mourners' benches would n't hold the crowds 
 
 that forward went 
 
 To seek salvation from the Lord and o'er their sins 
 lament. 
 
 Up in the "amen corner" you would always take 
 
 your seat, 
 
 An' jine in with the singin' in a voice so master sweet 
 That of 'entimes I 've shet my eyes, and half imagined 
 
 you 
 
 War act'ally an angel sent to help the meetin' through 
 
 112
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 I vum, but how "Amazin* Grace" a-rollin' 
 
 from your lips 
 Would make me feel like I war 'witched, cl'ar 
 
 to the finger-tips. 
 An' "Sinner Turn, Why Will Ye Die," you sung 
 
 so feelin'ly, 
 I swow it made me think you sung especially at me. 
 
 I reckon for a dozen nights I sot back near the door, 
 An' when the benediction come, I 'd sweat from every 
 
 pore 
 
 Because I had detarmined fur to offer you my arm, 
 An' ax if I might see you home, acrost your father's 
 
 farm; 
 But when I 'd take my place in line outside the little 
 
 church, 
 An' see you comin' through the door, my heart 'd 
 
 give a lurch, 
 An' thar' I'd stand dumb as a fool, an' swaller 
 
 at the chokes, 
 Till you war half-way down the lane along with all 
 
 your folks. 
 
 I swan to goodness, mother, if it does n't make me 
 
 laugh 
 To think o' me a-standin' thar', a great big bashful 
 
 calf, 
 
 113
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Without a spark o' courage fur to make a move, 
 
 although 
 I did n't think you 'd sack me, fur you had no other 
 
 beau. 
 
 But one night, I remember, I war sittin' in the rear, 
 When Cyrus Hawkins nudged my arm, an' whispered 
 
 in my ear, 
 " Jist watch me w'en the meetin 's out an' you will see 
 
 a sight 
 I 'm goin' to ax Jane Hall if I can beau her home 
 
 to-night. " 
 
 Jemina crickets ! but them words jist cut me like a dart, 
 An' it war all that I could do to swaller down my heart ; 
 An' then an' there I silent vowed that I would be a lout 
 To let that slouchy, freckled fool step in an' cut me out. 
 So when the old doxology were being sung, I crep' 
 Outside ahead of all the rest an' stood upon the step, 
 An' when I staggered up to you, a-wobblin' 
 
 in the knees, 
 You tuk my arm an' off we went as cosy as you please. 
 
 Do you remember, mother, how I never spoke a word 
 Till we war nearly half-way home? I swow it was 
 
 absurd 
 
 But then I 'd never had a gal hitched to me that-a-way, 
 And I '11 be blest if I could think of anything to say. 
 
 114
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 'T war you as broke the solitude, an' tried to start 
 the talk, 
 
 Observin' 't war a lovely night, an' splendid fur a walk, 
 
 An' if my memory sarves me right my 'tarnal bashful- 
 ness 
 
 Condensed my answer to a sort o' whispered, half- 
 skeered "Yes." 
 
 Well, mother, 't war a funny start, but bless the Lord 
 
 above, 
 
 It ended in a double case of unresistful love 
 When we got more acquainted I expect I talked as good 
 As any love-sick country boy in our whole neighbor 
 hood. 
 
 An' arter the revival broke I did n't stand no more 
 An' wait fur you, proud as a king, outside the church's 
 
 door; 
 
 But then that did n't break us off, not by a plagey sight 
 Because I went a-courtin' you most every Sunday night. 
 
 An', mother, do you mind that blessed day in early 
 
 Spring, 
 When the bees begun to hum around an' birds begun 
 
 to sing? 
 
 I found you in the pastur' lot a milkin', an' I told 
 The story of the burnin' love that in my bosom rolled. 
 
 115
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Jee-whiz ! but how the milk did fly ; you squeezed 
 
 so 'tarnal hard 
 The heifer kicked the bucket nearly half acrost 
 
 the yard! 
 
