That Winston Prairie ruined Cato Braden And killed him in the end. You must go see, Before you leave, our park called Willard Park, Named after Emma Willard, that devout Old woman, dead these fifteen years or so. She left enough to build a granite coping, Set out some trees, and buy park seats, a stone Whereon to carve the words, ‘The gracious gift Of Emma Willard.’ Well, this Cato Braden First talked this park, was first to tell the truth About this plot of ground. And more than that When Cato Braden came here he had dreams: He wrote at first that boxing, wrestling, racing Would help this town; that games were needed here; That Americans seemed ignorant of the art Of being gay, feeling light-hearted, wise To play; that they were wise to work and pray, Fear happiness. And Cato Braden said The little town was cursed by just these things, And many human souls destroyed by them. These were not thoughts of his, he found them somewhere, But knew them when he found them, that’s his credit. What though he was a drunk man whom you ask What road to take, who points and gurgles guttural Sounds inarticulate? Or better still What though he was a sick man who in vain Attempts to make his household orders clear? For it was true that Cato Braden spoke About these things at first, then gave them up. For no one seemed responsive to his plans. And some there were who sneered, and others said He’d better help the church, and leave alone The questions which make bitterness and strife, Which was their way of speaking of the square Which Cato tried to make into a park. They say a lung will turn to stone or steel When men work in the filings and the dust. At last the dust of Winston Prairie turned His soul to dust.