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On the Trail of Love |
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TIME'S HEAVY HAND
She was jes' a little granger an' her folks
lived on Elk crick, Jes' a little dark-eyed granger, but she allers
drest that slick You'd think she'd caught the fashion from
the ladies o' the town, 'Specially when buggy-ridin' in her Sunday-
meetin' gown.
Uster take her 'way out drivin' on a Sunday,
don't you know, But I'd let her do the drivin', fer I liked it
better so; An' then my arm would circle—huh, she'd
pertend to frown— The place what was the smallest in her
Sunday-meetin' gown.
Starlight, yes, an' prairies dreamin', cotton-woods a-sighin' there,
An' the wind a sort o' triflin' an' a-foolin' with her hair;
An' a ribbin on my shoulder or a strayin' curl o' brown,
An' her heart a-beatin' gently 'gin her Sunday-meetin' gown. |
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