Class TS s^^^ 
 
 COFlfRIGlir D&posm 
 
Songs of 
 THE Soil 
 
 1=] 
 
 Page Three 
 
Copyright 1922 
 
 by 
 
 Howard M. Railsback 
 
 
Songs 0/ 
 THE Soil 
 
 A small sheaf of verse 
 
 from the field 
 where poetry is lived, 
 
 by 
 Howard M. Railsback 
 
 'I have lawns, I have bowers 
 I have fruits, I have flowers. 
 The lark is my morning charmer; 
 So you jolly dogs now, 
 Here's God bless the plow — 
 Long life and content to the farmer." 
 
 — Rhyme on an old pitcher of English pottery. 
 
 
 Page Five 
 

TO MY MOTHER 
 
 WHO, LIKE YOURS, IS THE BEST 
 MOTHER IN THE WORLD, AND FROM 
 WHOM HER SON ALWAYS RECEIVED 
 INSPIRATION IN THE THOUGHT 
 THAT, NO MATTER HOW COMMON- 
 PLACE WERE THE PRODUCTIONS 
 FROM HIS PEN, THEY WOULD AL- 
 WAYS FIND FAVOR IN HER EYES. 
 THIS LITTLE BOOKLET IS 
 AFFECTIONATELY 
 DEDICATED. 
 
 Page Seven 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 The author has no illusions regarding 
 this little volume of verse. He does not 
 bare his brow in expectancy of the laurel 
 wreath. There has been no constant 
 attempt to conform strictly to the rules 
 of formal literary art. Rather, he has 
 made of the writing a diversion — a relief 
 now and then from the prosaic in every- 
 day duties; a happy recess such as the 
 farm boy enjoys when a heavy summer 
 rain interrupts the work-a-day program 
 and sends him with rod and bait down to 
 where the fish are waiting. This diver- 
 sion has been made all the more enjoyable 
 because of the many cordial letters that 
 have come from readers of these poems 
 since they began to appear in THE 
 FURROW and elsewhere; and if, through 
 their publication in this little book, others 
 perchance find the simple heart interest 
 which those readers have apparently 
 enjoyed, the author will regard his avo- 
 cation as a writer of verse well worth 
 
 while. 
 
 Howard M. Railsback 
 
 Moline, Illinois, 
 Nov. 24, 1922 
 
 Page Nine 
 
■»W>^ii^*»)(t*>*^><!H{. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 Part I. Songs of the Soil 
 
 Page 
 
 The Plugger 15 
 
 The Sticker 17 
 
 Retired 19 
 
 The Voice of the Farm 21 
 
 Time Tells 23 
 
 The Stay-at-Home 25 
 
 Our Old Swimmin' Hole 27 
 
 Work and Live — Today 29 
 
 Contentment 31 
 
 The Fighter 33 
 
 The Old Home Town 35 
 
 Slippin' 37 
 
 The Optimist , 39 
 
 Part II. The Farmer of Tomorrow 
 
 Pards. 43 
 
 Milkin' Time on a Frosty Morn 45 
 
 The Reward 47 
 
 The Convert 49 
 
 Paternalism 51 
 
 Part III. ''The Second Line'' 
 
 Defenders of the Second Line 55 
 
 His Bit 57 
 
 The Farmer Patriot 59 
 
 His Neighbor's Son 61 
 
 His Prayer 63 
 
 The Call 65 
 
 The Home-Coming 67 
 
 Part IV. Miscellaneous 
 
 Life's Evening 71 
 
 The Old Songs 73 
 
 The Sideline Patriot 75 
 
 The Insult 77 
 
 The New Year 79 
 
 Page Eleven 
 
Parti 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOIL 
 
 Page Thirteen 
 
The Plugger 
 
 Page Fourteen 
 
He warn't very strong on book lar- 
 nin' stuff, 
 
 'N Greek — it war sure Greek to him. 
 
 But he read all he could about farm- 
 in' and sich, 
 
 Tho' his source of knowledge war 
 slim — 
 
 'N the neighbors 'ud say, in a light 
 
 sort of way, 
 "He's a plugger." 
 
 'N when a dry spell 'ud burn up his 
 
 corn, 
 Er frost 'ud play heck with his crop; 
 
 'N the cholera 'ud take off a few fat- 
 tened shoats. 
 
 He'd plug, 'n his jaw'd never drop — 
 
 'N the neighbors who'd quit, kinder 
 perked up a bit 
 
 At the plugger. 
 
