©Carole MarshAll rights reserved.

The author would like to thank the Anson Public Library for their kind assistanceand recommends interested readers to obtain their book, Cowboy Country-ThePoetry of Larry Chittenden. The Ranch Poet of West Texas edited by Doris Spraberry.

The words and phrases in italics in this story are from “The Cowboy ChristmasBall” poem by Larry Chittenden.

Other Carole Marsh Books:

The Texas Pocket GuideThe Big Book of Texas Reproducible ActivitiesThe Terrific Texas Coloring BookMy First Book About TexasTexas Jeopary: Answers & Questions About the Lone Star StateTexas “Jography”: A Fun Run Through the Lone Star State

was a Jones Countycowpoke—well, that’s whatmy daddy called me. It waseasy to be eight in theSkinout Mountains in the

1880s. What was there not to like? Big,old land and sky, as far as my blue eyescould see. A comfy old ranch housewith Ma and Pa and Grandpa. Quiltsfor snuggling and corn pudding forgobbling.

I had a pile of friends: all the cowboyson the ranch, one who wrote poems justfor me . . . so many cottontail rabbitsthat sometimes the front yard looked

like it snowed in

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summer! There was all the cattle tokeep me company—and busy! And anyglance any which way and you couldspot antelope, deer, turkeys, badger, andpossum. Of course we also had bears,mountain lions, coyotes, and those scary,old Lobo wolves. And when I was still akid, buffalo! Mockingbirds andmeadowlarks. Wavin’ wheat. Big sky.Big stars. Big hopes. Big dreams.

What I didn’t have were any brothers orsisters, no cousins nearby, no other kid(well, Grandpa sorted counted) to tusslewith, but I got by. In spring andsummer and autumn, we were some

kinda busy with all the

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ranch work, and swimmin’ in the pond,and balin’ hay and all those elbow-bendin’ chores. I helped Ma put up jarsof stuff for winter. I did just abouteverything around the ranch thecowboys did. They made fun of meanyway, and teased me something awful,but they loved me like a little kidbrother, I could tell. I got back at ’emsometimes—just ask Bowleg Johnson’bout that frog in his coffee!

My best friend was just the land itsownself. I could lay in my bed in theloft and look out and run my finger overthe edges of the mountains far out on

the sky. At summer’s

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