 An' when I fetched it back agin an' tuk you by the hand, 
 Your look made me the happiest man in all this Yankee 
 
 land. 
 
 Fur thirty years we have jogged along the rugged road 
 
 of life, 
 
 An', mother, you have bin to me a true and noble wife 
 Our old revival meetin' love haint flickered out a bit, 
 An' though we 're gettin' old an' gray, we 're them 
 
 same lovers yit. 
 Your kisses now are just as sweet, an' full of heavenly 
 
 dew, 
 As them you give me at the gate when I war courtin' 
 
 you; 
 
 An* we will still be lovers when I clasp you to my breast, 
 "Whar' the wicked cease from troublin', an' the weary 
 
 are at rest." 
 
 116
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 The True Story of Marching Through Georgia 
 
 never found a chicken that could roost out 
 
 of our reach, 
 We seldom had a chaplain that could find 
 the time to preach. 
 
 We never saw a soldier pass a shirt hung out to bleach, 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 Oh, how we used to toil along right through the swamps 
 
 and bogs, 
 
 And how the ladies blushed at our dilapidated togs. 
 And how we showed our bravery assassinating hogs, 
 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 When charging on a chicken roost, the rebel girls cried 
 
 "Shame!" 
 And said our actions would disgrace the soldiers' 
 
 honored name. 
 They came at us with clubs and dogs, but we got there 
 
 just the same, 
 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 When coming in from foraging sometimes we would 
 
 get caught, 
 The colonel then would paw the ground and swear 
 
 he 'd have us shot, 
 
 117
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 And then he 'd eye our captured fowls and fine us half 
 we got, 
 As we went marching through Georgia. 
 
 When ordered up some earthwork, or some battery 
 
 to take, 
 I 've seen some heavy charges, that caused the earth 
 
 to quake, 
 They were nothing to the charges the sutlers used 
 
 to make, 
 
 As we were marching through Georgia. 
 
 I 
 
 A Modest Man 
 
 'M a mild and modest man, I am, indeed, 
 And they tell me that I never will succeed. 
 So I thought I 'd have a try 
 And find out the reason why, 
 I could never hit a pay-streak or a lead. 
 
 Well, I went to New York City on a trip, 
 I had always thought that I was pretty flip. 
 It looked to me quite flow 'ry 
 This good thing on the Bow 'ry, 
 But I lost a hundred dollars at a clip. 
 
 118
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Then I went to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, 
 With a million-dollar mine I had to sell. 
 Showed the gold sand in a rocker 
 The sharks they tried to stock her, 
 But I winked the other eye and thought a spell. 
 
 For that mine was worth a million, don't you see, 
 And quite suddenly the thought occured to me, 
 
 It's only worth a million 
 
 They'd stock it for a billion 
 Then a nigger 's somewhere hidden in the tree. 
 
 So I pulled my freight and struck the western trail 
 And to-day that big bonanza ain't for sale. 
 
 I've found a little money 
 
 I 'm combing up the honey, 
 And the crocodiles and sharks can go to jail. 
 
 119
 
 THE BRONCHO BOO* 
 
 The Reporter 
 
 ON'T turn him down don't scare 
 
 and fret, 
 But greet him with a shake 
 
 and smile; 
 
 And if you 're proper stuff, you '11 get 
 What's coming to you, and you bet 
 He'll do you justice all the while. 
 
 But if you're tough though debonair 
 And dainty in your style of dress 
 And if you meet him with a glare, 
 And undertake to shed some swear, 
 
 And say you've nothing to confess 
 
 Well, say! he'll skin you every clip, 
 
 And smooth you down as slick as wax ; 
 
 And with his oily, practised lip, 
 
 He'll surely get you on the hip, 
 And on you grind his little axe ! 
 