 By pluggin' he's managed to 'mass 
 
 quite a lot 
 Of farm lands and blue-blooded 
 
 stock; 
 His note's good as gold — 'n so is his 
 
 word. 
 He's got nothin' lyin' in hock — 
 'N the neighbors — somehow, they 
 
 take counsel right now 
 From th' plugger. 
 
 I reckon as how when harvest time 
 
 comes, 
 'N he cashes in — so to speak. 
 There'll be a big halo awaitin' fer 
 
 him 
 Upon t'other side of the creek — 
 'N Peter will say, in a proud sort of 
 
 way, 
 'Pass the plugger." 
 
 ^*fe,v>K<^ i^f^^^^,. 
 
 "^'^f^XWi 
 
 Page Fifteen 
 
The Sticker 
 
«.*^^;e^- , 
 
 Sometimes, when I get restless-like, 
 'N sorter want to break away 
 
 From farmin' — 'n I'd like to hike 
 To where the lights are bumin' — 
 say — 
 
 I jest set down an' figger. 
 
 O' course, th' lights ain't shinin' 
 bright 
 Out here — but when th' work is 
 done. 
 There's lots of comfort from th' light 
 Of the old moon — an' settin' sun — 
 If you j est stop to figger. 
 
 The air is purer, too — an' smells 
 Somehow — well, jest as tho' th' 
 breeze 
 Had filtered thro' th' brooks an' dells, 
 'N new mown hay 'n buddin' 
 trees — 
 When you jest stop to figger. 
 
 'N then there's growin' crops to till, 
 *N stock that must be tended to; 
 
 There's little time fer settin' still 
 'N mopin' 'round 'n gettin' blue — 
 
 When you jest stop to figger. 
 
 There ain't no doubt but happiness 
 Is 'bout th' biggest thing worth 
 while 
 
 On this old earth — 'n so I guess 
 'Fore leavin' home, it's worth a 
 
 To jest set down an' figger. 
 
 Page Seventeen 
 
Retired 
 
 Page Eighteen 
 
We're goin' back to farmin', 
 
 My wife, 'n me, 'n Bill — 
 
 We're plumb wore out with loafin' — 
 
 Fagged out, jest settin' still. 
 
 Our place is fixed up farmlike, 
 We've pig pen, bees, — but shucks! 
 It crowds things — and the neighbors 
 Can't see much use fer ducks. 
 
 We're up at dawn of mornin', 
 Jest like we was at home, 
 'N do the chores — then somehow 
 Our thoughts begin to roam — 
 
 'N Bill gets sorter restless, 
 'N paws the boarded floor; 
 He's always gazin' homeward. 
 From out the stable door. 
 
 The town is made, I reckon, 
 Fer them that wants to rest. 
 Fer them that's used to workin', 
 Plain farmin' life's the best. 
 
 We're goin' back to farmin', 
 
 My wife, 'n me, 'n Bill — 
 
 We're plumb wore out with loafin' — 
 
 Fagged out, jest settin' still. 
 
 '■r'^^y^^^^-*'^^^^ 
 
 Page Nineteen 
 
The Voice of the 
 Farm 
 
 Page Twenty 
 
1^ 
 
 When the big, strong Voice of the 
 
 City calls, 
 'Till it roars in your ears — and the 
 
 Lights' brilliant glare 
 Sorter dazzles your eyes — and the 
 
 farmin' work palls — 
 Well, you hardly can wait 'till you've 
 
 landed there — 
 When you're leavin' home. 
 
 But the charm soon goes — and your 
 
 thoughts turn back 
 To the big-hearted folks and the old, 
 
 home-like place, 
 *N you realize times on the farm ain't 
 
 so slack, 
 *N they're not cuttin' down just to 
 
 keep up the pace — 
 When you hear from home. 
 
 So you think you'll go back — and you 
 
 pack your grip, 
 'N you try to rub out the bright shine 
 
 on your coat, 
 But you find you haven't the price of 
 
 the trip, 
 'N a big, throbbin' lump rushes up in 
 
 your throat — 
 When you can't get home. 
 
 Then the big, strong Voice of the City 
 
 seems 
 A great hollow echo, delusion and 
 
 snare — 
 'N you're sick of it all — and you lie 
 
 down to dreams 
 Of the joys of the folks and the hap- 
 
 t piness there — • 
 When you'll get back home. 
 
 .<// 
 
 i:^^- 
 
Time Tells 
 
 Page Twenty-two 
 
When the youngster is presented 
 With tin soldiers, brightly painted, 
 His ardour for his old toys quickly 
 cools. 
 But long ere the colors vanish 
 He discards them — and gets clannish 
 With his faded old rag doll or string 
 of spools. 
 
