The Ripening’ Paris Hen.

The Ripening’ Paris Hen.
329.4

I golly, it is funny
How I hate t’ work, say bow,
When the prerie ben is rip’nin’
In the stubble, an’ somehow
I git all mixed up a-dreamin’ Icegins of lollin’ dogs en “snipe,”
As old August, hot and yaller,
Guards the prerle hen, ‘mos’ ripe.

Boine go off among the mount’ins,
Gistin’ dizzy scenery:
An where rolls the Oregon
Others see fair ‘chinery:
But I’d ruther back a Baker,
Somethin’ cool, and my old pipe,
Where the world is big an’ breezy
An’ the prerie hen is ripe!