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RIDERS OF THE STARS |
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T
WENTY abreast down the Golden Street ten
thousand riders marched; Bow-legged boys in their swinging chaps, all clumsily keeping time;
And the Angel Host to the lone, last ghost their delicate eyebrows arched
As the swaggering sons of the open range drew up to the throne sublime. Gaunt and grizzled, a Texas man from out of the
concourse strode,
And doffed his hat with a rude, rough grace, then lifted his eagle head;
The sunlit air on his silvered hair and the bronze of his visage glowed;
" Marster, the boys have a talk to make on the things up here," he said.
A hush ran over the waiting throng as the Cherubim
replied:
" He that readeth the hearts of men He deemeth your challenge strange,
Though He long hath known that ye crave your own, that ye would not walk but ride,
Oh, restless sons of the ancient earth, ye men of the open range! "
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