From the Rock Island Argus, December 17, 1913. By Henry Howland.
I am longing for the pleasures that the fields alone can give;
I am sick of being crowded where the luckless millions live;
I am yearning for the freedom that the farmer’s boy enjoys
Out there where no busy builders are producing ceaseless noise,
Where the frost has made the wattles of the troubled rooster blue
And the kitchen door-step’s buried under snow a foot or two.
I am sighing for the pleasure that the farmer doubtless feels
As he wades out in the mornings to give Boss and Spot their meals;
How I long to be there helping to haul wood upon the sled
And to have the joy of chopping up the chunks behind the shed;
I can hardly keep from turning from the city with its ills
To go out and help the farmer who is doping for his chills.
What a joy ‘twould be to never have to dodge or skip and jump;
And how sweet in zero weather it would be to thaw the pump;
How I hanker for such gladness as the farmer may possess
While he has to do the milking when it’s ten below or less;
I would say good-bye forever to the city if I could—
Gee, I’d like to be a farmer in the winter—YES I WOULD!
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