 Lo, again — the New Girl enters — 
 Seeing her, the school boy canters 
 Home, and smoothes his hair be- 
 fore the glass. 
 But the novelty soon fading. 
 You will find the youth parading 
 With the girl next door — his play- 
 mate, neighbor lass. 
 ****** 
 
 So it is with home-town spirit — 
 Though sometimes we spurn it, jeer it 
 When the Voices of the City loudly 
 
 call. 
 Comes the day when Truth will show 
 
 us 
 That the home-town folks, who know 
 
 us 
 With that old-time friendliness, are 
 
 best of all. 
 
 Page Twenty-three 
 
The Stay-at-Home 
 
 : Twenty-four 
 
It's a part of nature, human, 
 To be always frettin', fumin', 
 
 And to want to wander hither, yon 
 and thence. 
 And most every youthful feller, 
 Like the cow, is prone to beller 
 For the grass that grows on t'other 
 side the fence. 
 
 But when all is said and over, 
 It's the sweetest, juiciest clover 
 That's most times found right under 
 one's own shoe; 
 And the thing now most regretted 
 By the folks who've fumed and fret- 
 ted 
 And migrated, is their lack of vision 
 true. 
 
 Yet some chronic rainbow chasers — 
 Unsuccessful nation pacers — 
 
 Brand the Stay-at-Home's success 
 as simply luck; 
 But regardless of the kicker's 
 Diagnosis — every sticker's 
 
 Pot of gold is due to good old-fash- 
 ioned pluck. 
 
 ^ak 
 
 Page Twenty-five 
 
Our Old Swimmin* 
 Hole 
 
 Page Twenty-six 
 
You folks that has your beaches. 
 Your seasides or your lakes, 
 I often wonder, somehow. 
 If us plain country jakes 
 Aint had the fun you're seekin', 
 Tho* you would think it droll — 
 Well, leastwise we was happy, 
 At our old swimmin' hole. 
 
 The sand that formed our shore line 
 Was mostly muck and clay ; 
 The water sometimes muddy 
 'N roiled a bit — but, say. 
 We had the champeen swimmers, 
 'N divers, too — my soul — 
 We had most every thriller 
 At our old swimmin' hole. 
 
 "How deep's she, Jim?" you'd holler 
 To him who first jumped in. 
 He'd let down 'till the water 
 Would ripple 'round his chin, 
 *N hold his nose — then sinkin', 
 Jest like a lump o' coal, 
 "Sodeep — blub, bhib" — he'd answer; 
 At our eld swimmin' hole. 
 
 You folks that has your beaches, 
 Your seasides or your lakes, 
 I often wonder, somehow. 
 If us plain country jakes 
 Aint had the fun you're seekin', 
 Tho' you would think it droll — 
 Well, leastwise we was happy 
 At our old swimmin' hole. 
 
 ^? 
 
 ^-C 
 
Work and Live- 
 Today 
 
 Page Twenty-eight 
 

 The man of whom I tire. 
 One who rouses all my ire 
 
 And makes me want my varnished 
 desk to gnaw. 
 Is the fellow who's complaining 
 All the time — or else explaining 
 That his job's the "hardest one you 
 ever saw," 
 
 At more work he's always balking 
 And eternally is talking 
 
 Of the time when he'll retire, with- 
 draw, or quit 
 And enjoy himself — forgetting 
 That the man who's always fretting 
 O'er the present, finds the future a 
 misfit. 
 
 Don't forget — it's NOW we're living 
 And the service that we're giving 
 Is brimful of pleasures soon forever 
 gone. 
 There is work to do — and pleasure 
 To enjoy — don't wait for leisure 
 And retire — much better die with 
 harness on. 
 
 
 Page Twenty-nine 
 
Contentment 
 
 Page Thirty 
 
When all the farm work's over 
 When ends the Autumn day, 
 'N when the milkin's finished 
 'N stock is fed — well, say. 
 The feelin' leaves a feller 
 That's urgin' him to rove. 
 While sittin' 'round the kitchen 
 A-gassin' — by the stove. 
 
 The outside air is coolish 
 'N kinder sharp — but pshaw! 
 Indoors the kettle's hummin' — 
 Your heart jest starts to thaw, 
 'N warms up with the spirit 
 Inside the homelike cove; 
 While sittin' 'round the kitchen 
 A-gassin' — by the stove. 
 
