XXIX.

Es sound he slept on the skirt of the herd,
Dreamin' his dreams of the sweet blue grass
On the plains below; an' afore it touched
The other wall of "Old Spookses' Pass"
The herd wus up!--not one at a time,
_Thet_ ain't the style in a midnight run,--
They wus up an' off like es all thair minds
Wus roll'd in the hide of only one!


XXX.

I've fit in a battle, an' heerd the guns
Blasphemin' God with their devils' yell;
Heerd the stuns of a fort like thunder crash
In front of the scream of a red-hot shell;
But thet thar poundin' of iron hoofs,
The clatter of horns, the peltin' sweep
Of three thousand head of a runnin' herd,
Made all of them noises kind of cheap.


XXXI.

The Pass jest open'd its giant throat
An' its lips of granite, an' let a roar