 But if you'll only reason right: 
 
 Perhaps he wants to make a scoop, 
 
 And you can help him in his flight 
 
 He needs more tail to fly his kite, 
 
 Why, get in with him loop the loop! 
 120
 
 HE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Just give it to him, right offhand, 
 
 Because he 's bound to get it see? 
 The whole world is his grand stand 
 He won't be left nor balked nor fanned 
 By tenderfoot like you or me. 
 
 And thus you find him every day, 
 
 With bulldog grit and lots of gall ; 
 And when he comes, he comes to stay, 
 And every shot's a grand-stand play; 
 "Don't chew the rag play ball!" 
 
 A Memory 
 When Bill Nye come to Higginsport 
 
 1|^| AP read it in the Weekly Spear 
 
 To all us folks not long ago, 
 'At ol' Bill Nye was comin' here 
 To give his great unequalled show ; 
 An' then he sort o' laffed an' said 
 
 'At folks 'd git their money's worth, 
 Fur he would bet his bottom red 
 It was the greatest show on earth. 
 121
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Then all us boys just buckled down 
 
 To make enough to take us in, 
 A-doin' chores around the town 
 
 By jinks, we worked like mortal sin 
 A-choppin' wood an' shovelin' snow, 
 
 An' doin' jobs of every sort, 
 Fur we was bound to see the show 
 
 When Bill Nye come to Higginsport. 
 
 Pap said he was the queerest cuss 
 
 'At ever breathed the atmosphere, 
 An' showed his photygraf to us, 
 
 Tuk just a purpose fur the Spear. 
 By jucks, we all jest laughed outright, 
 
 An' mam, she belt her sides an' squealed 
 On top his head was jest as white 
 
 As any 'tater ever peeled. 
 
 Pap said 'at Bill was in the war, 
 
 But never had to march a bit 
 They had 'im in the signal corps. 
 
 An' when they thought 't was time to quit 
 The fightin' fur a while, pap said, 
 
 They 'd fetch 'im out an' turn 'im loose, 
 An' when the rebels seed his head 
 
 They 'd know it was a flag o' truce. 
 122
 
 ;THE BRONCHO B o o K 
 
 Pap said 'at once a big cyclone 
 
 Come howlin* 'round where Bill was at, 
 An' he jest stood up on a stone 
 
 An' lifted up his ol' white hat. 
 The cyclone stopped an' fetched a yell, 
 
 Then had a awful laughin' fit, 
 An' somehow tuckered out until 
 
 It could n't blow another bit. 
 
 When pap an' mam an' sis an' me 
 
 Went down to Parker's Publick Hall, 
 I honest was afraid 'at we 
 
 Could never git inside at all. 
 It beat camp-meeting times the way 
 
 The folks was crowdin' at the door 
 I never seed a circus day 
 
 Wake up the town like that afore. 
 
 The folks inside was mighty nigh 
 
 Like sheep a-cuddlin' in the storm, 
 But I pushed through up close where I 
 
 Could see the funny cuss perform. 
 But goshamighty! wa'n't I sold 
 
 When Mister Nye come out to act, 
 Fur all the stories Pap had told 
 
 Were forty million miles from fact. 
 
 123
 
 He did n't wear show clothes at all, 
 
 He did n't dance, he did n't sing, 
 His doin's was n't what I 'd call 
 
 A public show at all, by jing ; 
 He had n't one dissolvin' view, 
 
 He did n't on the tight rope walk 
 I swear to gosh he did n't do 
 
 A 'tarnal thing but grin an' talk. 
 
 Dot Little Crippled Boy Vot Died 
 
 An old German Cobbler in the coal fields grieving over 
 the death of a little orphan cripple boy to whom he 
 became very much attached. 
 
 ^f DOND vas feelin* good von bit, 
 
 A great big lump vas in my neck, 
 Und ven I try to svaller it, 
 It seems yust like my heart would break ; 
 Sometimes my eyes vas like a spoud 
 
 Mit tears I somehow dond could hide, 
 Und I yust sit and fret aboud 
 Dot little cripple boy vot died. 
 
