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.
Fur, News. Fur News, January 1916.
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