She was nothin’ much to look at, that there old fleabitten gray.
She’d a cranky disposition, but you liked her any way.
Wasn’t big nor wasn’t little, wasn’t no particular breed,
But you kep her fer a bell mare ’cause she always took the lead.
When you had to work rough country where a wagon couldn’t go;
Climbin’ up onto the mesa with yore pack train movin’ slow.
Through the pinnacles and ledges they would foller where she led,
It was good to hear the jingle of the bell mare up ahead.
In the swampy river bottoms, in the early mornin’ hush;
When you started out to wrangle in the fog and in the brush;
If you once could git the bell mare why the rest was easy found,
And yore horse would chomp the bridle while you listened fer the sound.
‘Round the campfire in the evenin’ when they had big yarns to tell,
Faint and dim off in the distance come the jingle of the bell.
Or a driftin’ down a canyon when the sun was blazin’ hot,
How she kep the bell a ringin’ to her steady even trot.
Years have gone, there’s been big changes, but sometimes when yore alone.
Some sound you didn’t notice, makes you recollect the tone.
And it starts your memory driftin’ till at last you feel the spell.
Of the country where you wrangled, and the jingle of the bell.
(Bruce Kiskaddon)
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Based on Topics: Change Poems, Countries Poems, Horse PoemsBased on Keywords: climbin, bottoms, movin, swampy, driftin, yarns, evenin, mesa, blazin, ringin, campfire