| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
Denver Jim |
||
|
|
||
|
But we don't belong to that denomination;
You have got to the end of your rope, Denver Jim. In ten minutes more we'll be crossin' the prairie, An' you will be hangin' there right from that limb. " Have you got any speakin' why the sentence ain't
proper?
Here, take you a drink from the old whiskey flask. Ar' not dry? Well, I am, an' will drink ter yer, pard,
An' wish that this court will not bungle this task. There, the old lasso circles your neck like a fixture; Here, boys, take the line an' wait fer the word; I am sorry, old boy, that your claim has gone under; Fer yer don't meet yer fate like the low, common herd.
"What's that? So yer want me to answer a let-
ter,— Well, give it to me till I make it all right, A moment or two will be only good manners, The judicious acts of this court will be white. * Long Point, Arkansas, the thirteenth of August, My dearest son James, somewhere out in the West, For long, weary months I've been waiting for tid- ings Since your last loving letter came eastward to bless. "' God bless you, my son, for thus sending that
money, 147 |
||
|
|
||