He is the true American. He fears
No journey and no wood or wall—
And in the desert, toiling voyagers
Take heart or courage from his jocund call.
POM-POM PULL-AWAY.
Out on the snow the boys are springing,
Shouting blithely at their play;
Through the night their voices ringing,
Sound the cry "Pom, pull-away!"
Up the sky the round moon stealing,
Trails a robe of shimmering white:
While the Great Bear slowly wheeling
Marks the pole-star's steady light.
The air with frost is keen and stinging,
Spite of cap and muffler gay;
Big boys whistle, girls are singing—
Loud rings out, "Pom, pull-away!"
Oh, the phrase has magic in it,
Sounding through the moon-lit air!
And in 'bout a half-a-minute
I am part and parcel there.
'Cross the pond I once more scurry
Through the thickest of the fray,
Sleeve ripped off by Andy Murray—
"Let her rip—Pom, pull-away!"
Mother'll mend it in the morning
(Dear old patient, smiling face!)
One more darn my sleeve adorning—
"Whoop her up!"—is no disgrace.
Moonbeams on the snow a-splinter,
Air that stirred the blood like wine—
What cared we for cold of winter?
What for maiden's soft eyes' shine?
Give us but a score of skaters
And the cry, "Pom, pull-away!"
We were always girl beraters—
Forgot them wholly, sooth to say!
O voices through the night air ringing!
O, thoughtless, happy, boist'rous play!
O silver clouds the keen wind winging;
At the cry, "Pom, pull-away!"
I pause and dream with keenest longing
For the starlit magic night,
For my noisy playmates thronging,
And the slow moon's trailing light.
THE OLD FASHIONED THRESHING IN GREEN'S COOLLY, WISCONSIN
From "BOY LIFE ON THE PRAIRIE." Published by permission of Harper Bros.
Life on a Wisconsin farm, even for the older lads, had its compensations. There were times when the daily routine of lonely and monotonous life gave place to an agreeable bustle for a few days, and human intercourse lightened toil. In the midst of the dull, slow progress of the fall's ploughing, the gathering of the threshing crew was a most dramatic event.