He'd fill up with
contempt for you like a water-hole in April. Shore! it's the rowels;
they oughter be about the size an' shape of a mornin' star, them
rowels had. Then a gent might hope for action. An' whyever don't
you-all wear leather chapps that a-way, instead of them jimcrow
boots an' trousers? They're plumb amoosin', them garments be. No, I
onderstands; you don't go chargin' about in the bresh an' don't need
chapps, but still you oughter don 'em for the looks. Thar's a wrong
an' a right way to do; an' chapps is right. Thar's Johnny Cook of
the Turkey Track; he's like you; he contemns chapps. Johnny charges
into a wire fence one midnight, sort o' sidles into said boundary
full surge; after that Johnny wears chapps all right. Does it hurt
him? Son, them wires t'ars enough hide off Johnny, from some'ers
about the hock, to make a saddle cover, an' he loses blood
sufficient to paint a house. He comes mighty near goin' shy a laig
on the deal. It's a lesson on c'rrect costumes that Johnny don't
soon forget.
"No, I never rides a hoss none now. These yere Eastern saddles ain't
the right model. Which they's a heap too low in the cantle an' too
low in the horn. An' them stirrup leathers is too short, an' two
inches too far for'ard.
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