It was great.
There are plenty of places can put it all over that Osage country for straight scenery, but I never saw such a contented-looking place as that big prairie-land was that morning.

I've seen it with the tears running down its face, and pretty well draggled and seedy; but when we started out with the sun shining against our cheeks and the hills looking so warm and lazy and the hollows kind of smiling to themselves over something, and the prairie-dogs gossiping worse than a ladies' self-culture meeting, I tell you, it all looked good to me, and I told Frosty so.
"I'd rather be a forty-dollar puncher in this man's land," I enthused, "than a lily-of-the-field somewhere in civilization." "In other words," Frosty retorted sarcastically, "you _think_ you prefer the canned vegetables and contentment, as the Bible says, to corn-fed beefsteak and homesickness thereby.

But you wait till yuh get to the ranch and old Perry Potter puts yuh through your paces.

You'll thank the Lord every Sundown that yuh _ain't_ a forty-dollar man that has got to drill right along or get fired; you'll pat yourself on the back more than once that you've got a cinch on your job and can lay off whenever yuh feel like it.

From all the signs and tokens, us Ragged H punchers'll be wise to trade our beds off for lanterns to ride by.