I tell you honestly that the very thought of love became an abomination to me. On the opening leaf of the diary she carried along on the journey to the Arizona Strip, this appears in her own hand: "There is something better than making a living —making a life. Books by and about Sharlot Hall. When Maw Turned the Stampede.
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The Old Ranch Mother. The Smell of Rain. The West. Cash In.
Old Cow Men's Parade. Drouth Time. Beyond the Range. Punchers guardin' 'em, head an' tail, Waitin' fer word to hit th' trail, San Carlos trail, that th' beef herds go With porter-house steak for Geronimo. A thousan' beef steers, big an' fat; Ready to run at th' drop of a hat. Each steer achin' to git th' lead An' start th' herd on a mad stampede. No man knows what a big steer thinks When he shakes his head an' snorts an' winks. No man knows why he'll up an' run At nothin', or anythin' under the sun. Seven Bar trail boss, Gran'dad Shanks, Old an' gray in a steer herd's pranks; Learned their cussedness head an' tail Pokin' steers on th' Chis'um trail.
Watch 'em, Boys," he'd say. Men in their saddles, loafin' at ease, When a blue-jay squawked in th' tall pine trees. Quick as th' flash of a lightnin' stroke Every steer into a gallop broke;. Shoulder to shoulder the wide horns clashed, Nostrils snorted and wild eyes flashed; Thunder of hoofs, and swish of tail— Down they swept for the canyon trail. Gran'dad Shanks an' his men in the' rear, Whipped and rode with a mighty fear. Whipped and spurred, an' tried to pray, But their hearts went cold an' their faces, gray;.
Fer up that trail each day from school Came Buddy an' Sis, on old Pete, mule: An' down at th' camp by th' aspen trees Was the clay-bank mare with th' broken knees; An' old Boss, dog' an' gray Maw Shanks, With ginger-bread sol'jers waitin' in ranks. Like a mountain river at cloudburst speed Crashed and thundered th' mad stampede. Th' Flat behind them seemed to rock An' reel, an' roar with an earthquake shock; An' Grand'dad, spurrin', tried to pray, An' bowed his head, an' looked away; Then, out from the camp in th' aspen draw Th' leap of a runnin' horse he saw: God!
It was Maw on th' claybank mare Her old black sunbonnet flappin' th' air;. Without saddle, or bit, or spur Never a belt-winner rode like her. Clo's-line rope 'round th' old mare's nose Straight in th' track of th' steers she goes, Ridin' as straight as a fightin' Sioux Swingin' her apern an' yellin': "Shoo! Snorted an' shied, an' turned,—like that An' trotted back to Big Pine Flat Over th' trail that was torn and plowed Oak-brush trampled, an' young pines bowed.
Gran'dad spurred, an' cried like a fool Fer Buddy an Sis, on old Pete, mule, Climbed th' hill from th' canyon banks An' stopped on th' grass with Gran'maw Shanks. An' Sis said, lookin' from him to her: "Gran'dad, say, what ye cryin' fer? The original poem is printed without the stanza breaks above, which are included here for easier reading on the screen. This desert here Burns up my heart and makes me so afraid. Let's go where folks is—Jim. Oh, Jim, let's go. I set here on this hill right smart that year— A-waitin' and a-waitin'—plum scared wild To hold some woman's hand, an' hear her talk.
I made Jim put th' baby 'way up here— An' sometimes yit I see her scared, dead face. Jodie, he come nex' year. I walked them trails Fer weeks an' months—seemed like I had to fly To git away—to go an' be with folks. That there ain't Jodie's grave. It's got his name But God, He only, knows where Jodie is.
Las' year I made-believe that grave o' his When he was killed 'way down in Mexico. When th' rest come, I didn't think so much. Th' cattle, like Jim said, was company. Th' cows with little calves, cute little tricks, I turned 'em in to water at the trough An' talked to 'em. I took a heap o' comfort in them cows. It never done no good to talk to Jim— He'd jes' set dum an' chaw, an' spit, an' chaw. My, them was workin' times!
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Me waterin' cattle— Childern comin' fast, an' growin' fast— An' Jim off ridin', mostly, on th' range. That's John there, close to Babe. Come, once, a runnin' horse, a-thunderin' down Th' water trail—an' somethin' draggin' caught Into the stirrup. Even yit A runnin' horse jes' shets my heart up tight. That's Lulie—she was so afraid o' storms. Th' lightnin' got her, bringin' up th' cows— Me, goin' to meet her, saw the big flash hit. I ain't never let no rain storm fall On Lulie, there. Th' others come here like comin' home. Rustlers got Bill.
He caught 'em blottin' brands On his Paw's steers.
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They shot him on th' trail 'Fore he could tell—Him nothin' but a boy. Pete, he was ridin' in a tournamint To win first prize. His horse, it fell An' caught him under it. I hate them tournamints, th' boys' most always has A drink too much. I think right often of that year I set Up on this hill, a-waitin' 'till Babe come— Scared mos' to death—an' crazy wild fer folks. There's come a heap o' changes sence that time. Settin' here now's jes' like th' work done up An' all the fam'ly comin' in to rest. I've got so still an' dumb-like down inside Nothin' cain't ever scare me any more.