 124
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 He used to come my shoe-shop in 
 
 Und vatch me ven I drive dem pegs. 
 Und it yust make my heart ache ven 
 
 I see dem little crippled legs. 
 But he vas always schmilin' mit 
 
 Dem big blue eyes so open vide, 
 Und nefer mind dot pain von bit, 
 
 Dot little crippled boy vot died. 
 
 I tol' 'im Deutschland stories, und 
 
 He laugh yust like dem angel dings, 
 Vot mit der picture books go 'round 
 
 Up yonder mit der schnow vite vings ; 
 Und now my eyes vas all in schwim 
 
 Mit tear-drops dot I dond could hide, 
 Because I got some love mit him, 
 
 Dot little crippled boy vot died. 
 
 Some day he dond vould come, und den 
 
 I feel all ofer black mit blue. 
 Und sighs vould shake my bosom ven 
 
 I tried to cobble mit a shoe. 
 Den I vould go out by my door 
 
 Und look aboud mit efery side, 
 My old heart yust was achin' for 
 
 Dot little crippled boy vot died. 
 
 125
 
 THE B R O N C H O BOO H 
 
 Vun time he dond vas come for more 
 
 As most a veek I dond know vy 
 Und von day standin' mit my door 
 
 I see some funerals go by. 
 I ask von little bootblack who 
 
 In dot vite hearse vas took a ride; 
 Und he say, "Dutchy, dond you know 
 
 Dot little cripple boy vas died?" 
 
 It feeled yust like my heart vas sick, 
 
 Und nefer vant to beat some more. 
 I glose my shop up pooty quick, 
 
 Und hang some black stuff mit der door. 
 Und den I t'ink, "Some day I go 
 
 Mit angels by dot other side, 
 Und how den vas I goin' to. know 
 
 Dot little crippled boy vot died?" 
 
 Dose little legs vill all be straight 
 
 In dot bright land so far away, 
 Und ven I go in by der gate, 
 
 Vere all der little angels blay, 
 I vonder if I find him oud. 
 
 Maybe he run avay und hide ; 
 Veil I dond t'ink I shtay midoud 
 
 Dot little crippled boy vot died. 
 
 126
 
 r H E BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 The Mountain Boy's Letter 
 
 EAR Giner'l :- 
 
 I ain't no great schollar, 
 
 An' I never done nothin' to brag, 
 'Cept this, I was one of the outfit 
 
 As fought for our Star-Spangled Flag. 
 An' to-day, while yer toasted by schollars, 
 
 An' big guns as make a great noise, 
 Why, I thought it the square thing to write yer 
 An' clip in a word from the boys. 
 
 Cos, yer see, we ain't got the collat'r'l, 
 
 Nor the larnin' to dish it up right ; 
 But you '11 find should thar' be any trouble, 
 
 Our boys are still ready to fight. 
 As fur you, if they did n't corral yer, 
 
 You'd shake comrades' hands that you seed, 
 An' that 's why I wanted to tell yer 
 
 We '11 jest take the word fur the deed. 
 
 But y're back, and the men of all nations 
 War proud to do honor to you, 
 
 An' I reckon, Ulysses, yer told 'em, 
 Ye wor proud o' yer comrades in blue, 
 
 127
 
 THE BRONCHO BOO 
 
 For you, we are sure, of all others, 
 Remembered our boys in the ranks, 
 
 Who follered ye into the battle, 
 An' gallantly guarded the flanks. 
 
 So welcome, a thousand times, welcome; 
 
 Our land is ablaze with delight; 
 Our people give thanks for yer safety 
 
 Your comrades are happy to-night. 
 We know you are weary an' tuckered, 
 
 But seein' as you 're a newcomer, 
 You '11 Grant us one glance on this line, if 
 
 In reading, it takes yer all summer. 
 
