Arthur Chapman (1873 – 1935)
Early twentieth century American poet and newspaper columnist.
Page 1 of 1
Envy is like a fly that passes all the body's sounder parts, and dwells upon the sores.
We used to run a cow-ranch,
In all that old term meant,
But all our ancient glories
In recent years have went;
We’re takin’ summer boarders,
And, puttin’ it quite rude,
It’s now the cowboy’s province
To herd the festive dude.
Out among the big things —
The heights that gleam afar —
A feller gets to wonder
What means each distant star;
He may not get an answer,
But somehow, every night
He feels, among the big things,
That everything’s all right.
The sheep are down at the water, a-drinkin' their bloomin' fill,
An' me and the dog are dozin', as herders and collies will;
The world may be movin' somewheres, but here it is standin' still.
We welcome folks in Cactus Center if they've got an honest lay;
If their game ain't too durn crooked, we never stop the play;
But a get-rich-quicker blew in, with a game we did n't like,
So we did n't waste the minutes in invitin' him to hike.
Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger,
Out where the smile dwells a little longer,
That’s where the West begins.
He is the last of that old guard defending Cattle Land,
Those knights who jousted for the cause — blood brothers of the brand;
But now they’ve fenced the water-hole, they’re harrowing the plain,
They’re changing all the sagebrush flats to fields of waving grain;
The cowmen will be gone, they say, and there are no recruits —
Good-bye, brave cattle-puncher in the high-heeled boots!
Out among the big things —
The mountains and the plains —
An hour ain’t important,
Nor are the hour’s gains;
The feller in the city
Is hurried night and day,
But out among the big things
He learns the calmer way.
It's hard to think that in cities there's men who are goin' to mad,
Each strivin' to beat his fellows and get what the others had;
And from this here peaceful viewpoint, such doin's look bad, plum bad.
It was jest another instance of a flaw in work of man;
A lefty never figgered in the gunman’s battle plan;
There ain’t no scheme man thinks of that Dame Nature cannot beat —
So his pupils are unlearnin’ that cute trick they got from Pete.
There ain't no leaves to turn to gold—
There ain't a tree in sight—
In other ways the herder's told
October's come, all right.
Page 1 of 1