_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._ --_Frontispiece._
FACING
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_When my feet is in the stirrups_
_And my hawse is on the bust._ 14
_There's a time to be slow and a time to be quick._ 18
_We have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed._ 24
_The taut ropes sing like a banjo string_
_And the latigoes creak and strain._ 40
_I wait to hear him ridin' up behind._ 68
_There's land where yet no ditchers dig_
_Nor cranks experiment;_
_It's only lovely, free and big_
_And isn't worth a cent._ 80
_Born of a free, world-wandering race_
_Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod._ 82