Broncho dan halts midway of the stream,
Sucking up the water that goes tugging at his knees;
High noon and dry noon,—to-day it doesn’t seem
As if the country ever knew the blessing of a breeze.
  A torn felt hat with the brim cockled up,
  A dip form the saddle—there you are—
It ’s the brew of old Snake River in a cowboy’s drinking-cup—...