 Heard in the Cane-Brake 
 
 0' de Lord, I 's gwine ter hustle, 
 
 I's a-pullin' fo' de shore, 
 Whar' de bridegroom am a-waitin' 
 Fo' to tote de shif 'less o'er ; 
 Whar' de weary am a-restin', 
 
 An' dar's sorrow never mo', 
 On de othah side ob Jordan in de mawnin'. 
 
 128
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Oh, dar ain't no automobiles 
 
 In de Hallelujah Lan', 
 Whar' Jehovah's golden chariot 
 
 Am a-rollin' through de san' ; 
 Whar' de bressed Lawd am waitin' 
 
 Fo' to take you by de han', 
 On de othah side ob Jordan in de mawnin'. 
 
 Hallelujah! fo' de streets ob gold, 
 
 Whar' night am lak' de day, 
 Hallelujah! fo' dem golden harps 
 
 On which dem angels play, 
 Hallelujah ! fo' de Lam' ob God 
 
 Dat wash mah sins away, 
 On de othah side ob Jordan in de mawnin'. 
 
 The Elk and His Mission 
 
 COME stately stepping, noble, grand 
 f And lordly Elk, and take command ; 
 
 For truly thou art king and head 
 Of every other quadruped 
 That ever stalked the forests wild, 
 Or roamed the plains from tide to tide. 
 A thousand thousand bear thy name, 
 Nor half so pure, nor near so tame 
 
 129
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 As thou, Oh Monarch of our land ! 
 And I, a broncho in the band, 
 Humble, but having followed you, 
 I would be honest, brave and true ; 
 With head erect and eyes aglow, 
 With that fraternal overflow 
 That comes to irrigate the soul 
 When Mother Nature has control. 
 I feel her touch, I catch the strain, 
 And I am with her once again. 
 
 Let 's take a faltering brother's hand, 
 And when he fails to understand 
 The blessings "sometimes in disguise" 
 The blanks that oft precede the prize, 
 That come to test his fitness for 
 Some mighty trust, some mission, or 
 Some greater struggle, when the test 
 Will rack the soul and spoil his rest ; 
 Ah ! then 's the time to take his hand 
 And try to make him understand. 
 
 And when at last he sees the light 
 Through gloomy caverns of the night, 
 And glints of gladness glorifies 
 The soul that 's peeping through his eyes, 
 Sometimes a word, a look, a smile, 
 Will tell you it was worth the while. 
 
 130
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 He sees the sunshine through the tears, 
 He laughs at all his fretful fears, 
 And thanks the great Exalted, who 
 Has made him brave and strong and true ; 
 And when his eyes are clear of mist, 
 He finds the rod that he has kissed 
 Upholding him, and points the way 
 To help some other wayward stray 
 Adrift upon the Sea of Sorrow 
 And points him to a brighter morrow. 
 
 Captain Jack's Tribute to Chicago 
 
 AY, Chicago, you're a daisy, 
 Openin' the people's eyes; 
 An' a-settin' of 'em crazy 
 With your 'tarnal enterprise. 
 Seems as though you're never snoozin', 
 
 Always in a rushin' stew ; 
 An' etarnally a-cruisin' 
 
 'Round fur somethin' else to do. 
 
 When a sea o' fire come creepin' 
 
 Like a tidal wave o' hell, 
 All your royal grandeur sweepin' 
 
 From the earth ; an' when the knell 
 
 131
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Of your death war still a-soundin' 
 Through the press the country 'round, 
 
 To the front you come a-boundin', 
 
 Somewhat scorched, but never downed. 
 
 You just looked upon the ruins 
 
 With a sort o' sickly smile ; 
 Swore a little at the doin's 
 
 0* the hungry flames; an' while 
 Banks o' smoke war' yit a-lurkin' 
 
 Whar' the fire had made its play, 
 You had architects a-workin' 
 
 On the city of to-day. 
 
