The Rancho In The Rain Poem by Henry Herbert Knibbs

The rabbit's ears are flattened and he's squattin' scared and still,
Ag'inst the dripping cedar; and the quail below the hill
Are huddled up together where the brush is close and thick;
The snow is meltin' on the range and chokin' up the creek;
The clouds are hangin' level, draggin' slow across the plain,
And me? I'm settin' smokin' and a-smilin' at the rain.
There's a saddle that needs mendin' and some overalls that's tore;
But the stock is fed and happy and the milk is on the shelf.
Now a woman would raise ructions at the mud that's on the floor,
But it's rainin' on the rancho--and I'm runnin' things myself.
Kind of lonesome? Well, for some folks, but I'm used to livin' so;
If I feel the need of talkin', there's the puppy and his pranks:
There's the hosses in the stable, munchin' easy-like and slow,
And it's company to feed 'em and to hear 'em nicker thanks.
With my feet ag'inst the fender and the fire a-snappin' bright,
And the smell of burnin' cedar mixin' pleasant with my smoke,
And a-r'arin', tearin' story of the range, that's ribbed up right,
Why lay off and fix the damper where the isinglass is broke?
I'm a-bachin'; that's the answer; takin' orders jest from me,
And I aim to say I'm workin' for a kind of friendly boss,
Not forgettin' there's the Marster that's a-tallyin' to see
If I'm hangin' with the drags or puttin' every deal across.
Kind of simple, this here livin', if a fella keeps his head,
Keeps the stock from gettin' ribby, keeps his fences tight and straight,
Sweats enough to keep him limber, ain't afraid to go to bed
When the boys are up and drinkin', playin' cards, and settin' late.
Ridin' range and punchin' cattle, I've took notice now and then,
That the man who's fair to critters is the kind to reach the top;
He'll be workin' willin' hosses and be workin' willin' men,
But no man is savin' money that will spur 'em till they drop.
But it's rainin'--jest a-roarin' and the desert's drinkin' deep;
On the bunk-house roof the water's talkin' sassy-like and bold,
And the world she looks as if she'd kind of like to go to sleep,
But the rain it sure won't let her--keeps her shiverin' and cold.
Here comes Buddy crost the pasture, buttin' weather strong and stout;
Now I wonder, what's the racket? Yearlin bogged at Mesa Lake!
Hunt the stove--I'll get my slicker. And you could n't git her out?
Well, I reckon we can make it. I'll just saddle up Old Jake.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
That's the way it goes with ranchin'--never know what's goin' to come:
Luck or trouble, till it hits you, so you got to guess it, some.
Saved that yearlin'. Mud and leather! But the fire feels good ag'in!
Yes, you got to keep a-guessin' and you'll hit it, now and then.
Night has stitched the clouds together, but she's left a hole or two,
And a mighty slimsy linin' where the water's pourin' through,
But it's feedin' thirsty pasture, makin' hay and makin' grain,
And I'm settin' warm -- and smokin' -- and a-smilin' at the rain.