By J. Thomas Benbow, M.D.
I want a little cabin faced
Toward the setting sun,
Where I can spend my latter days
Before my race is run.
I want my hounds beside me--
They've been there many years--
We'll sit and think of races run
And shed some gladsome tears.
I want a fireplace deep and wide,
With hickory logs ablaze;
A fireboard made of heavy oak,
Where candles cast their rays.
I want a clock a-sitting there,
A-swinging off the time;
A-swinging as it always has
In perfect, rhythmic rhyme.
I want a chair beside the fire,
A sheedskin on the back;
A table with the Hunter's Horn
And some papers on the rack.
I want some pictures on the wall,
That tell of other days;
A window where the setting sun
May shed its golden rays.
I want a bench out on the porch,
Where I can watch the birds
And hear them sing their evening song
More beautiful than words.
Where I can watch the sun go down
Amid it's golden hues,
And hear the whippoorwill's good-night,
And feel the evening dews.
I want a little cabin faced
Toward the western sky,
Where I can hear the running pack
As they go flying by.
I want to hear the running pack
As each hound gives his yelp,
With my old Betty out in front
A-begging hard for help.
A place to end my earthly race
That I so long have run,
And go into the future with
The setting of the sun.
POSTSCRIPT:
Of couse I'm still a-runnin'--
My race is not yet ran;
I simply mention what I want
Before the setting sun.
The Hunters Horn, Sept. 1952 page 8
By Edith M. Stoney
The voice that I loved is silenced,
The beautiful face is gone,
And now is my own heart breaking
As time goes on--goes on...
They said the laughter of children
Would ease my lingering pain,
But above the children's clamor
I listen for him--in vain.
To me, the voice of a foxhound
And the great, dark-circled eyes
Were joy and solace and challenge
(How deep now my sorrow lies)
For he was a friend and a protector--
Who once hunted proud and free--
And now, through he sleep forever,
He lives in my heart's Memory.
The Chase, January 192 page 2
When a feller tails up an old cow that is down,
She don't thank him for it. I've generally found
That as soon as she's standin', the miserable wreck,
Will start shakin' her horns and git right on the peck.
She comes chargin' at you, you dodge her, and then
She loses her balance and falls down again.
That's the sort of thing that will make a man swear,
This workin' and fight' and gittin' nowhere.
But then there's some people that's just like a cow;
I bet you can think of a few of them now.
You remember the times when you put yourself out
Fer some feller you didn't care nothin' about.
And just about time when you thought it was through,
He was back into trouble and huntin' fer you.
It made you so mad that you swore there and then
You would never start helpin' that feller again.
But then when you find an old critter that's weak
And is down, or some cuss with an unlucky streak;
In spite of the things that you promised and swore,
You go right to work and start helpin' once more.
BRUCE KISKADDON
The Red Ranger
April, 1947
