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The western sun, ere he sought his lair, Skimmed the treetops, and, glancing thence, Rested awhile on the curling hair Of Kitty McCrae, by the boundary fence: Her eyes looked anxious; her cheeks were pale; For father was two hours late with the mail.

Never before had he been so late; And Kitty wondered and wished him back, Leaning athwart the big swing gate That opens out on the bridle-track— A tortuous path that sidles down From the single street of a mining town.

With her raven curls and her saucy smile— Dark eyes that glow with a changeful light, Tenderly trembling all the while Like a brace of stars on the breast of Night— Where could you find in the light of day A bonnier lass than Kitty McCrae?

Born in the saddle, this girl could ride Like the fearless Queen of the silver bow; And nothing that ever was lapped in hide Could frighten Kitty McCrae, I trow. She would wheel a mob in the hour of need If the Devil himself were in the lead.