FROM FARM TO WILDERNESS

FROM FARM TO WILDERNESS By Fenton Jones.

My boyhood was spent as a farmer,
I slaved, and I worked and I toiled;
I roamed—in my dream—through forest and stream—
The scroll of those days is unsoiled;
The moose I would chase to the mountains,
The wolf I would chase to his lair,
The lynx and the 'coon, I'd chase to the moon,
At which—in my muse—I would stare.
I paced the great snow curtained heather,
I camped on the northern lights march,
I braved the bare fangs of the weather,
And at the white mammoth did charge;
I slew for the pleasure of slaying,
For blood was the cry of my soul,
I'd sit on the fence, and watch for a chance,
To puncture the hide of a mole.
I conquered the dreams of my childhood
And hiked to the great Arctic wold,
I mushed through the halls of the wildwood,
And speared in its guts for the gold;
I've lived in the hush of the forest,
I've ranged on the high mountain stair,
I've camped on the trail, where death scions wail,
And hurled in his teeth, a bold dare.
There four years of life have been ages,
The trap-line, the trail, and the cold,
Are title words of the grim pages
On which a man writes he "Is old."
The rivers are sheathed in a glacier
On which the lights twinkle and glare,
But on the old farm, is where you get warm,
And damme, I'm going back there.
Alaska.

Fur, News. Fur News, January 1916.

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