 When you tried to make a dicker 
 
 For the great Columby Fair, 
 How some Eastern towns did snicker 
 
 At the gall you had, to dare 
 Fur to stake your bottom dollar 
 
 With them settin' in the game ; 
 But you let 'em whoop and holler, 
 
 An' you got thar', just the same. 
 
 An', by jinks ! you masticated 
 All the monstrous bite you tuk, 
 
 While your rivals stood an' waited 
 Fur to see you gittin' stuck. 
 
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 H E BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 Now they stand an' gaze in wonder, 
 Fur they're mightily perplexed; 
 
 An' they're axin', "What in thunder 
 Is she goin' to give us next?" 
 
 To the Daughter of General John B. Gordon 
 
 AIR daughter of a noble Sire, 
 
 I thank thee from my very soul; 
 And all I wish for or desire, 
 The height to which I would aspire, 
 Is where he signs God's muster roll. 
 
 For men are few who died like him 
 
 And men are few who lived so pure, 
 But they who try to follow him 
 With truth their motto, lamps all trim, 
 Will read their title clear, I 'm sure. 
 
 And yonder where eternal peace 
 
 And love shall reign forever more, 
 The man who said, "Let us have peace," 
 And he who said that, "War must cease," 
 Are comrades on the other shore. 
 
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 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 God! how I pity those who hate 
 
 The bravest of the blue and gray, 
 And fearlessly I dare to state 
 That such as they were always late 
 Or from the battle far away. 
 
 God bless the "reb" that shot me down, 
 
 The very thought rolls out a tear, 
 For such as he will wear a crown 
 While Hell will do the coward brown 
 Who did his righting in the rear. 
 
 Sweet daughter of my noble friend, 
 
 Among the "Yanks" in Hampshire's hills, 
 
 Besides the simple verses penned, 
 
 These honest sentiments I send 
 With no aristocratic frills. 
 
 Our Country, more than ever blessed, 
 Our Flag by North and South caressed, 
 One purpose that our love increase, 
 For Truth and everlasting Peace. 
 
 134
 
 'HE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 To One of God's Queens 
 Mrs. W. T. K. 
 
 HEN first I took your hand 
 
 in mine, 
 
 And looking in your eyes 
 to see, 
 
 A something there almost divine, 
 Was pictured in the soul of me ; 
 And as you whispered sweet and low, 
 "The boys will bless you and rejoice, 
 Because of love that you bestow," 
 I thought I heard my mother's voice. 
 
 And as the balmy days were spent, 
 
 In praise and prayer and soulful song, 
 My heart was full, and sweet content 
 
 Lit up my soul and made me strong ; 
 And when I saw upon your cheek, 
 
 A mirrored gem a-sparkle there, 
 I surely heard an angel speak, 
 
 And saw my mother's face so fair. 
 
 God bless you, dear, kind, gentle soul ! 
 
 If He should call you ere I go, 
 As through the Pearly Gates you stroll, 
 
 You '11 meet my mother there, I know ; 
 
 135
 
 THE BRONCHO BOO 
 
 And she will surely show you through 
 The Lord's domain, and give you joy, 
 
 Because of friendship pure and true 
 You gave to her wild wayward boy. 
 
 Old Glory 
 
 BEAUTIFUL emblem of Liberty's tree! 
 
 Star-Spangled Gem of the Land of the Free 
 
 1 love thee, Old Glory, with love that 's as tru 
 And as pure as the stars in thy heavenly blue. 
 There 's no flag like my flag ; there 's no flag like 
 
 thine, 
 
 patriots, countrymen, comrades of mine! 
 'T is kissed by God's breezes, by angels caressed, 
 Beloved by the North, by the South, East and West, 
 And each brilliant star shooting out when unfurled 
 Sends flashes of hope to the oppressed of the world. 
 
 136
 
 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 Woman's Influence 
 
 To Mrs. M. M. B. 
 