 The sizzlin' food that's cookin' 
 Has got a sweeter smell; 
 The woodbox in the corner 
 Where chirpin* crickets dwell, 
 Gives up its woodsy odor. 
 The fragrance of the grove. 
 When sittin' 'round the kitchen 
 A-gassin' — by the stove. 
 
 There's mighty little worry 
 To make a feller gray. 
 The spirit of contentment 
 Jest fills the house, someway; 
 'N everybody's happy. 
 The real home ties are wove, 
 While sittin' 'round the kitchen 
 A-gassin* — by the stove. 
 
 fsfe] "3C::::ES 
 
 ::S 
 
 Page Thirty-one 
 
The Fighter 
 
 Page Thirty-two 
 
.^^ 
 
 ■E 
 
 y 
 
 From him who is disgusted 
 
 With livin' on the farm. 
 From him who says he's busted 
 
 And who, with false alarm. 
 Gives voice to steady wailin' 
 
 Damns things that are today — 
 For sake of better sailin' 
 
 Let's bolt — and "make some hay.' 
 
 No bread line's on our eighty. 
 
 No kitchen dolin' soup, 
 No hunger problems weighty. 
 
 No starvin', wide-eyed group 
 Awaitin' blasts that summon — 
 
 (The fact'ry whistle-call) 
 When wheels will start a-hummin', 
 
 And furnish work for all. 
 
 The world e'er will be needin' 
 
 The products of our soil. 
 Demand will be exceedin' 
 
 The yield, soon, of our toil. 
 There can't be any reapin' 
 
 Unless some sowin's done — 
 By fightin' — not by weepin'. 
 
 The battle's always won. 
 
 Page Thirty-three 
 
The Old Home Town 
 
 Page Thirty-four 
 
'Fore we leave it for the city, 
 With a feelin' 'kin to pity 
 
 We deplore its faults and cuss it up 
 and down; 
 And we wonder how we ever. 
 When its ties we come to sever, 
 E'er existed for so long in our home 
 town. 
 
 But the bright lights, gaily shinin' 
 Soon do pall — 'n' then we're pinin' 
 For a whole-souled smile instead of 
 offish frown. 
 And it's then there comes a-stealin' 
 O'er our homesick hearts the feelin' — 
 God's real folks always lived in our 
 home town. 
 
 Page Thirty-five 
 
SLIPPIN' 
 
 Page Thirty-six 
 
When I see some feller slippin' 
 With his clutch not zackly grippin'. 
 And his field crops lookin' sickly — 
 
 I feel sorry for him then. 
 And I would, as brother older. 
 Like to pat him on the shoulder 
 And say, "Buck up old feller — 
 
 Suppose you try again." 
 
 For there's seldom any people 
 Who ever reach the steeple. 
 Or acme of achievement. 
 
 Without a slip or fall. 
 When it comes to trip or tumble, 
 The things that never stumble 
 On this old earth — I reckon 
 
 A worm and snake's 'bout all. 
 
 It never pays a feller 
 
 To give up, bleat or beller. 
 
 When things don't go to suit him — 
 
 That'sthetimetopullMp-stream. 
 For the man who works the lever 
 Or the throttle, doesn't ever. 
 When he runs onto an up-grade. 
 
 Slow down, or shut off steam. 
 
 
 Page Thirty-seven 
 
The Optimist 
 
 Page Thirty-eight 
 
There's heaps of floatin' bubbles 
 
 Upon the sea of troubles, 
 
 That seem to loom up bigger than 
 
 the rest; 
 But don't give up, disgusted. 
 You'll find they're quickly busted, 
 By wadin* in to do your level best. 
 
 If cholera, with the chickens. 
 Has played the very dickens. 
 Things seem to be a-goin' to the 
 
 dogs — 
 There's lots of satisfaction, 
 A comfortin' reaction. 
 To know the same disease ain't 
 
 touched the hogs. 
 
 The wheat you are a-threshin'. 
 
 By flies, the genus Hessian, 
 
 May have been stung, until it looks 
 
 forlorn ; 
 But what's the use of worry? 
 Forget it in a hurry. 
 You'll maybe get a bumper crop of 
 
 corn. 
 
 When failure starts to beckon. 
 
 It always pays, I reckon. 
 
 To shut your eyes, 'n ears 'n forge 
 
 right by; 
 The world's no use fer yellow, 
 But stands behind the fellow 
 Who comes up smilin', always game 
 
 to try. 
 
 ^y\' . 
 
 
 Page Thirty-nine 
 
Part II 
 
 THE FARMER OF 
 TOMORROW 
 
 Page Forty-one 
 
Pards 
 
 Page Forty-two 
 
We hardly ever disagree 
 
 On how to run the place, 
 
 'N when I get to be a man, 
 
 I'll have a farm like dad, and plan 
 
 To beat his pace. 
 
