KITTY McCRAE
The western sun, ere he sought his lair,
Skimmed the treetops, and, glancing thence,
Rested awhile on the curling hair
Of Kitty McCrae, by the boundary fence:
Her eyes looked anxious; her cheeks were pale;
For father was two hours late with the mail.
Never before had he been so late;
And Kitty wondered and wished him back,
Leaning athwart the big swing gate
That opens out on the bridle-track—
A tortuous path that sidles down
From the single street of a mining town.
With her raven curls and her saucy smile—
Dark eyes that glow with a changeful light,
Tenderly trembling all the while
Like a brace of stars on the breast of Night—
Where could you find in the light of day
A bonnier lass than Kitty McCrae?
Born in the saddle, this girl could ride
Like the fearless Queen of the silver bow;
And nothing that ever was lapped in hide
Could frighten Kitty McCrae, I trow.
She would wheel a mob in the hour of need
If the Devil himself were in the lead.
