Men of the older, gentler soil, Loving the things that their fathers wrought-- Worn old fields of their fathers' toil, Scarred old hills where their fathers fought-- Loving their land for each ancient trace, Like a mother dear for her wrinkled face, Such as they never can understand The way we have loved you, young, young land!

Born of a free, world-wandering race, Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod.

What did we care for the fathers' place, Having ours fresh from the hand of G.o.d?

Who feared the strangeness or wiles of you When from the unreckoned miles of you, Thrilling the wind with a sweet command, Youth unto youth called, young, young land?

North, where the hurrying seasons changed Over great gray plains where the trails lay long, Free as the sweeping Chinook we ranged, Setting our days to a saddle song.

Through the icy challenge you flung to us, Through your shy Spring kisses that clung to us, Following far as the rainbow spanned, Fiercely we wooed you, young, young land!

South, where the sullen black mountains guard Limitless, shimmering lands of the sun, Over blinding trails where the hoofs rang hard, Laughing or cursing, we rode and won.

Drunk with the virgin white fire of you, Hotter than thirst was desire of you; Straight in our faces you burned your brand, Marking your chosen ones, young, young land.

When did we long for the sheltered gloom Of the older game with its cautious odds?

Gloried we always in sun and room, Spending our strength like the younger G.o.ds.

By the wild sweet ardor that ran in us, By the pain that tested the man in us, By the shadowy springs and the glaring sand, You were our true-love, young, young land.

When the last free trail is a prim, fenced lane And our graves grow weeds through forgetful Mays, Richer and statelier then you'll reign, Mother of men whom the world will praise.

And your sons will love you and sigh for you, Labor and battle and die for you, But never the fondest will understand The way we have loved you, young, young land.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_Born of a free, world-wandering race,_ _Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod._"]

THE WESTERNER

My fathers sleep on the sunrise plains, And each one sleeps alone.

Their trails may dim to the gra.s.s and rains, For I choose to make my own.

I lay proud claim to their blood and name, But I lean on no dead kin; My name is mine, for the praise or scorn, And the world began when I was born And the world is mine to win.

They built high towns on their old log sills, Where the great, slow rivers gleamed, But with new, live rock from the savage hills I'll build as they only dreamed.

The smoke scarce dies where the trail camp lies, Till the rails glint down the pa.s.s; The desert springs into fruit and wheat And I lay the stones of a solid street Over yesterday's untrod gra.s.s.

I waste no thought on my neighbor's birth Or the way he makes his prayer.

I grant him a white man's room on earth If his game is only square.

While he plays it straight I'll call him mate; If he cheats I drop him flat.

Old cla.s.s and rank are a wornout lie, For all clean men are as good as I, And a king is only that.

I dream no dreams of a nurse-maid state That will spoon me out my food.

A stout heart sings in the fray with fate And the shock and sweat are good.

From noon to noon all the earthly boon That I ask my G.o.d to spare Is a little daily bread in store, With the room to fight the strong for more, And the weak shall get their share.

The sunrise plains are a tender haze And the sunset seas are gray, But I stand here, where the bright skies blaze Over me and the big today.

What good to me is a vague "may be"

Or a mournful "might have been,"

For the sun wheels swift from morn to morn And the world began when I was born And the world is mine to win.

THE WIND IS BLOWIN'

My tired hawse nickers for his own home bars; A hoof clicks out a spark.

The dim creek flickers to the lonesome stars; The trail twists down the dark.

The ridge pines whimper to the pines below.

The wind is blowin' and I want you so.

The birch has yellowed since I saw you last, The Fall haze blued the creeks, The big pine bellowed as the snow swished past, But still, above the peaks, The same stars twinkle that we used to know.

The wind is blowin' and I want you so.

The stars up yonder wait the end of time But earth fires soon go black.

I trip and wander on the trail I climb-- A fool who will look back To glimpse a fire dead a year ago.

The wind is blowin' and I want you so.

Who says the lover kills the man in me?

Beneath the day's hot blue This thing hunts cover and my heart fights free To laugh an hour or two.

But now it wavers like a wounded doe.

The wind is blowin' and I want you so.

ON BOOT HILL

Up from the prairie and through the pines, Over your straggling headboard lines Winds of the West go by.

You must love them, you booted dead, More than the dreamers who died in bed-- You old-timers who took your lead Under the open sky!

Leathery knights of the dim old trail, Lawful fighters or scamps from jail, Dimly your virtues shine.

Yet who am I that I judge your wars, Deeds that my daintier soul abhors, Wide-open sins of the wide outdoors, Manlier sins than mine.

Dear old mavericks, customs mend.

I would not glory to make an end Marked like a homemade sieve.

But with a touch of your own old pride Grant me to travel the trail I ride.

Gamely and gaily, the way you died, Give me the nerve to live.

Ay, and for you I will dare a.s.sume Some Valhalla of sun and room Over the last divide.

There, in eternally fenceless West, Rest to your souls, if they care to rest, Or else fresh horses beyond the crest And a star-speckled range to ride.