You could hear the roar of the big six wheel, As the drivers pounded the polished steel, And the screech of the flanges on the rail, As she beat it west o’er the desert trail. The john got busy and took a risk, He climbed aboard and began to frisk, He reached up high and began to feel For an end-door pin, then he cracked a seal. ’Twas a double-deck stock loaded with sheep; The john got in and went to sleep; The “con” highballed, and she whistled out, They were off--down the Gila Monster Route. The following ballad by Harry Kemp, the “tramp poet,” describes a situation that is familiar to those who know Hobohemia. Many men in the tramp class, to escape cold and hunger, have yielded to a similar temptation. THE TRAMP CONFESSION We huddled in the mission Fer it was cold outside And listened to the preacher Tell of the Crucified; Without a sleety drizzle Cut deep each ragged form, An’ so we stood the talkin’ Fer shelter from the storm. They sang of Gods and Angels An’ Heaven’s eternal joy An’ things I stopped believin’ When I was still a boy; They spoke of good an’ evil An’ offered savin’ grace An’ some showed love for mankind Ashinin’ in their face. An’ some their graft was workin’ The same as me and you; But some was urgin’ on us What they believed was true. We sang an’ dozed an’ listened, But only feared, us men The time when, service over, We’d have to mooch again. An’ walk the icy pavements, An’ breast the snow storm gray, Till the saloons was opened, An’ there was hints of day. So, when they called out, “Sinners, Won’t you come?” I came.... But in my face was pallor An’ in my heart was shame.... An’ so fergive me, Jesus, Fer mockin’ of thy name. Fer I was cold an’ hungry; They gave me food and bed After I kneeled there with them, An’ many prayers was said. An’ so fergive me, Jesus, I didn’t mean no harm.... Fer outside it was zero An’ inside it was warm. Yes, I was cold an’ hungry An’ Oh, Thou Crucified, Thou Friend of all the Lowly, Fergive the lie I lied.[58] WANDERLUST Many men have seen charms in the life on the road; Walt Whitman and Vachel Lindsay are or were tramp poets. For men who cannot endure the security and the tyranny of convention, this care-free existence has an irresistible appeal. The following swinging poem by H. H. Knibbs vibrates with the call of the road. NOTHING TO DO BUT GO