she sings something which begins:

"'Thar's many a boy who once follows the herds,
On the Jones an' Plummer trail;
Some dies of drink an' some of lead,
An' some over kyards, an' none in bed;
But they're dead game sports, so with naught but good words,
We gives 'em "Farewell an' hail."'

"Son, this sonnet brings down mem'ries; and they so stirs me I has to
_vamos_ that hurdygurdy to keep my emotions from stampedin' into tears.
Shore, thar's soft spots in me the same as in oilier gents; an' that
melody a-makin' of references to the old Jones an' Plummer days comes
mighty clost to meltin' everything about me but my guns an' spurs.

"This yere cattle business ain't what it used to be; no more is
cow-punchers. Things is gettin' effete. These day it's a case of chutes
an' brandin' pens an' wire fences an' ten-mile pastures, an' thar's so
little ropin' that a boy don't have practice enough to know how to catch
his pony.

"In the times I'm dreamin' of all this is different. I recalls how we
frequent works a month with a beef herd, say of four thousand head, out
on the stark an' open plains, ropin' an' throwin' an' runnin' a
road-brand onto 'em. Thar's a dozen different range brands in the bunch,
mebby, and we needs a road-brand common to 'em all, so in case of
stampedes on our trip to the no'th we knows our cattle ag'in an' can pick
'em out from among the local cattle which they takes to minglin' with.
It's shorely work, markin' big strong steers that-away! Throwin' a
thousand-pound longhorn with a six hundred-pound cayouse is tellin' on
all involved an' a gent who's pitchin' his rope industrious will wear
down five broncos by sundown.

"It's a sharp winter an' cattle dies that fast they simply defies the
best efforts of ravens an' coyotes to get away with the supply. It's
been blowin' a blizzard of snow for weeks. The gales is from the no'th
an' they lashes the plains from the Bad Lands to the Rio Grande. When
the storm first prounces on the cattle up yonder in the Yellowstone
country, the he'pless beasts turns their onprotestin' tails and begins to
drift. For weeks, as I remarks, that tempest throws itse'f loose, an'
night an' day, what cattle keeps their feet an' lives, comes driftin' on.

"Nacherally the boys comes with 'em. Their winter sign-camps breaks up
an' the riders turns south with the cattle. No, they can't do nothin';
you-all couldn't turn 'em or hold 'em or drive 'em back while t