My dear unexacting, much-forgiving reader—lover of rural-songs and of rural singers: Now, since having spent many happy days in the health-gaining pursuit after the fleet-winged goddess Pleasure, and in camping on the trail of the scarcely less inconstant muse, among Colorado’s grassy, grove-filled valleys, arid plains, and lofty, snow-capped mountains, with the sad-faced “tourist friend” sometimes, and sometimes with some others, for the writer’s camp-fire side companions, and having found life good and Nature joyous, and as “There is more or less poetry about the souls of all men”—(and some women also, perhaps!) it is not strange, therefore, (is it?) that the author of this unpretentious little book has fallen, half-unconsciously, as it were, into hymning joy-notes to Nature and to disconsolate humanity (presumably!) likewise.
Now, trusting, therefore, that a more lengthy retrospection will not be necessary to sufficiently apologize for our unpremeditated literary transgressions, our impromptu sentimental love-ditties, etc., we therefore, with best wishes to all and with malice to none, and with the reader’s kind permission, will accordingly without further delay or comment, proceed to the final rehearsal of our felicitous, although evidently artless, minstrelsy.