"Well, never
mind dear, I shan't be snoopy too. Here now, you run along
and do some snooping yourself about the ranch. I want to
stop in and have a talk with Grayson."
Down by one of the corrals where three men were busily
engaged in attempting to persuade an unbroken pony that a
spade bit is a pleasant thing to wear in one's mouth, Barbara
found a seat upon a wagon box which commanded an excellent
view of the entertainment going on within the corral.
As she sat there experiencing a combination of admiration for
the agility and courage of the men and pity for the horse
the tones of a pleasant masculine voice broke in upon her
thoughts.
"Out there somewhere!" says I to me. "By Gosh, I guess, thats poetry!
"Out there somewhere--Penelope--with kisses on her mouth!"
And then, thinks I, "O college guy! your talk it gets me in the eye,
The north is creeping in the air, the birds are flying south."
Barbara swung around to view the poet. She saw a slender
man astride a fagged Mexican pony. A ragged coat and
ragged trousers covered the man's nakedness. Indian moccasins
protected his feet, while a torn and shapeless felt hat sat
upon his well-shaped head. AMERICAN was written all over
him. No one could have imagined him anything else.
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