The California Birthday Book Part 39

And after supper, when the sun was down, and they was just a kinda half-light on the mesquite, and the old man was on the east porch, smokin', and the boys was all lined up along the front of the bunk-house, clean outen sight of the far side of the yard, why I just sorta wandered over to the calf-corral, then 'round by the barn and the c.h.i.n.k's shack, and landed up out to the west, where they's a row of cottonwoods by the new irrigatin' ditch. Beyond, acrost a hunderd mile of brown plain, here was the moon a-risin', bigger'n a dishpan, and a cold white. I stood agin a tree and watched it crawl through the clouds. The frogs was a-watchin', too, I reckon, fer they begun to holler like the d.i.c.kens, some ba.s.s and some squeaky. And then, frum the other side of the ranch-house, struck up a mouth-organ.

ELEANOR GATES, in _Cupid: the Cow-Punch._

OCTOBER 27.

EL VAQUERO.

Tinged with the blood of Aztec lands, Sphinx-like, the tawny herdsman stands, A coiled riata in his hands.

Devoid of hope, devoid of fear, Half brigand, and half cavalier-- This helot, with imperial grace, Wears ever on his tawny face A sad, defiant look of pain.

Left by the fierce iconoclast, A living fragment of the past-- Greek of the Greeks he must remain.

LUCIUS HARWOOD FOOTE.

His broad brimmed hat push'd back with careless air, The proud vaquero sits his steed as free As winds that toss his black, abundant hair.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

OCTOBER 28.

There was to be a _rodeo_ on the Del Garda ranch. Out of the thousands of that moving herd could they single the mighty steer that bore their brand, or the wild-eyed cow whose yearling calf had not yet felt the searing-iron. Into the very midst of the seething ma.s.s would a _vaquero_ dart, single out his victim without a moment's halt, drive the animal to the open s.p.a.ce, and throw his la.s.so with unerring aim.

If a steer proved fractious two of the centaurs would divide the labor, and while one dexterously threw the rope around his horns, the other's la.s.so had quickly caught the hind foot, and together they brought him to the earth.

JOSEPHINE CLIFFORD McCRACKIN, in _Overland Tales._

OCTOBER 29.

Near noon we came to a little cattle ranch situated in a flat surrounded by red d.y.k.es and b.u.t.tes after the manner of Arizona. Here we unpacked, early as it was, for through the dry countries one has to apportion his day's journeys by the water to be had. If we went farther today, then tomorrow night would find us in a dry camp.

The horses scampered down the flat to search out alfilaria. We roosted under a slanting shed--where were stock saddles, silver-mounted bits and spurs, rawhide riatas, branding-irons, and all the lumber of the cattle business. * * * Shortly the riders began to come in, jingling up to the shed, with a rattle of spurs and bit-chains. * * * The chief, a six-footer wearing beautifully decorated gauntlets and a pair of white buckskin _chaps_, went so far as to say it was a little warm for the time of year.

STEWART EDWARD WHITE, in _The Mountains._

OCTOBER 30.

HANDS UP!

This is a request that, in the wild and woolly West, "may not be denied"; and the braver the man is to whom it is addressed, the quicker does he hasten to comply. Indeed, it would argue the height of folly if, after a glance into the barrels of a "sawed off," and a look at the determined eyes behind them, covering your every move, you did not instantly elevate your hands, and do it with cheerful alacrity.

The plea, "He had the drop on me," will clear you in any frontier Court of Honor.

A.E. LYNCH, in _Self-Torture._

OCTOBER 31.

OUT WEST.

When the world of waters was parted by the stroke of a mighty rod, Her eyes were first of the lands of earth to look on the face of G.o.d; The white mists robed and throned her, and the sun in his...o...b..t wide Bent down from his ultimate pathway and claimed her his chosen bride; And He that had formed and dowered her with the dower of a royal queen, Decreed her the strength of mighty hills, the peace of the plains between; The silence of utmost desert, and canyons rifted and riven, And the music of wide-flung forests where strong winds shout to heaven.

Calling--calling--calling--resistless, imperative, strong-- Soldier and priest and dreamer--she drew them, a mighty throng.

The unmapped seas took tribute of many a dauntless band, And many a brave hope measured but bleaching bones in the sand; Yet for one that fell, a hundred sprang out to fill his place, For death at her call was sweeter than life in a tamer race.

Sinew and bone she drew them; steel-thewed--and the weaklings shrank-- Grim-wrought of granite and iron were the men of her foremost rank.

The wanderers of earth turned to her--outcast of the older lands-- With a promise and hope in their pleading, and she reached them pitying hands; And she cried to the Old World cities that drowse by the Eastern main: "Send me your weary, house-worn broods and I'll send you men again!

Lo! here in my wind-swept reaches, by my marshalled peaks of snow, Is room for a larger reaping than your o'er-tilled fields can grow; Seed of the Man-seed springing to stature and strength in my sun, Free with a limitless freedom no battles of men, have won."

SHARLOT HALL, in _Out West._

NOVEMBER 1.

One night when the plain was like a sea of liquid black, and the sky blazed with stars, we rode by a sheep-herder's camp. The flicker of a fire threw a glow out into the dark. A tall wagon, a group of silhouetted men, three or four squatting dogs, were squarely within the circle or illumination. And outside, in the penumbra of shifting half light, now showing clearly, now fading into darkness, were the sheep, indeterminate in bulk, melting away by mysterious thousands into the ma.s.s of night. We pa.s.sed them. They looked up, squinting their eyes against the dazzle of the fire. The night closed about us again.

STEWART EDWARD WHITE, in _The Mountains._

NOVEMBER 2.

THE DROUTH: 1898.

No low of cattle from these silent fields Fills, with soft sounds of peace, the evening air; No fresh-mown hay its scented incense yields From these sad meadows, stricken brown and bare.

The brook, that rippled on its summer way, Shrinks out of sight within its sandy bed, Defenseless of a covert from the ray, Dazzling and pitiless, that beams o'erhead.

The rose has lost its bloom; the lily dies; Our garden's perfumed treasures all are fled; The bee no longer to their sweetness flies, The humming-bird no longer dips his head.