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THE DESERT |
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*npWAS the lean coyote told me, baring his
JL slavish soul, As I counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and
cursed at the desert sky, The tale of the Upland Rider's fate while I dug in the water hole For a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry! " He came," said the lean coyote, " and he cursed
as his pony fell; And he counted his pony's ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done. He raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of hell, Shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop — just one." ct His name? " I asked, and he told me, yawning to
hide a grin: " His name is writ on the prison roll and many a place beside; Last, he scribbled it on the sand with a finger seared and thin, 142 |
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