"And dearer by far than all charms on earth byside,
Is that bright, rollin' river to me."
Up-State lent over, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, and begun
tremblin'--Why, y' know, even a _hoss_ 'll git homesick. Now, I brung
a flea-bitten mare from down on the lower Cimarron oncet, and blamed if
that little son-of-a-gun didn't hoof it all the way back, straighter
'n a string! Yas, ma'am. And so, a-course, it's natu'al fer a _man_.
Wal, I ketched on to how things was with Up-State, and I moseyed.
I was at the deepot pretty frequent them days--waitin'. Macie hadn't
talked to me none yet, and mebbe she wouldn't. But I was on hand in case
the notion 'd strike her.
Her hangin' out agin me and her paw tickled them eatin'-house Mamies
turrible. They thought her idear of earnin' her own money, and then
goin' East to be a' op'ra singer, was just _grand_.
But the rest of the town felt diff'rent. And behind my back all the
women folks and the boys that knowed me was sayin' it was a darned
shame. They figgered that a gal gone loco on the stage proposition
wouldn't make _no_ kind of a wife fer a cow-punch. "Would _she_
camp down in Oklahomaw," they says, "and cook three meals a day,
and wash out blue shirts, when she's set on gittin' up afore a passel
of highflyers and yelpin' 'Marguerite'? _Nixey._"
Next thing, one day at Silverstein's, here come the parson to me,
lookin' worried. "Cupid," he says, "git on the good side of that
gal as quick as ever you can--and marry her. The stage is a' _awful_
place fer a decent gal. Keep her offen it if you love her soul. And if
I can help, just whistle."