CORRESPONDENCE.
LIFE IN TEXAS.
l_Fitom A CORRESPONDENT.] RaRChe, on the Rio Grande, September 16th, Mt. IT must be many years now (how they do shut up in these latter days like a telescope) since I confided to you in these columns the joy—not unmixed with reverence—of my first interview with that worthy small person (I am sure he must be a person) the tumble-bug of the U.S.A. I looked upon him in those days as, on the whole, the most industrious and athletic little creature it had ever been my privilege to encounter. I am obliged now to take most of that back, for to-day I have dis- covered that he isn't a circumstance to his Mexican cousin on this aide the Rio Grande. At any rate, the specimens I have met with here are not only bigger, but work half as hard again, and about twice as quick. I was sitting just now in the verandah in front of this ranche-cabin, waiting for the horses to be saddled-up at the corral just below, and looking lazily, now eastward over the river, and the wide Texan plains beyond, fading away in the haze till the horizon looked like the Atlantic in a calm, now westward to the jagged outline of the Sierra Nevada, gleaming in the sunshine 60 miles away, when I became aware of something moving near my feet. Looking down I found that it was a tumble-bug, rolling a ball of dirt he had put together, till it was at least four times as big as himself, towards the rough stony descent just beyond the verandah, at a pace which fairly staggered me. In a few seconds he was across the floor and in amongst the stones which lay thickly over the slope beyond. Here his troubles began. First he pushed his ball backwards over a big stone, on the further side of which he and it fell headlong—no, not headlong, stern foremost—some five inches, rolling over one another twice at the bottom. But he never quitted hold, and began pushing away merrily again . without a moment's pause. Then be ran the ball into a cul-de- sac between two stones, some inches high. After two or three dead heaves, which lifted the ball at least his own length up the side of the stones,—and you must remember, to judge of the feat, that he was standing on his head to do it,—he quitted hold, turned round and looked at the situation. I am almost certain I saw him scratch his ear, or at least the side of his head, with his fore- claw. In a second or two he fixed on again with his hind claws, pushed the ball out of the cul-de-sac, and continued his journey. If that bug didn't put two and two together, by what process did he get out of that cul-de-sac ? Cogito, ergo sum. Was I wrong in calling him a person ? Well, I won't trouble you with further particulars of his journey, but he ran his big ball into his hole under a mesquite-bush, 19.% yards from the spot on the verandah where I first noticed him, in 11 minutes and a few seconds by my watch. I made a calculation before mounting, that, comparing my bug with an average Mexican, 5ft. 8 in. high, and weighing 10 stone, the ball of dirt would be at least equal to a bale of cotton, 8 ft. in diameter, and weighing half a ton, which the man would have to push or carry 21, miles in 11 minutes, to equal the feat of his tiny fellow-citizen. lathe depressed condition of Mexico, might not this enormous bug- power be utilised somehow for the benefit of the Republic ?
I had barely finished my ciphering when I was called to horse and in a few minutes was riding across a vast plain, nearly bare of grass in this drought, but dotted with mesquite-bu shes, prickly- pear, and other scrub, so that the general effect was still green. The riding was rough, as much loose stone lay about, and badgers', Jack Rabbits', and other creatures' holes abounded ; but the small Mexican horse I rode was perfectly sure-footed, and I ambled along, swelling with pride at my quaint saddle, with pummel some 8 in. high, and depending lasso, showing that for the time I was free of the honourable fraternity of "gentlemen cow-punchers." Besides myself, our party consisted of the two ranche-men, an Englishman and an American, aged about 30, old comrades on long drives through the Indian reserves, and up to the settled States, 1,000 miles away to the North, but ndw anchored on this glorious ranche on the Rio Grande, and a cow-boy. The Englishman's yellow hair was cropped close to his head, and his fair skin was burnt as red, I suppose, as skin will burn ; the Marylander's black hair was as closely cropped, and his skin burnt an equally deep brown. The cow-boy, an English lad of about twenty, reconciled the two types, having managed to get his skin tanned a deep red, relieved by large, dark-brown freckles, from the midst of which his great blue eyes shone out in comical contrast. I fear- " The very mother that him bare She had not known her child."
