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Updated: June 26, 2025
He's what you might call a character for a story. He stops by regular, at the ranch, mebby for a day or two, and then takes the trail, singin' his little old song. He's kind of a outdoor poet. Makes up his own songs." "What was that one about Arizona that you gave 'em over to the State House onct?" queried Lon Pelly. "Oh, that wa'n't Cheyenne's own po'try.
But you see the town wuz named arter her you know a sorter moniment to a angel, a kind of po'try that'll keep her name from bein' forgot arter my varses is gone to nothin'. An' I'm a-layin' myself out to make that town nice and fit to be named arter her, you know. I didn't think I could ever stan' it to have so many neighbors a drivin' away all the game. But I'm a-gittin' used to it."
I did only last week find a piece o' paper with a po'try verse on it in his hand-write on his little table. I suspicioned thet it was his composin', because the name "Mary Elizabeth" occurred in two places in it, though, of co'se, they's other Mary Elizabeths. He's a goin' to fetch that housekeepin' book up north with him, an' my opinion is thet he's a-projec'ing to show it to Mr. Burroughs.
Ef I was to go in thar amongst all them air ladies, my knees would gin out. I was jist a-lookin' at that purty creetur. But I 'druther die'n do her any harm. I mos' wish I was dead. But 'ta'n't no harm to look at her ef she don' know it. I shan't disturb her; and ef she marries a gentleman, I shan't disturb him nuther. On'y, ef he don' mind it, you know, I'll write po'try about her now and then.
"That there was him learnin' not to pick nice, deep, soft sand for a landin'," Bland explained equably, glancing up to where Johnny was painting a somewhat wobbly B. "He ain't done it lately, bo." "Lemme up there, Skyrider, and see what it is yo'all are paintin' on," Bud pleaded. "If it's po'try, maybe I can sing it." Johnny relaxed into a grin, but he did not answer the jibe.
I ain't lyin'. You'd better look spry: thar's another feller snoopin' 'round yere only he barked up the wrong tree, and thought it was Cynthia, jist as you did." "Another feller?" repeated the astonished Bowers. "Yes; a rig'lar sport. He was orful keen on that po'try, too, you bet. So you'd better hump yourself afore somebody else cuts in.
I can cook to beat the band when I got somethin' to cook. Help yourself, pardner. What's mine is anybody's that's hungry. I et the other half." "Don't mind if I do. Thanks. Say, you can cook?" "Next to writin' po'try it's me long suit." "Well, I'm no judge of poetry," said Corliss. "This rabbit tastes pretty good." "You ain't a cop, be you?" queried Sundown. "No. Why?"
Pictur', if you can, how full of penitence he is, 'nd how full uv po'try 'nd gentleness 'nd misery. The Lord ain't a-goin' to be too hard on that poor wretch. Of course we can't comprehend Divine mercy; we only know that it is full of compassion, a compassion infinitely tenderer and sweeter than ours.
The color deepened in Uncle Ben's face to the back of his ears. "Wot would you giv' to know, Roop? S'pose I reckoned some day to make a strike and sorter drop inter saciety easy eh? S'pose I wanted to be ready to keep up my end with the other fellers, when the time kem? To be able to sling po'try and read novels and sich eh?"
"I can keep a tally book and order up the grub from Bender; but, durn the luck, when it comes to makin' love on paper I'd rather wrastle a bear. Course you know who it is, and you savvy how them things is done. Throw in a little po'try, will you, and and say, Rufe, for God's sake, help me out on this!"
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