 You see we're pardners, me and dad, 
 And tho' he says I'm just a lad, 
 He don't treat me as one; 
 He lets me in on his affairs, 
 I'll bet the city millionaires 
 Don't have more fun. 
 
 He gave to me a calf and pig. 
 And later on, when they get big, 
 I'll take them in to sell; 
 And with the money that they bring, 
 I'll maybe buy out dad next sprmg — 
 It's hard to tell. 
 
 Just why a feller likes to roam. 
 And leave the farm, his folks and 
 
 home. 
 Can sometimes well be seen; 
 He ain't a pard — he's just a hand. 
 And has to work to beat the band — 
 A farm machine. 
 
 ,i 
 
 Page Forty-three 
 
MiLKiN' Time on a 
 Frosty Morn 
 
 Page Forty-foiir 
 

 The sheep bell's tinkle on 
 
 morn, 
 'N the lonesome bark of a dog forlorn, 
 'N many otherearly sounds one hears — 
 They're not much joy to a feller's 
 
 ears 
 When he has to milk the cows. 
 
 I wonder if the poet who wrote the 
 
 lines 
 'Bout the com — and frost on the pun- 
 kin vines — 
 Ever woke up, contented until 
 He saw the frost 'round the window 
 
 sill— 
 'N he had to milk the cows. 
 
 Did he, I wonder, watch his steam- 
 in' nose 
 
 In a frosty room — 'n most of his 
 clothes 
 
 Seemed to be strewn all over the 
 floor, 
 
 Knees and teeth seein* which one 
 could rattle more — 
 
 When he had to milk the cows. 
 
 But then I reckon that it aint so bad; 
 For partnership with a feller's dad 
 Means helpin' out with work when 
 
 he can — 
 He's goin' through things that make 
 
 him a man. 
 When he has to milk the cows. 
 
 fl'-l 
 
 
 Page Forty-five 
 
The Reward 
 
 Page Forty-six 
 
^m^^ 
 
 There's lots o' work fer fellers 
 'Bout my age, on the farm; 
 
 There's calves to feed — 'n chickens — 
 'N when it's gettin' warm 
 'N things is started growin* 
 'N gettin' green — somehow — 
 
 It always seems to me like 
 
 There's scads of miles to plow. 
 
 The team — they get the fever, 
 'N loaf along the way; 
 
 Th' squeakin' tugs 'n collars 
 
 They sing a drowsy lay. 
 
 It's hard to keep a-goin' 
 'N plow — my feet they drag 
 'N trip on clods — 'n stumble, 
 'N things jest seem to lag. 
 * * * * 
 
 But gee — 'long near the ev'nin' 
 
 My spirits start to rise. 
 
 My heart begins a-throbbin'. 
 
 My thoughts are in the skies. 
 
 The furrows that I'm plowin' 
 
 Don't seem to be so far — 
 'Cause we'll all go a-ridin' 
 
 In our new tourin' car. 
 
 Page Forty-seven 
 
The Convert 
 
 Page Forty-eight 
 
:'^*M*<^^^ 
 
 .-^2 
 
 In early spring, when everything 
 
 Was bloomin' all around; 
 'N in the fall, when leaves 'n all 
 
 Lay scattered on the ground ; 
 We'd hitch the team.'n it would seem 
 
 We always had a load 
 When goin' to town — we'd mire down, 
 
 'Fore father dragged the road. 
 
 Our neighbor said with waggin' head 
 
 That father was a chump; 
 He was content, when city-bent. 
 
 Along the road to bump; 
 He couldn't see why father he 
 
 Cared how his horses blowed 
 While haulin' grain thru mud and 
 rain — 
 
 When father dragged the road. 
 
 But now the drag has stopped the wag 
 Of neighbor's head — he's went 
 
 An' has appraised his land and raised 
 The price 'bout ten per cent; 
 
 Without a jar, or bump, his car 
 Spins 'long by our abode 
 
 At sixty miles — he nods and smiles — 
 Since father dragged the road. 
 
 Page Forty-nine 
 
Paternalism 
 
 Page Fifty 
 
We're all the time a-winking 
 
 At the boy who keeps a-thinking 
 That he knows just how the farm 
 work should be done: 
 When he bucks up and does men- 
 tion 
 Hia views — with condescension 
 We smile paternally, "It can't be 
 done." 
 
