_Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_ _Close and closer cramps the wire._ _There's hardly play to back away_ _And call a man a liar._ _Their house has locks on every door;_ _Their land is in a crate._ _These ain't the plains of God no more,_ _They're only real estate._ There's land where yet no ditchers dig Nor cranks experiment; It's only lovely, free and big And isn't worth a cent. I pray that them who come to spoil May wait till I am dead Before they foul that blessed soil With fence and cabbage head. _Yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_ _Far and farther crawls the wire._ _To crowd and pinch another inch_ _Is all their heart's desire._ _The world is overstocked with men_ _And some will see the day_ _When each must keep his little pen,_ _But I'll be far away._ When my old soul hunts range and rest Beyond the last divide, Just plant me in some stretch of West That's sunny, lone and wide. Let cattle rub my tombstone down And coyotes mourn their kin, Let hawses paw and tromp the moun' But don't you fence it in! _Oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak!_ _And they pen the land with wire._ _They figure fence and copper cents_ _Where we laughed 'round the fire._ _Job cussed his birthday, night and morn._ _In his old land of Uz,_ _But I'm just glad I wasn't born_ _No later than I was!_ [Illustration: "_There's land where yet no ditchers dig_ _Nor cranks experiment;_ _It's only lovely, free and big_ _And isn't worth a cent._"] THE PLAINSMEN Men of the older, gentler soil, Loving the things that their fathers wrought-- Worn old fields of their fathers' toil, Scarred old hills where their fathers fought-- Loving their land for each ancient trace, Like a mother dear for her wrinkled face, Such as they never can understand The way we have loved you, young, young land! Born of a free, world-wandering race, Little we yearned o'er an oft-turned sod. What did we care for the fathers' place, Having ours fresh from the hand of God? Who feared the strangeness or wiles of you When from the unreckoned miles of you, Thrilling the wind with a sweet command, Youth unto youth called, young, young land? North, where the hurrying seasons changed Over great gray plains where the trails lay long, Free as the sweeping Chinook we ranged, Setting our days to a saddle song. Through the icy challenge you flung to us, Through your shy Spring kisses that clung to us, Following far as the rainbow spanned, Fiercely we wooed you, young, young land!