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"Music on the Wind" Copyright 1999, Michael Sorbonne Robinson
When the trail dust has settled and the campfire's burnin' bright and a dyin' red's transformed into the purple of the night, the risin' moon's a-smilin' and that great big dipper dips as I take my old harmonica and press it to my lips.
There are strains of that "Amazing Grace" and Texas's Yellow Rose and wails of eerie canyons where the wind, "Mariah," blows. The "Strawberry Roan's" a-buckin' through a diamond-studded sky_ the same sky we sat under as we said our last goodbye. "Blue Shadows on the Trail" dance as the music drifts and slips, while I'm wishin' this harmonica was you pressed to my lips.
If you're sittin' there in Denver, and the wind's out of the West, and a melody comes driftin' `cross the mountain's moonlit crest, it's a lonely, sad reminder of a love we oughta share. Still my "Sweetheart of the Rockies," snap your fingers, I'd be there.
There are strains of that "Amazing Grace" and Texas's Yellow Rose and wails of eerie canyons where the wind, "Mariah," blows. The "Strawberry Roan's" a-buckin' through a diamond-studded sky_ the same sky we sat under as we said our last goodbye. "Blue Shadows on the Trail" dance as the music drifts and slips, while I'm wishin' this harmonica was you pressed to my lips.
Now I'm snuggled in my bedroll and the fire's dyin' fast, and I'm thinkin' love's a mem'ry of a dream that's come and passed. But some hoofbeats on the trail stop a loop away from me, and the fire's final flicker shows that you've come back to me.
There are strains of that "Amazing Grace" and Texas's Yellow Rose and wails of eerie canyons where the wind, "Mariah," blows. The "Strawberry Roan's" a-buckin' through a diamond-studded sky_ as we pledge, beneath the pale moon, we'll never say goodbye. "Blue Shadows on the Trail" dance as the music drifts and slips, and it's you_not my harmonica_I'm pressin' to my lips. Yes, instead of my harmonica, I'm kissin' your sweet lips.
Contact Michael Sorbonne Robinson at mrobinson@ypc.net or visit Rawkinhorse Ranch at http://www.rawkinhorse.com
TH' REAL BULL
by Donna Penley
Th' bull pawed th' ground an' spouted out steam, from nostrils red an' eyes gleamin' mean; He'd been th' king o' th' pasture 'till now -- Had had his pick of jest any ol' cow. Here was somethin' he'd not seen before -- what looked like a bovine in the corral next door; But somethin' was not right -- different somehow; it had a motor an' horns like a cow! Th' bossman rode in on his cuttin' horse colt, took after that 'bull', an' it turned with a jolt; Then it made a sound like it'd changed gears -- a sound that was new to th' ol' bull's ears. So, th' thing was a challenge -- a nuisance to him, peered at it with eyes that anger made dim. Th' bull took a run, an' cleared th' fence full, an' to th' rider's surprise, he now faced a bull! Instead of th' mechanical cuttin' horse steer. He turned th' colt fast -- said, "I'm outa here!" But to' his utter surprise, he was not Toro's aim, it was th' steer -- th' mechanical thing! Th' ol' bull, he charged it, tossed it up high; it came down on his horns for another try. Trampled it underfoot, ripped th' horns from it's head. He was certain th' bovine thing was dead. To make this story short an' sweet, th' bull fought th' thing 'till he fell on his seat, An' he felt so silly as th' cows gathered 'round, to look at th' thing makin' whirrin' sounds. As it reared up feebly, let out a snort, an' th' cuttin' steer finally pulled up short. Th' ol' bull wasn't quite sure what he'd done-- it wasn't a battle that he'd really won. An' th' cows thought him silly for losin' his cool. Did not make him look like a very smart bull. So, th' moral of this story is this, m'dear. Jest make sure ya know a bull from a steer !!!
Contact Donna Penley at dpenley@distcrt18.state.ks.us Her two books are "No Preservatives Added" and "Letters from a Cowboy".
THE CALF JACK by Jerry D. VanLeuven
Its a marvelous thing and its wondrous, so light to use pullin calves in the dark, late at night. Derived from the plans of an old country vet, Why Dr. Franck was as wise as any youve met. While pulling a calf, late at night he envisioned the fore going object which I have just mentioned, With a long steel rod and a traveling jack, and a bow for her hips and a strap for her back. With the pole and a fulcrum and chains for the feet, It pulls those poor suckers in a way really neat.