 EAR Friend, what a halo of sunshine and glory 
 Your womanly wisdom has wove in my soul. 
 With clear intuition you brought out my story, 
 And somehow my life seemed just then to unroll. 
 Thank God for the love-light that sometimes is given, 
 
 That opens the windows of glory to me ; 
 That gives to my peepers a glimmer of heaven 
 And pours oil of peace on a troublesome sea. 
 
 Thank God for the influence essence of sweetness 
 
 That reaches my soul with a carol and thrill ; 
 Thank God for the wonderful way, the completeness 
 
 In which He is guiding me over life's hill. 
 Oh, thank Him, ye men, for that moment of giving 
 
 A helpmate to guide your weak steps through 
 
 the world ; 
 For she makes every moment more worthy of living 
 
 And points to the flag of ENDEAVOR unfurled. 
 
 Thank God for the voices that whisper a blessing, 
 Though falter your feet over forbidden way, 
 
 That hold you and love you, while praying caressing, 
 And follow your pathway wherever it lay. 
 
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 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 So leaving our sorrows to heaven's adjusting, 
 Come stand on the plane where no tempter 
 
 can dope, 
 
 Where womanhood places us, loving and trusting 
 The up-turning, deep-winding highway 
 of Hope. 
 
 To My Winchester 
 
 WEETHEART of mine, 
 For years thy loyalty has proven true 
 As is the steel of which thou art 
 
 created ; 
 There are no fickle vanities in you, 
 
 Thy constancy might well be emulated 
 By beauteous sweetheart of a softer mold, 
 Whose eyes gleam love on every new 
 
 adorer, 
 
 Who bends the pliant knee to god of gold 
 And blesses every knight who bows 
 before her 
 
 At Cupid's shrine. 
 
 138
 
 HE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 My pretty pard, 
 
 As loyal helpmate thou hast ever stood 
 Facing with me the dangers placed be 
 fore us, 
 
 Faithful 'mid trying scenes of war and blood 
 As when the skies of peace shone 
 
 clearly o'er us ; 
 
 'Mid all the trying hours of olden days, 
 When peril threatened, thou hast never 
 
 failed me 
 Loyal wert thou in many deadly frays, 
 
 When painted foemen wickedly assailed me, 
 And pressed me hard. 
 
 Thou art not sweet 
 In disposition unto all, my dear ; 
 To some thou art most spiteful in thine 
 
 anger 
 
 Many have quailed in abject fright to hear 
 Thy ringing tones in war's resounding 
 
 clangor. 
 
 Although thy face may gleam with polished smiles, 
 Thou art a spitfire when the scene is 
 
 fitting, 
 
 And gone are all thy sweet coquettish wiles 
 When foes with mine their battle powers 
 are pitting 
 
 In war's mad heat. 
 
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 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 I love thee, dear, 
 And love of loyal man was never placed 
 
 Upon a more deserving, true companion, 
 In Western wanderings, when peril faced 
 Our daily life, on plain, in gloomy 
 
 canyon. 
 
 My trust in thee has never been betrayed, 
 True as thy tempered steel I've always 
 
 found thee, 
 
 In scenes of danger I was not afraid 
 Though savage foemen lurked in rocks 
 around me, 
 
 For thou wert near. 
 
 Come, dear one, fling 
 Thy moody silence off, and lift thy voice 
 In song as in the days now gone 
 
 forever ; 
 For all the dangers past let us rejoice, 
 
 I'll beat the time with thy quick-acting 
 
 lever. 
 Sing in thy wildest tones, let not a note 
 
 Be soft as note from tender woman, 
 Sing as thou didst when from thy fiery 
 throat 
 
 We hurled defiance at a foe inhuman. 
 Sing, sweetheart, sing! 
 
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 THE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 A Coming Together of Nature and Art 
 
 COMING together of Nature and Art 
 
 A flowing of souls, in which all had a part. 
 
