Who to himself is law, no law doth need.
Envy is like a fly that passes all the body's sounder parts, and dwells upon the sores.
October on the Sheep Range
There ain't no leaves to turn to gold-
There ain't a tree in sight-
In other ways the herder's told
October's come, all right.
Jest like ten thousand souls, all lost,
The wind howls-ain't it nice!-
The water-hole is froze acrost
With crinkly-crackly ice.
The sheep bed down before the sun
Has hit the rim of hills;
The prairie wolves are on the run
To make their nightly kills.
But kyards are sayin', 'Solitaire,'
The bacon's fryin' prime;
The old sheep wagon's free from care
In late October time.