VIII.

An' it's often seemed, on a midnight watch, When the mountains blacken'd the dry, brown sod, That a chap, if he shut his eyes, might grip The great kind hand of his Father-God. I rode round the herd at a sort of walk-- The shadders come stealin' thick an' black; I'd jest got to leave tew that thar chunk Of a mustang tew keep in the proper track.