THE VORTEX

He farmed his own half-section and was doing fairly well;

There were seasons when the yield was rather small,

But he always had his living and had always stuff to sell,

And a little to his credit in the fall;

But he wearied of his labor and he turned a wistful eye

Where the City flashed its glamour on the stranger passing by;

He was sick of hogs and cattle — he was sick of barn and sty,

And the City sucked him in.

He was doing homestead duties — he was in his second year,

And his quarter was the finest out-of-doors;

He'd a neighbor in the township — and they called that pretty near,

And he only had to eat and do the chores;

Now he should have been contented with a kingdom of his own;

He'd a fiddle and a rifle and a “bally gramophone”...

He was sick of isolation, sick of living there alone,

And the City sucked him in.

He owned a little country store and traded goods for eggs;

He was salesman, buyer, manager and clerk;

And the farmers gathered in his shop and sat around on kegs

While they smoked and wished they did n't have to work;

He was tired of tasting butter that he did n't dare condemn,

He was tired of narrow farmers, he was tired of serving them,

And he thought him of the City, where they close at six P. M.,

And the City sucked him in.

He ran a country paper in the town of Easy-go,

And he hustled news and helped to “dis” the “dead”;

He was editor and devil, he was master of the show,

And the Union had no halter on his head;

But he could n't raise his circulation over twenty quires,

He was tired of washing rollers, he was tired of building fires,

He was tired of eulogizing men he knew were mostly liars,

And the City sucked him in.

He practised law and real estate and owned a house and lot;

He'd a client every once-awhile or so;

He drove into the country when the summer days were hot,

Or in winter for a sleigh-ride in the snow;

He'd enough to live in comfort and he always paid his bills,

But he tired of country customs and he wanted Fashion's frills;

He was sick of fire insurance, he was sick of drawing wills,

And the City sucked him in.

He'd a loyal congregation and his views were orthodox

Though his salary was less than he was worth,

He'd a personal regard for the future of his flocks,

And he shared with them their sorrow and their mirth;

But he longed for larger service and for bright companionship,

And a stipend that would justify his wife to take a trip;

And he read his resignation and he packed his little grip,

And the City sucked him in.

She was just a country maiden with ambitions of her own,

She could wash and she could churn and she could cook,

But she longed for broader vision and a bigger, better zone,

And she studied all about it in a book;

She'd a home and she had kindred, she'd a roof above her head,

She had time for work and leisure, she'd a chance to love and wed;

But they saw her leave the village — they had better seen her dead —

And the City sucked her in.

Now there's one of them a millionaire and one of them in jail,

And one of them is working on the street;

And one is washing dishes, and one has “hit the trail,”

For six have drunk the sorrows of defeat;

And one that's never spoken of where once she was supreme,

And one — they found him floating in an eddy of the stream:

They have paid the price of knowledge, they have dreamed their little dream:

And the City sucked them in.