What yuh doing, Bud?
Writing poetry ?" Thurston nodded assent with certain mental reservations; so far the editors couldn't seem to make up their minds that it was poetry.
"Well, say, I wish you'd slap in a lot uh things about hazy, lazy, daisy days in the spring--that jingles fine!--and green grass and the sun shining and making the hills all goldy yellow, and prairie dogs chip-chip-chipping on the 'dobe flats.

(Prairie dogs would go all right in poetry, wouldn't they?
They're sassy little cusses, and I don't know of anything that would rhyme with 'em, but maybe you do.) And read it all out to me after supper.

Maybe it'll make me kinda forget there's a blizzard on." "Another one ?" Thurston got up to scratch a trench in the half-inch layer of frost on the cabin window.

"Why, it only cleared up this morning after three days of it." "Can't help that.

This is just another chapter uh that same story.