 Then back he goes disgusted 
 
 Over good intent mistrusted. 
 Hope's seasons quickly change from 
 spring to fall 
 When one's views are not invited. 
 And, when offered, always blighted 
 By an unreceptive "dad," who 
 knows it all. 
 
 In narrow ways of dealing 
 
 With our work, we get the feeling 
 By someone else our work cannot be 
 done. 
 We're like the rooster, knowing. 
 Who thinks it is his crowing 
 
 That brings about the rising of the 
 sun. 
 
 / 7 / 
 ^1 /"'^ 
 
 ^MfSm 
 
 Page Fifty-one 
 
Part III 
 
 "THE SECOND LINE" 
 
 Page Fifty-three 
 
Defenders of the 
 Second Line 
 
 Page Fifty-four 
 
4 
 
 Plod on 
 
 Old faithful team — 
 
 Each step you take adown the field 
 
 Removes a nation just one step 
 
 From tyranny's control — the yield 
 
 Of crops that follows in your wake, 
 
 A nation's freedom helps to make — 
 
 Old faithful team, 
 
 Plod on. 
 
 Turn on 
 
 Old faithful plow — 
 Inanimate — yet what import 
 Your work is to a nation's life 
 And liberty! You build the fort 
 Of food defense, while urgently 
 The furrow whispers — anxiously — 
 "Old faithful plow, 
 Turn on." 
 
 Toil on 
 
 Son of the soil — 
 
 With steady stride — with singing 
 
 heart 
 From morn's pale light till setting 
 
 sun — 
 A privilege thus to do your part. 
 Grudge not the perspiration's flow; 
 'Tis part of freedom's debt you owe — 
 Son of the soil, 
 Toil on. 
 
 Page Fifty-five 
 
His Bit 
 
 Page Fifty-six 
 
When winter winds are blowin' 
 When it's rainin', sleetin*, snowin', 
 *N shiverin' cattle turn tail to the 
 
 storm; 
 There's a sort of a relievin', 
 Satisfyin', cozy feelin' 
 When you're sittin' 'round the fire 
 
 where it's warm. 
 
 'N your thoughtsturntothe trenches, 
 Where there are no chairs — nor 
 
 benches 
 Invitin'-like, placed 'round a crack- 
 
 lin' fire; 
 From your comfort comes a feelin' 
 Of selfishness — the ceilin' 
 Out there is sky — 'n carpets, mud 
 
 and mire. 
 
 So your eyes begin a-blinkin' 
 
 As you sit there, thinkin', thinkin'. 
 
 And you wonder how you're goin' 
 
 to do your bit — 
 N your heart begins a-singin' 
 As the words come to you ringin' 
 "It's food the fellows need — and lots 
 
 of it." 
 
 
 .^ 
 
 ^^». 
 
 
 Page Fifty-seven 
 
The Farmer Patriot 
 
 Page Fifty-eight 
 
all our fighting 
 
 We've marshalled 
 
 force 
 
 Out on the farm — we don't, of course, 
 Mean that we'll fight with sword and 
 
 gun, 
 But, say, they'll know when we are 
 
 done 
 That swords aren't all there is to war, 
 That powder can't go very far 
 
 Unless food gives it might. 
 
 Our folks have put in every bit 
 Of land they can in crops — and it 
 Shows that to get a whopping yield 
 You've got to study every field. 
 And use the best of implements. 
 And with the soil mix common sense, 
 To make your crops grow right. 
 
 We've drafted all the latest tools 
 Into our service — now the mules 
 And horses gaze from pastures green 
 At tractor plows, by gasolene 
 And kerosene machines propelled ; 
 Theirchugsandsputteringsareswelled 
 Into a mighty song. 
 
 New farm machines now bear the 
 
 brunt 
 Of work of farm hands at the front. 
 The women folks, to do their bit. 
 Are canning stuff — and lots of it. 
 So thus you see, we're organized 
 To do our part — we're mobilized — 
 
 Two hundred acres strong. 
 
 4 
 
 ^- m 
 
 #*^ 
 
 Page Fifty-nine 
 
His NEIGHBOR'S Son 
 
 Page Sixty 
 
Wr^-^ 
 
 W 
 
 l^<-^ 
 
 -1 *«^- 
 
 Si 
 
 Si 
 
 
 % 
 
 He's over there — my neighbor's son — 
 
 And in a letter that he writes. 
 He reckons, that, to beat the Hun, 
 
 The man who carries on and fights. 
 Has got to have the best of feed, 
 
 And plenty of it — and his dad 
 Wrote back, to meet the foodstuff 
 need 
 
 He'd farm more acres than he had 
 Before — "Go to it, son of mine — 
 
 I'll back you on the Second Line." 
 
