Such changes come slowly of course, and to some they never come. 

 The industry certainly needs young men who will put themselves into it 

 whole-heartedly ; men who are temperate, honest and industrious, and who 

 have the ability will sooner or later be rewarded in good measure. 



, 



THE LAY OF THE LAST BULL PUNCHER 



(DAN McNEIL) 



The sun shone clear on the dying year, 



As I strolled down the old skid-road; 

 The maple leaves, in fantastic weaves 



Of riotous color glowed. 

 A pine-squirrel swore at a scolding jay, 



In a fir's deep branches hid, 

 When I came on the form of an aged man 



Who sat on the end of a skid. 



His head was bowed in his toil-worn hands; 



His shoulders were stooped and round; 

 A battered old hat near where he sat 



Lay on the sodden ground. 

 The light breeze whirls the snow-white curls 



Of his tangled crown of hair; 

 While the sobs that shook his aged frame 



Told a story of deep despair. 



"Oh, why do you moan in the woods alone, 



My good old man? said I; 

 "What sorrow or fear hath brough the tear 



to bedim your once keen eye?" 

 "Oh, I mourn for the time when in life's full prime 



I was a bull-puncher bold; 

 And many a load, down this same skid-road 



I hauled in the days of old." 



"Then I was king of the whole woods-crew, 



And I ruled with an iron grip; 

 And never a slob on the whole d d job 



Dared give me any lip; 

 But now, alas! those days have passed 



There's no job for me here; 

 My bulls are all killed; and my place is filled 



By a donkey-engineer." 



"Instead of my stately team of bulls 



All stepping along so fine, 

 A greasy old engine toots and coughs 



And hauls in the turn with a line. 

 So that's why I'm sad; but for you, my lad, 



I'll sing of those days again 

 Your heart seems true, so I'll tell to you 



How we used to do it then." 



His weary old form stood erect and tall, 



His eye flashed as of yore; 

 As with tottering steps and croaking voice 



He drove his bulls once more. 

 "Back, Buck! G-e-e, Spot! Whoa, Mose! Haw, Star! 



Steady there, Red! Back, Bright! 

 Now! Wiggle your tails, you long-horned snails 



Or we won't get in tonight." 



"Get into your yokes, you lazy blokes, 



Old Bill's on deck once more; 

 And every bull must scratch and pull 

 As he never pulled before." 

 So with many strange oaths and hoarse commands, 



He staggered along in his dream 

 Till, loud and clear, from somewhere near, 



Came a donkey-engine's scream. 



Bill stopped; at the sight of his agonized face, 



My heart with pity bled; 

 And e'er I could reach his side, he fell 



Across the skid-road dead. 

 We buried him there on the scene of his past, 



His headstone an old fir stump, 

 With this epitaph scrawled: "Old Bill has hauled 



His last turn down to the dump." 



Courtesy Gibson's Limited. 



63 



