the hunt a year ago, and haven't you
been riding my horses over to the Frio once or twice a month ever since?
You can read a brand as far as I can, but I can see that you're as blind
as a bat about a girl. Now, young fellow, listen to me: when the master
of ceremonies announces the winners of the day, and your name is called,
throw out your brisket, stand straight on those bow-legs of yours, step
forward and claim your privilege. When the wreath is tendered you,
accept it, carry it to the lady of your choice, and kneeling before her,
if she bids you arise, place the crown on her brow and lead the grand
march. I'd gladly give Las Palomas and every hoof on it for your years
and chance."

The festivities began with falling darkness. The master of ceremonies,
a school teacher from Oakville, read out the successful contestants and
the prizes to which they were entitled. The name of Theodore Quayle was
the last to be called, and excusing himself to Miss Jean, who had him in
tow, he walked forward with a military air, executing every movement in
the ceremony like an actor. As the music struck up, he and the blushing
Frances Vaux, rare in rustic beauty and crowned with a wreath of
live-oak leaves, led the opening march. Hundreds of hands clapped in
approval, and as the applause quieted down, I turned to look for a
partner, only to meet Miss Jean and my former sweetheart. Both were in a
seventh heaven of delight, and promptly took occasion to remind me of
my lack of foresight, repeating in chorus, "Didn't I tell you?" But the
music had broken into a waltz, which precluded any argument, and on
the mistress remarking "You young folks are missing a fine dance,"
involuntarily my arm encircled my old sweetheart, and we drifted away
into elysian fields.

The night after the first tournament at Shepherd's on the Nueces in
June, '77, lingers as a pleasant memory. Veiled in hazy retrospect,
attempting to recall it is like inviting the return of childish dreams
when one has reached the years of maturity. If I danced that night with
any other girl than poor Esther McLeod, the fact has certainly escaped
me. But somewhere in the archives of memory there is an indelible
picture of a stroll through dimly lighted picnic grounds; of sitting on
a rustic settee, built round the base of a patriarchal live-oak, and
listening to a broken-hearted woman lay bare the sorrows which less than
a year had brought her. I distinctly recall that my eyes, thou