The Cowboy's Christmas Ball to the ranchmen of Texas, way out in western Texas, where the clear Fork's waters flow, where the cattle are a browsin and the Spanish ponies grow, Where the northers come a whistling from beyond the neutral strip, and the prairie dogs are sneezing as if they had the grip, Where the coyotes come a howling round the ranches after dark, and the mocking birds are singing.

To the lovely meadow lark, where the possum and the badger and rattlesnakes abound, and the monstrous stars are winking.

Or a wilderness profound, where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams, where the double mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams, where the antelope is grazing and the lonely plovers call.

It was there that I attended the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The town was Anson City, Old Jones's county seat, where they raise pold angus cattle and waving whiskered wheat, where the air is soft and balmy and dry and full of health, and the prairies is exploding with agricultural wealth, where they print the Texas Western that Heck McCann supplies with news and yarns and stories of most amazing size, where Frank Smith pulls the badger on knowing tender feet, and Democracy's triumphant and mighty hard to beat.

Where lives that good old hunter John Milsap from Lamar, who used to be the sheriff back east in Paris, saw twas there, I said, Anson with the lively widow wall that I went to that reception the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The boys had left the ranches and come to town, and piles the ladies kind of scattering had gathered in for miles, and yet the place was crowded, as I remember well, twas got for the occasion at the morning Star Hotel.

The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine and a vial come in Poorard by the stage from Abilene.

The room was togged out gorgeous with mistletoe and shawls, and candles flickered frescoes around the airy walls.

The women folks looked lovely, The boys looked kinda tried till their leader commenced Yellin' whoa fellas let stampede and the music started sighing and a wailin through the hall.

Is a kind of introduction to the Cowboy's Christmas Ball.

The leader was a fellow that came from Swinson's ranch.

They called him Windy Billy from Little dead Man's branch.

His rig was kind of careless, big spurs and high heeled boots.

He had the reputation that comes when fellas shoots.

His voice was like a bugle upon the mountain's height.

His feet were animated, and a mighty movin sight when he commenced to holler, naw, fellas, stake your pen like horns, tall them heifers and rustle em like men.

Salute your lovely critters.

Niw swing and let em go climb the rape vine.

Round em all hands, dosey dough, you mavericks, join the round up.

Just skip er waterfall.

Huh.

It was getting active the cowboys Christmas Ball.

The boys was tolerable, skittish.

The lady's powerful neat that old bass vial's music just got there with both feet that wailin frisky fiddle, I never shall forget, and Wendy kept us singin' I think I hear him.

Yet o Xes chase their squirrels and cut him to one side.

Spur treadwell to the center with cross Pete Charlie's bride, Doc Hollis down the middle, and Twine the lady's chain.

Varn Andrews pen the phillies in Big t Diamond's train.

I'll pull your freight together.

Now, swallow fork and change Big Boston lead the trail herd through little pitchforks.

Range per round your gentle pussies.

Now rope em balance all huh.

It was gettin active the cowboys Christmas ball, the dust rise fast and furious.

We all just galloped round till the scenery got so giddy that z bar Dick was downed.

We buckled to our partners and told him to hold on, then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn.

Don't tell me about cotillions or Germans, No SuRie.

That whirl at Anson City just takes the cake with me.

I'm sick of lazy shufflings of them.

I've had my fill.

Give me a frontier breakdown, backed up by Windy.

Bill mc allister ain't nowhere.

When Wendy leads the show.

I've seen em both in harness, and so I sort of know, Oh Bill, I shan't forget you, and I'll oftentimes recall that lively gaited swaller The Cowboys Christmas Ball.

End of The Cowboys Christmas Ball by William Lawrence Chittenden