And yet I know, in a little while, When the first glad hours were spent, I'd sicken and tire of my lazy isle And cease to be content!

I'd hear the call of the world's great game-- And battle with gold and men-- And I'd sail once more, with a heart of flame, Back to the game again!

--Berton Braley.

Saturday Evening Post, January 15, 1916.

THE PIONEERS

Current Opinion. Volume LIV. Page 497. (First published in The Coming Nation.)

We're the men that always march a bit before Tho we cannot tell the reason for the same; We're the fools that pick the lock that holds the door-- Play and lose and pay the candle for the game.

There's no blaze nor trail nor roadway where we go; There's no painted post to point the right-of-way, But we swing our sweat-grained helves, and we chop a path ourselves To Tomorrow from the land of Yesterday.

It's infrequent that we're popular at home, (Like King David we're not built for tending sheep,) And we scoff at living a la metronome, And quite commonly we're cynical and cheap.

True--we cannot hold a job to save our lives; We're a dreamy lot and steady work's a bore-- 'Til the luring of the Quest routs us out from sleep and rest And we rope and tie the world and call for more.

Well, they try to hold us back by foolish words-- But we go ahead and do the thing we've planned; Then they drive us out to shelter with the birds-- And the ravens bring our breakfast to our hand.

So they jail us and we lecture to the guards; They beat us--we make sermons of their whips; They feed us melted lead and behold the Word is said.

That shall burn upon a million living lips.

Are we fighters?......By our fellows we are fanged.

Are we workers?......Paid with blows we never earned.

Are we doctors?......Other doctors see us hanged.

Are we teachers?......Brother teachers have us burned.

But through all a Something somehow holds us fast 'Spite of every beast-hung brake and steaming fen; And we keep the torch on high till a comrade presses by When we pass it on and die--and live again!

A LITTLE BOOK OF LOCAL VERSE

Author of "The Masque of Marsh and River." Copyright, 1915, by the Author. Pages 13-14.

When shall we together Tramp beneath the sky, Thrusting through the weather As swimmers strive together, You and I?

How we ranged the valleys, Panted up the road, Sang in sudden sallies Of mirth that woke the valleys Where we strode!

Glad and free as birds are, Laughter in your eyes, Wild as poets' words are, You were as the birds are, Very wise.

Not for you the prison Of the stupid town; When the winds were risen, You went forth from prison, You went down,

Down along the river Dimpling in the rain, Where the poplars shiver By the dancing river, And again

Climbed the hills behind you When the rains were done; Only God could find you With the town behind you In the sun!

Don't you hear them calling, Blackbirds in the grain, Silver raindrops falling Where the larks are calling You in vain?

Comrade, when together Shall we tramp again In the summer weather, You and I together, Now as then?

JOSEPH P. WEBSTER.

No one who reads this book is unfamiliar with "The Sweet Bye and Bye." But how many of us, as we sang that song, realized that both its words and music were written by a Wisconsin man,--Joseph P. Webster?

He was born in New Hampshire in 1819, but he lived most of his life at Elkhorn, where he died in 1875. He was a member of many musical societies, and was the composer of many other songs, the best known of the latter being "Lorena."

SWEET BYE AND BYE

Composed by Joseph Philbrick Webster, February, 1868.

I.

There's a land that is fairer than day, And by faith we can see it afar, For the Father waits over the way, To prepare us a dwelling place there.

Chorus.

In the sweet by and by, We shall meet on that beautiful shore; In the sweet by and by, We shall meet on that beautiful shore.

II.

We shall sing on that beautiful shore The melodious songs of the blest, And our spirits shall sorrow no more-- Not a sigh for the blessings of rest.

III.

To our bountiful Father above, We will offer the tribute of praise, For the glorious gifts of His love, And the blessings that hallow our days.

WRITERS OF LOCAL DISTINCTION

The greatest difficulty confronting the compilers of any anthology is involved in the necessary exclusion, through lack of space, or else, in some instances, through lack of unmistakable manifestation of literary merit, of some authors and selections that would no doubt be welcomed by many readers of the volume. In the present work it has been the main purpose to set forth in due prominence the works of those writers of our state who have displayed unmistakable literary merit, and who have, beyond doubt, possessed both a message and a marked facility in giving it to the world. We now come to those who, usually despite the rigorous exactions of hurried and anxious frontier lives, have sensed the essential elements of poetry or story in their workaday lives, and have had the courage and optimism necessary to write and publish.

To show just what courage it took and just what spirit impelled these writers, let us quote from the preface to

A COUNTRY GIRL'S FATE

BY C. F. SHERIFF.

... "When Ed. Coe, of Whitewater, Wisconsin, began some twelve years ago publishing Cold Spring items, signed by 'Greenhorn,' he published the first lines I ever wrote, at which time some spirit (or some unseen thing) seemed to be always whispering in my ear that I must write a book.

"Never could I drive from me these thoughts, and situated as I was, with plenty of farm work to do, no education at all, no knowledge of such business, no friends to help me, but lots to kick me down, I can tell you I was pretty well discouraged, and if I had not had lots of courage, the contents of this book would not have been written.

"This work is the only kind of work that I can get interested in, and should I pass to the mysterious beyond without gaining any name in this way, I would declare with my last breath that my life, as far as myself was concerned, had been a failure."