From The Sun, May 17, 1914.
Catclaw and cactus are thick in the pasture, that sun blistered section of rocks and dry grass;
The fat little prairie dogs sit by their burrows and rasp out shrill warnings as we gallop past.
Up in the blue sky the buzzards are soaring; a startled jackrabbit, with fear in his breast,
Decamps like a streak through the brush scattered wildly—the fauna and flora that mark the great West.
Hurrah for the feel of a battered stock saddle—the slapping of brush against weather worn chaps;
The smell of a wet horse—the sound of his hoofbeats—the jingle of spurs and the creaking of straps!
Your cities seem nothing but dens of corruption, for here steady breezes blow sweet without rest.
Just give me a horse and some square miles of pasture, and leave me at peace far out here in the West.