They were all attired alike, in broad felt sombreros, blue shirts, and trousers thrust into boots reaching to the knee. Each had his lasso at pummel, and between them they carried a rifle, frying-pan, coffee-pot, big loaf, and fore-quarter of a porker— for we were out for a long day. A more picturesque or efficient- looking group it would be hard to find. I must resist the temptation of telling all we did and saw, and come at once to our ride home shortly before sunset. The ranche-men and I were abreast, and the cow-boy a few yards behind, when we came across a bunch of cattle, conspicuous amongst which strode along a stalwart yearling bull-calf, whose shining brindle hide and jaunty air showed that he, at least, was not suffering from the scanty food which the drought has left for the herds on these wide plains. He was already as big as his poor raw- boned mother, who went along painfully picking at every shrub and tuft in her path to provide his evening meal at her own expense. Now these dude-calves (who insist on living on their parents, and will do nothing for their own livelihood) can only be cured by the insertion of a horse-ring in the upper lip, so that they cannot turn it up to take hold of the maternal udder, and it is often in bad times a matter of life or death to the cows to get them ringed. After a conference of a few seconds, the Marylander shifted the rifle to the saddle of the Englishman (already ornamented with the frying-pan and coffee-pot), and calling to the cow-boy; dashed off for the bunch of cattle. Next moment the cow-boy shot past us at full speed, gathering up his lasso as he went; the bull-calf was "cut out" of the bunch as if by magic, and went straight away, through mesquite- brush and prickly-pears, at a pace which kept his pursuers at their utmost stretch not to lose ground. It was all they could do to hold it, never for a full mile getting within lasso-reach of Bonbon's, the ranche-man following like Fate, upright from shoulder to toe (they ride, with very long stirrups), bridle-hand low, and right hand swinging the lasso slowly round his head, awaiting his chance for a throw, the cow-boy close on his flank, ranche-man No. 2 clattering along, pot, kettle, and rifle soaring and swinging round his knees, but availing himself of every turn in the chase so as to keep within thirty or forty yards. I, a bad fourth, but near enough to see the whole and share the excite- ment (if, indeed, I hadn't it all to myself, the sport being to tlie rest a part of the daily round). The crisis came at the foot of a mound tip which Boliboras had gained some yards, bat in the descent had slackened his pace and the pursuers were on him. The lasso flew from the raised right hand and was round his
neck, a dexterous twist brought the rope across his fore legs, and next moment he was over on his side half throttled. I was up in some five seconds, during which his lassoer had him by the horns, ranche-man No. 2 was prone with all his weight on his shoulders, and the cow-boy on his hind quarters, catching at his tail with his left hand. That bull-calfs struggle to rise was as superb as Bertram Risingham's in " Rokeby," and as futile ; for the cow-boy had caught his tail and passed it between his hind legs, and by pulling hard kept one leg brandishing aimlessly in the air, while the weight of the ranche-men subdued his fore-quarters. The ring was passed through his upper lip and the lasso off his neck in a few seconds more, and the ranche- men turned to mount, saying to the cow-boy, "Just hold on a minute." The cow-boy passed the tail back between the hind legs, grasped the end firmly and stood expectant. Boliborus lay quiet for a second or two, and then bounded to his feet, glaring round in rage and pain to choose which of his foes to go for, when he became aware of something wrong behind, and looking round realised the state of the case. Down went his head, and round he went with a rush for his own tail end, but the tail and boy were equal to the occasion, and the latter still holding on tight by the former, sent back a defiant kick at the end of each rush, which, however, never got within two feet of the bull's nose, and could be only looked upon as a proper defiance. Then Boliborus tried stealing round to take his tail by surprise, but all to as little pur- pose, when the ranche-men, who were now both mounted, to end the farce, rode round in front of the beast, caught his eye, and cried, "Let go." Whisking his freed tail in the air he made a rush, but only a half-hearted one, at the nearest, who just wheeled his horse, and as he passed administered a con- temptuous thwack over his loins with the lasso. Boliborus now stood looking down his nose at the appendant ring, revolving his next move, with so comic an expression that I burst into a roar of laughter, in which the rest joined out of Courtesy. This was too much for him, as ridicule proves for so many two- legged calves, so he tossed his head in the air, gave a flirt with his heels, and trotted off after his mother, a sadder and, let us hope, wiser bull-call; in any case, a ringed one, and bound in future to get his own living.
On my ride home my mind was much occupied by that cow- boy, who rode along by me—telling how he had been reading ' Gulliver's Travels" again (amongst other things), found it wasn't a mere boy's book, and wanted to get a life of Swift— in his battered, old outfit, for which no Jew in Rag-Fair would give him five shillings. The last time I had seen him, two years ago, he had just left Haileybury, a bit of a dandy, with very tight clothes, and so.,stiff a white collar that on his arrival in Texas he had been nicknamed "the Parson." At home he might by this time be just through responsions by the help of cribs and manuals, having contracted in the process a rooted -distaste for classical literature. Possibly, he might have pulled in his college boat, and won a plated cup at lawn-tennis, and all this at a cost of, say, £250 a year As it is, besides costing nothing, he can cook a spare-rib of pork to a tarn on a forked stick, hold a bull-calf by the tail, and is voluntarily wrestling .(not without certain glimmerings of light) with " Sartor Resartus." Which career for choice ? How say you, Mr.
[Our bright Correspondent answers his own question. Why is he pleased because of that " Sartor Resartus " P—En. Spectator.]
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