Paw says, sometimes; "Le's sell this ranch an' go Where folks is. He couldn't chaw No more tabaccy there then he does here— An' me, I don't want livin' folks no more, I only want this hill-top, an' my graves. Smell of drought on every side; Every whirlwind flings aside Acrid, evil-smelling dust Like some burning mold or musk. Wind across the garden brings Scent of blistered, dying things. Deep corral dust trampled fine Stings the lips like bitter wine.
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Warping boards ooze drops of pitch Scented with a memory rich Of cook forests far away. In the sunbaked fields the hay Yields a piteous, panting breath As it slowly burns to death. Roses in the ranch-house yard Turn to mummies dry and hard. Out of dusk and out of dawn Every fragrance is withdrawn. Hot, hot winds, and clear, hot sky Burn the throat and sear the eye. Then, at last, a cool dawn wind Pitying and deeply kind, Brings a far-off scent of rain.
Ah, the sick earth lives again! Herds that straggle dusty-pale Down the deep-worn water trail, Life their sunken eyes with hope To the distant mountain slope. Lean work horses shy and snot In an awkward, eager sport; And the ranch dogs, baying, run Out to meet the rising sun. In the yard a woman stands, Touching with bewildered hands Wan buds trying to unclose On a parched and dying rose.
From Poems of a Ranch Woman , When the world of waters was parted by the stroke of a mighty rod, Her eyes were first of the lands of earth to look on the face of God; The white mists robed and throned her, and the sun in his orbit wide Bent down from his ultimate pathway and claimed her his chosen bride; And he who had formed and dowered her with the dower of a royal queen, Decreed her the strength of mighty hills, the peace of the plains between; The silence of utmost desert, and canyons rifted and riven, And the music of wide-flung forests were strong winds shout to heaven.
Then high and apart he set her and bade the gray seas guard, And the lean sands clutching her garments' hem keep stern and solemn ward. What dreams she knew as she waited! What strange keels touched her shore! And feet went into the stillness and returned to the sea no more. They passed through her dream like shadows — till she woke one pregnant morn And watched Magellan's white-winged ships swing round the ice-bound Horn; She thrilled to their masterful presage, those dauntless sails from afar, And laughed as she leaned to the ocean till her face shone out like a star.
And men who toiled in the drudging hives of a world as flat as a floor Thrilled in their souls to her laughter and turned with face to the door; And creeds as hoary as Adam, and feuds as old as Cain, Fell deaf on the ear that harkened and caught that far refrain; Into dungeons by light forgotten, and prisons of grim despair, Hope came with pale reflection of her star on the swooning air; And the old, hedged, human whirlpool, with its seething misery, Broke bound, as a pent-up river breaks through to the healing sun.
Calling, calling, calling; resistless, imperative, strong; Soldier and priest and dreamer — she drew them, a mighty throng. The unmapped seas took tribute of many a dauntless band, And many a brave hope measured but bleaching bones in the sand; Yet for one that fell, a hundred sprang out to fill his place, For death at her call was sweeter than life in a tamer race. Sinew and bone she drew them; steel-thewed—and the weaklings shrank; Grim-wrought of granite and iron were the men of her foremost rank.
Stern as the land before them, and strong as the waters crossed; Men who had looked on the face of defeat nor counted the battle lost; Uncrowned rulers and statesmen, shaping their daily need To the law of brother with brother, till the world stood by to heed; The sills of a greater empire they hewed and hammered and turned And the torch of a larger freedom from their blazing hilltops burned; Till the old ideals that had led them grew dim as a childhood's dream, And Caste went down in the balance, and Manhood stood supreme.
The wanderers of earth turned to her, outcast of the older lands; With a promise and hope in their pleading, and she reached them pitying hands; And she cried to the Old World cities that drowse by the Eastern main: "Send me your weary, house-worn broods and I'll send you men again! Lo, here in my wind-swept reaches, by my marshalled peaks of snow, Is room for a larger reaping than your o'er-tilled fields can grow; Seed of the Man-seed springing to stature and strength in my sun, Free, with a limitless freedom no battles of men, have won.
In the edition, she writes:. In the autumn of that year, Charles F.
For his second collection, Carver digs deep into the themes of friendship and love while sending one clear message of hope—even in the darkest of times. This collection of sci-fi writer Chiang's first eight stories leads readers through various fantastical worlds and ideas, such as that of a man building a tower to heaven. Here, he encourages readers to imagine the otherworldly, offering exciting and disturbing prose with one story even set in the world of The Matrix.
With 30 stories, Chekov's signature stream-of-consciousness writing style is on full display as he interprets life in Russia. Type keyword s to search. Shop Now. Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman. Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. Nine Stories by J. Selected Stories of Anton Chekhov. The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty. The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury.
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