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Frontier Ballads
CHRISTMAS EVE AT KIMBALL
M
ET a chap the other night, down on Halsted Street, Holdin' up Mike Kelley's bar, sippin' mint an' rye; I'd just hit the Stock Yards with a cattle-train o' meat, Loped around to Kelly's place, singein' hot an' dry.
This here chap was somethin' rare; Henglish tweeds an' gloves, Stripey collar round his neck, sparks to throw away,
He was givin' 'em a song, 'bout the town he loves,
How they hit "the pace that kills," down on old Broadway.
Heaved a wistful, weepy sigh 'twould make a bay steer groan When he told us what a spangled, rompin' time he'd had
Christmas Eve a year ago, just before he'd blown
Out into the "Woolly," where we don't know shrimps from shad.
Claimed along 'bout three a. m. they found an apple girl Sleepin' in a doorway; stole her fruit to raise a fuss,
Then they made her do a Midway Turkish dancin' whirl
'Fore they'd pay the damage — an' he called that generous!
Awful homesick yarn it was. 'Peared he couldn't find
Nothin' in the whoopin' line warm enough out West.
Made me sort o' weary, so, to ease my mind,
I dug up a Christmas tale an' let him take a rest.
Mind the Northwest homestead boom, twenty-odd years back, When Dakota stuck her nose above the waves o' fame?
I was pottin' coyotes from a Brule County shack,
Burnin' hay an' eatin' pork an' holdin' down my claim.
Not a strictly stirrin' life; quite a lot less gay
Than workin' in a grave-yard, a-plantin' of remains.
Notion hit me Christmas time to take a holiday;
Roped the cayuse, strapped my guns, an' struck across the plains. |
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