conventions come except in June, which seems to be the month for brides and large parties. That left the ranger family more time for play, especially in the evenings, and we had jolly parties in our big living-room. The piano was the drawing card, and combined with Ranger Winess' large guitar manufactured strange music. When the other rangers joined in and sang they managed to make

quite a racket. Perhaps the songs they sang would not have met with enthusiasm

in select drawing-rooms, but they had a charm for all that. Cowboy songs, sea chanties, and ballads many years old were often on call. Kipling's poems, especially "I Learned about Women from Her" were prime favorites.

I soon learned to take my sewing close to the fire and sit there quietly a few minutes in order to be forgotten. There are realms of masculine pleasure into

which no mere woman should intrude. Besides that, I never could negotiate the weird crooks and turns they gave to their tunes. Every time an old favorite was

sung, it developed new twists and curves. Ranger Winess would discover a heretofore unknown chord on his guitar: "Get that one, boys. That's a wicked minor!" Then for the ensuing five minutes, agonizing wails shattered the smoke screen while they were on the trail of that elusive minor. I had one set rule regarding their concerts—positively no lighted cigarettes were to be parked on my piano!

One song Ranger Winess always rendered as a solo, because all the others enjoyed hearing it too much to join in with him:

OLD ROANEY

I was hangin' 'round the town, and I didn't have a dime.

I was out of work and loafin' all the time.

When up stepped a man, and he said, "I suppose

You're a bronco-buster. I can tell by your clothes."

Well, I thought that I was, and I told him the same.

I asked him if he had any bad ones to tame?

"I have an old pony what knows how to buck;

At stacking up cowboys he has all the luck."'

I asked him what'd he pay if I was to stay

And ride his old pony around for a day.

"I'll give you ten dollars;" I said, "That's my chance,"

Throwed my saddle in the buckboard and headed for the ranch.

Got up next morning, and right after chuck

Went down to the corral to see that pony buck.

He was standin' in the corner, standin' all alone——

That pig-eyed pony, a strawberry roan!

Little pin ears that were red at the tip;

The X-Y-Z was stamped on his hip.

Narrow in the chest, with a scar on his jaw,

What all goes with an old outlaw!

First came the bridle, then there was a fight;

But I throwed on my saddle and screwed it down tight,

Stepped to his middle, feelin' mighty fine,

Said: "Out of the way, boys, watch him unwind!"

Well, I guess Old Roaney sure unwound;

Didn't spend much of his time on the ground!

Went up in the East, come down in the West——

Stickin' to his middle, I was doin' my best!

He went in the air with his belly to the sun

The old sun-fishin' son-of-a-gun!

Lost both the stirrups and I lost my hat

Reached for the horn, blinder than a bat.

Then Old Roaney gently slid into high,

Left me sittin' on nothin' but the sky.

There ain't no cowboy who is alive

Can ride Old Roaney when he makes his high dive!

When the piano player stopped and Frank struck a few soft chords on his guitar I knew they were getting sentimental. Pretty soon someone would begin to hum:

"When the dew is on the rose, and the world is all repose." ... Those rangers lived close to danger and hardships every day, but they had more real sentiment

in their makeup than any type of men I know. Maybe it's because women are so

scarce around them that they hold all womanhood in high regard. Most of them

dreamed of a home and wife and children, but few of them felt they had a right

to ask a woman to share their primitive mode of living. They might not jump up