 The twinkling stars that were clustered by you 
 The real, unconventional ring, that was true 
 As the stars that illumined the scene by their wit ; 
 While I, strange to say, was n't nervous a bit, 
 Just because Mother Nature was holding my hand 
 Dear old Mother Nature I well understand 
 The language she taught me, when rocked on her 
 
 breast 
 
 Where the deer has its home and the eagle its nest. 
 She touched me so gently that night with her fun, 
 That she sparkled with brilliants, while every one 
 Was imbued with the spirit of love and good cheer, 
 And it seemed that my own Rocky Mountains 
 
 were near, 
 
 With their echoes of gladness, the laughter of rills, 
 The songs of the birds and the sun-kissing hills, 
 The babble of brooks and the hum of the bees 
 That joined in the anthem, atune with the breeze ; 
 And my soul was atune with the gladsome refrain 
 As I felt Mother Nature embrace me again. 
 
 God speed the Club. May each brilliant aspire 
 
 To help struggling brothers and sisters up higher, 
 
 141
 
 THE B R O N C H O BOOK 
 
 To sprinkle with sunshine the tortuous trail, 
 
 To stand by for action in every gale, 
 
 To throw out the life-line when hope is deferred, 
 
 To strengthen and comfort and say a kind word 
 
 To genius uncultured, perhaps, and uncouth, 
 
 Unknown and unnoticed, neglected in youth, 
 
 Yet dying for knowledge Oh, stretch out a hand ! 
 
 For often the bashful were born to command 
 
 And Lincoln and Sherman, Grant, Chaffee and Banks 
 
 Were more unassuming than men in the ranks. 
 
 Yet it was accidents brought them to light, 
 
 And old Mother Nature who branded them right; 
 
 And to-day on the Bowery, in poverty's fangs, 
 
 Are Loomises, Johnsons and Zangwills and Bangs', 
 
 Dear little rough diamonds decidedly rough 
 
 Ask one and he'll tell you, "De Journal's de stuff," 
 
 And the hair-lifting drama, "Hully gee, ain't dat slick! 
 
 I kin copper de story it's only a nick." 
 
 And with soul all aglow and his heart on a tear, 
 
 He reads of fake heroes and lifting of hair. 
 
 And here is the field that I 'd lead, if I knew 
 
 That I could get some ammunition from you ; 
 
 Here is the field where your big guns could play, 
 On the heartstrings of genius and level the way 
 For a Christ-like revival, more glorious and grand 
 Than ever was won by the greatest command. 
 
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 HE BRONCHO BOOK 
 
 But pardon me, dear Mrs. President, please, 
 Perhaps you are not interested in these 
 Tough little outlaws ; but hear me, I pray, 
 For I was a wild little prodigal stray 
 JDeprived of the knowledge that books can impart, 
 Handicapped misunderstood from the start 
 Longing for sympathy; once in a while 
 I 'd steal a concession and capture a smile, 
 And then would my soul be inflated with joy 
 I was only a runaway, barefooted boy. 
 
 And now, when the world is beginning to smile 
 On Nature's achievements, I think it worth while 
 To offer to others the lessons she 's brought ; 
 To show the conditions experience has taught ; 
 To hold up the mirror that others may look, 
 And find in a broncho an excellent book ; 
 'To thresh out the grain and to scatter the chaff; 
 To mellow their hearts with a tear and a laugh. 
 I 'm telling a story no other can tell 
 All my life I 've rehearsed it, I know it so well 
 That I jump from the Waldorf and into the mire, 
 And while I am talking the boys never tire 
 Of the story my story of battle and strife, 
 The shadows and sunshine of strenuous life. 
 
 143
 
 So here then letteth up and giveth in THE BRONCHO 
 BOOK, being Buck-Jumps in Verse, by -CAPTAIN 
 JACK CRAWFORD, q Turned into the Alfalfa Field of 
 the Literary Blessed this Seventh day of June, MCMVIII
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below 
 
 ' : 
 
 . 
 
 
 ORION 
 
 3m-6,'50(550)470 
 
 THE LIBKAKi 
 LOS ANGIXSS
 
 A A 000034959 7