Arthur Chapman

Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger,
Out where the smile dwells a little longer,
That’s where the West begins;
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Out among the big things —
The mountains and the plains —
An hour ain’t important,
Nor are the hour’s gains;
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Men in the rough--on the trails all new-broken--
Those are the friends we remember with tears;
Few are the words that such comrades have spoken--
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There’s a new grace up on Boot Hill, where we’ve planted Rowdy Pete;
He died one evenin’, sudden, with his leather on his feet;
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I've ridden nigh a thousand leagues upon two bands of steel,
And it takes a grizzled Westerner to know just how I feel;
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When camp is moved, at break of day,
Then comes old Packer Bill--a king
Who rules, with most despotic sway,
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We used to run a cow-ranch,
In all that old term meant,
But all our ancient glories
In recent years have went;
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The sheep are down at the water, a-drinkin' their bloomin' fill,
An' me and the dog are dozin', as herders and collies will;
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He stands upon the city street, keen-eyed, and brown of face,
He seems to bring a breath of air from some broad prairie space;
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A rider from the Two-Bar come with news from off the range:
He said he's seen a dust cloud that looked almighty strange,
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When walkin’ down a city street,
Two thousand miles from home,
The pavestones hurtin’ of the feet
That never ought to roam,
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Some sigh for cooks of boyhood days, but none of them for me;
One roundup cook was best of all — ’t was with the X-Bar-T.
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The old yaller slicker's the cowpuncher's friend-
His saddle is never without it-
It's rolled in a bundle and tied at each end,
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He showed up in the springtime, when the geese began to honk;
He signed up with the outfit, and we fattened up his bronk;
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I was broke in Arizony, and was gloomy as a tomb
When I got a chance at punchin' for an outfit called Star-Plume;
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Things is quiet, here in Cactus, and our bullyvards now lack
The brisk, upliftin' infloo'nce of the forty-five's loud crack;
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The bunkhouse on the cattle ranch
Was lowly, but at night
When its small window was aglow
We hurried in that light,
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Bill’s home ag’in from Europe, where he featured with a show,
But he don’t talk none about it — his words jest seem to flow
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They'd make a rattlin' roundup, sure,
The troubles known to man,
If we could gather all the kinds
Since this old world began.
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Women's scarce in Cactus Center, and there ain't no bargain stores
Fer to start them Monday rushes that break down the stoutest doors;
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