Duane here, Dry Creek Wrangler School.

Another morning here in the tack room, trying to get some stuff done.

Of course we have a fire in the wood stove and just finished my third or fourth cup of coffee, but who's counting?

Got a good cigar going. I'll probably pronounce this wrong.

Mi Kietta. It's a good strong cigar. I like these pretty well. I picked up a box of them

recently. So anyway, I want to read you another poem this morning if that's okay.

This is called Life's Scars by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

And it's got a truth in it that I think more people ought to stop and pay attention to in their life.

They say the world is round, and yet I often think it's square.

So many little hurts we get from corners here and there.

But one great truth in life I've found while journeying to the West,

the only folks who really wound are those we love the best.

The man you thoroughly despise can rouse your wrath tis true.

Annoyance in your heart will rise at things mere strangers do.

But those are only passing ills.

This rule all lives will prove the rankling wound with aches and thrills is dealt by hands we love.

The choicest garb, the sweetest grace, are oft to strangers shown.

The careless mean the frowning face are given to our own.

We flatter those we scarcely know. We please the fleeting guest,

and deal full many a thoughtless blow to those we love the best. Love does not grow on every tree,

nor true hearts yearly bloom.

Alas, for those who only see this cut across a tomb.

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