Arthur D. Rees

From “Volunteers”

Frank Maine, Maine

TWO months ago I left railroading,

And from that hour—leisure and peace!

Yesterday I came here from New York,

On a tour to the West,

But I listened to the tap of a drum, and enlisted.

My coming here was only a step

In my usual path, in drifting westward

To the wheat fields for the harvest.

I follow the growth of the grasses:

First to Texas where the wheat ripens early;

Then with the prairie people

And the southern harvesters

From field to field I go

Northward up the Missouri and Red rivers

Until I reach the wheat bonanzas of the Dakotas;

And then northward still,

Beyond the “blue stems” of Minnesota

And up to Manitoba

Where the harvesting ends, for the wheat

Can not grow when Winter shrivels the grass.

Then southward I would turn

To the orange groves and fruit fields

Of California, drifting perhaps to Mexico

And the oil fields for the winter;

And after that, begin the round again,

And wander to Texas for spring ploughing;

And later northward once more,

With summer returning for its harvest.

It’s a good life, but beyond me now.