 My neighbor's son is there and — well. 
 
 There's lots of other fellers' sons 
 A-fightin* like the very hell, 
 
 A-facin* damp and death and guns ; 
 And if a little harder work, 
 
 An extra hour or so per day, 
 On my part helps to win, I'll shirk 
 
 Not — but will try to pay 
 The debt that Freedom asks of me, 
 
 With work — with crops — with 
 loyalty. 
 
 Page Sixty-one 
 
His Prayer 
 
 Page Sixty-two 
 
'Tis very little that I ask. 
 
 That I may better fitted be 
 To carry on and do the task 
 
 My country's need demands of me. 
 A task, I said — nay, privilege — 
 
 This back-to-farming course of 
 mine. 
 To brand it else is sacrilege — 
 
 In helping hold The Second Line. 
 
 Grant only through the present strife 
 
 My youthful strength return again ; 
 The strength that from retired life 
 
 And ease — of years a score and ten — 
 Has given way to tender hands, 
 
 To dormant muscles, tender, too. 
 Return the things hard work de- 
 mands 
 
 To me until that work is through. 
 
 My heart is singing at the chance 
 
 To do my part — in other fields 
 My son is doing his — in France. 
 
 We'll glory in what teamwork 
 yields. 
 Oh, grant to me that one request, 
 
 That I may better fitted be 
 To carry on — accomplish best — 
 
 The work my country asks of me. 
 
 
 \ 
 
 W 
 
 Page Sixty three 
 
The Call 
 
 Page Sixty-four 
 
i 
 
 4v.. - 
 
 
 WAR I 
 
 And silent, plodding through it all. 
 
 An army — grim sons of the soil — 
 Responding to their country's call 
 
 For increased food — with patient 
 toil 
 They labored — yet for plaudits fine 
 
 They sought not — but upon them 
 fell 
 A world-rank which befits them well: 
 
 "Defenders of the Second Line." 
 
 PEACE ! 
 
 And in its wake a rumbling cry 
 
 From starving millions heavenward 
 goes. 
 Re-echoing in the Eastern sky: 
 "O send us food" — e'en erstwhile 
 foes 
 Turn eagerly for faintest sign 
 
 Of succor, toward the Western sun, 
 * * * 
 
 Your real task now has just begun, 
 Knighta^rrant of the Second Line. 
 
 4, 
 
 
 Page Sixty-five 
 
The Home-Coming 
 
 Page Sixty -six 
 
He's comJn' home — our only son — 
 
 To maw an' me — we jest sit 'round 
 A-waitin' for his happy shout 
 
 A-tellin* us he's home — the sound 
 Of footsteps on the old brick walk. 
 
 Most alius gives us sudden starts, 
 An' other sounds at eventide 
 
 Find echoes in fast-beatin* hearts. 
 
 Seems like 'twas only yesterday 
 
 Since he was toddlin' o'er the floor; 
 But since he went away to war, 
 
 A million years have passed — and 
 more. 
 A million years? Yea, only folks 
 
 Whose hearth lacks one, once al- 
 ways there, 
 Can live a million years in one — 
 
 Such magic has a vacant chair. 
 
 Somehow he'd alius been a kid — 
 
 To us at least — before he went 
 Away to war. Tho' he'd shot up 
 
 By inches toward the firmament, 
 To six feet one — yet all the while 
 
 His dad forgot the time was due 
 When son an' dad should be just pals — 
 
 Close partners with one end in 
 view. 
 
 They say that lots of farmers' sons 
 
 Won't be content to stay at home 
 When back from war — but don't for- 
 get: 
 The boy who thinks he wants to 
 roam 
 And leave the farm, will be content. 
 When dads make up for things un- 
 done. 
 Henceforth instead of "J. A. Jones," 
 Our firm will read," J. Jones 86 Son." 
 
 
 X" 
 
 Page Sixty-seven 
 
Part IV 
 
 B I I 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 Page Sixty-nine 
 
LIFE'S Evening 
 
 Page Seventy 
 
Somehow, when she's a-sittin' there, 
 So quiet like in her old chair. 
 And twilight falls, and everything 
 Jest seems to hush — the crickets sing 
 Their ev'ning song — I know that then 
 She's livin* old times o'er again. 
 — Jest 'bout this time o' year, I guess. 
 When I asked her, and she said 
 
 "Yes." 
 And when I think how good and true 
 She's been to me when things looked 
 
 blue, 
 Somehow my heart begins to pound; 
 And when I put my arm around 
 Her waist — and she looks up at me 
 With that old smile, the one that she 
 Gave me that night — somehow — 
 
 well, say — 
 It's mighty good to feel that way. 
 
