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Speakin' of the Jones an' Plummer trail, I once hears a dance-hall girl who volunteers some songs over in a Tucson hurdygurdy, an' that maiden sort o' dims my sights some. First, she gives us The Dying Ranger, the same bein' enough of itse'f to start a sob or two; speshul when folks is, as Colonel Sterett says, 'a leetle drinkin'.' Then when the public clamours for more she sings something which begins: "'Thar's many a boy who once follows the herds,
On the Jones an' Plummer trail;
Some dies of drink an' some of lead,
An' some over kyards, an' none in bed;
But they're dead game sports, so with naught but good words,
We gives 'em "Farewell an' hail."'
"Son, this sonnet brings down mem'ries; and they so stirs me I has to vamos that hurdygurdy to keep my emotions from stampedin' into tears. Shore, thar's soft spots in me the same as in oilier gents; an' that melody a-makin' of references to the old Jones an' Plummer days comes mighty clost to meltin' everything about me but my guns an' spurs.
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