Well, almost!
The calfs nose it was black as it peaked neath her tail, which was wicked and wet as it sliced and it sailed. But softly, and quiet we boxed her in tight and got ready to pull out that calf, late at night. The light on the barn, well it glowed at best dim, and wed best hurry on, if we hoped to save him. Cause shed been quite a while, he was twisted inside. When her tail hit my face, well I cussed her darn hide. Wed been at the church, to a party that night, Where dad, he had called, when he saw that dread sight. The heifer was fancy, you might say a beaut! But she seemed awful edgy as she went in the chute.
I inserted my arm, his left leg was back: so I chained up the right, and I pulled up the slack. With the second chain gathered, all up in my hand, she began to decide if to lay down or stand. So I shifted gears, brought the belly band up, and lifted her slightly with that band round her gut. Then at the back end, once again, I began, when she lifted her tail, and her water it ran. Well, I ducked to the side as it went shooting by, Then she settled down, quietly, with a sigh.
I reached for the right, it was down and was back: then I fixed on the chain, and again pulled up slack. The jack was assembled and ready right there, and I figured Id finish right then, without care. I measured the chains and put in half a knot, and hooked them right up to the jack, in the slot. I worked on the handle to make the chains tight, and pulled down the pole just a bit, only slight. Well the pressure, it hit, on her bowels: with a squirt the used grass, well it hit, down the front of my shirt. Well there was naught left, but to get with the go: the cleanliness gone, I could go with the flow. Cause when pullin a calf, well theres no time to dawdle, though with a belt there, the cow didnt wobble. With the pressure I added with the jack and the chains, calf water and feces, well, fell like the rain. And every time the jack handle was worked, it covered my hands, and my arm and my shirt. At the end of it all, all my clothes were well sopped and my new cowboy boots were, well, filled to the top. But there on the ground, all slimey and wet, was a great heifer calf, but not breathing quite yet. My hand down her throat, to clear out the phlegm, and a straw up her nose: she starts breathing, and then: Were soon finished up, and to the house I do go, With my soiled clothes, and my boots; and a new calf to show.
Copyright 2/1999
Contact Jerry D. Vanleuven at JVanLeuven@compuserve.com
THE HAND FORGED NAIL
by Jerry D. Vanleuven
It was layin' in a dusty hole where somewhat had been torn down. Its odd and curious bent up shape caused me to lift it from the ground. A small piece of rusty iron, and thin, bent in a Z. And holding it there within my hand, its history I could see. Hand forged, the nail it was, now flaking off in rust; But this was quite a treasure I'd picked up, there in the dust. The head and shank were different, for a nail four inches long. No, this type they've not been made since days so long now gone. The head: was slightly rounded over top; Its perimeter: somewhat square, as was the bent up four inch shank, Why this nail was really rare. And, somewhere, I heard a bellows worked by a smithy's hand; And perceived the glowing sparks, they fall on his shop floor strewn with sand. It was quick tempered, twice, in oil so someone could drive it straight; and left to finish cooling in a box next to the gate.
It was placed into a door jam, to hold it tight to hand hewn logs; that would hold and bare the awesome weight of a roof then made of sod. For many years the soddy stood there, as a bunk house, home and shed. And twice it was remodeled with a plank roof, there instead.
In turn family, hands and livestock all did come and pass the door, then harness, tack and hardware were, at last, inside there stored. But at last the hand hewn timbers of the cabin were decayed. And though it was so evident; still 'twas a hard decision made. The time had come, at last you see; for the shack to be torn down. For all about where the soddy'd stood there had grown up there: a town. The plank roof it was lifted off, the wood was wet and rotted, old; and was all covered there along the top by lichens, moss and mold. Dry rot had entered the hand hewn logs, and they crumbled in dusty hues. So the shanty it was fired at night, For the wood could not be used. And when the blackened embers cooled, there weren't much left at all. "Cept for a few strewn hand-forged nails, from the burned wood they did fall. And a smithy's labor, years before was left there, where they fell. Until then, finally found by me, at last, to tell the tale.
Contact Jerry D. Vanleuven at JVanLeuven@compuserve.com
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