 Page Seventy-one 
 
The Old Songs 
 
 Page Seventy-two 
 
1^ 
 
 =^ 
 
 When I hear somebody singing 
 
 The songs of long ago, 
 Comes a soothing, gentle feeling — 
 
 Recollection's afterglow. 
 'Mongst things long since forgotten, 
 
 The fragrances that last, 
 Are re-wakened by the singing 
 
 Of the old songs of the past. 
 
 All the twilight songs my mother 
 
 Used to sing — the cradle hymn — 
 When I hear them now, the heart beat 
 
 Quickens — and the tears that swim 
 In the old eyes, blur the present 
 
 And I hear the thumped refrain. 
 That we tired, sleepy children 
 
 Beat upon the counterpane. 
 
 Not by sight, but feeling, mem'ry 
 
 Plays— and means life to the old; 
 Things without her would be dreary. 
 
 And the world be dull and cold. 
 There's a mem'ry intertwining 
 
 With the songs of long ago. 
 That, playing near the heartstrings. 
 
 Makes them prized and treasured so. 
 
 Page Seventy-three 
 
The Sideline Patriot 
 
 Page Seventy-four 
 
When trumpets blare, and in the air 
 
 Old Glory stately waves; 
 When from the crowd, the cheering 
 loud 
 
 He hears — a fight he craves. 
 While tense he stands and sees the 
 bands 
 
 Go proudly marching by, 
 He feels just then like all brave men, 
 
 For country he could die. 
 
 Hark! Bugle call! — the buttons all 
 
 Go popping from his vest ; 
 He, 'neath the sod, could put a squad 
 
 Or regiment to rest. 
 And in his dream, the eagle's scream 
 
 Is music to his ears; 
 The marching tars or regulars. 
 
 They fill his eyes with tears. 
 
 When Ladies Aid, or "suffs" parade, 
 
 A patriotic thrill 
 Shoots up his spine, and into line 
 
 He falls — he can't keep still. 
 In arguments about defense. 
 
 He always takes a hand; 
 "Three million men we need — and 
 then 
 
 More ships to guard our land." 
 
 When you suggest he join the rest 
 At army camp, and train, 
 
 He says: "Good -night — I hate to 
 fight; 
 * * By George, it looks like rain." 
 
 \K 
 
 Page Seventy-five 
 
The Insult 
 
 Page Seventy-six 
 
Justa wait — eet ees yet time enough, 
 When I get square an' calla da bluff 
 You mak' to me — my tite-wad frand, 
 I no can hardly ondrastand — 
 I tal you wat, eet mak' me seeck — 
 Wat call you eet? — "A rummy 
 
 treeck" — 
 I nevva see Eetalian 
 Dat ees so pincha, tita man. 
 An' justa wait — some day maybe 
 I'm reech — dan you'll look up to me. 
 But now all time I work for deeg 
 Da trench in ceety street — da peeg 
 Has wot you call? "Nothin'on me." 
 My face hees dirty as can be, 
 An' sewer gas ees een my nose. 
 An' steek all ovra all my clo'es — 
 But wait — maybe some day I'm 
 
 reech. 
 W'en you'll be makin' ceety deetch. 
 An' dan I'll come aroun' to you 
 An' say: " *Lo ground-hog, how you 
 
 do?" 
 Dan you'll no have peanutta stan', 
 Nor sella to me da banan. 
 I bat you eef you go to hal 
 You'll no feel worse — you no can tal 
 How sorra you'll be, Dago jew, 
 You bit dat neekel, I gave you. 
 
 Page Seventy-seven 
 
The New Year 
 
 Page Seventy-eight 
 
MMiliiiill/- 
 
 Good friend, 
 
 Another year has gone — and yet 
 
 There isn't any use to fret 
 
 Nor toss the hours till morning's sun, 
 
 Perturbed by things that you have 
 
 done 
 And now regret; 
 
 Because, 
 
 Each.one of us in retrospect 
 
 Can see where good intent was 
 
 wrecked — 
 Can feel the fretting smarts and 
 
 stings 
 Of penitence for sundry things 
 We recollect. 
 
 And say. 
 
 Another year is soon begun. 
 Suppose we greet the rising sun 
 This New Year with a cheerful smile 
 And try to make up for the pile 
 Of things ttndone. 
 
 Page Seventy-nine 
 
OESAUUNIERS ft (