XXXIX.

Three hundred foot from its grinnin' lips Tew the roarin' stream on its stones below. Once more I hurl'd the mustang up Agin the side of the cuss call'd Joe; Twan't a mite of use--he riz his heels Up in the air, like a scuddin' colt; The herd mass'd closer, an' hurl'd down The roarin' Pass, like a thunderbolt.