We knew when we entered the strange, new land there were labors of
might to do;
We knew that Want with his deadly sword stood guard at the desert
gate,
But far to the swarded prairies and valleys that no one knew,
We spurred our steeds on the holy quest for the stars of a mighty
state!

The Drouth came out of the sere south-west and the corn died low in a
day;
The copper sun looked out of a sky that burned with a molten fire;
While Hope sank deep in the bravest heart, and over the barren way
The dumb feet trailed in the steps of Want and dead was the old
desire.

And Famine came with her sunken eyes from the dust of the parching
fields
And tapped the door with her bony hands and her fingers gaunt and
thin;
Ah, Hearts grow faint at the hunger-cry and the arm of the master yields
When all the world is a heap of dust that its creatures wriggle in!

But Plenty heard of our want and woe, and gave with a lavish hand,
And Love loaned ever her cruise of oil that never of fullness fails;
The God of the rains heard all our cries and He watered the thirsty land
And sent us a patch of turnips instead of a flock of quails!

O, years of the strife and struggle! O, years of the wrath and wrong!
The hands of toil smote the sleeping fields and they woke with the
blooms of light;
The homes we wrought are the homes of peace, where life is a tender
song,
And the pleasures romp through the laughing days and the dreams go
down the night!

Between the seas of the big, round world there never was such a land!
A land that walks in the paths of peace where the stars in their
plenty shine;
And the fields are fair with the harvests there and the gifts of the
toiler's hand,
And the fruit hangs red in the orchard trees and the grapes on the
purple vine!

It is sixteen years since we ran the race, it is sixteen mighty years,
And the days have come and gone again, with the gifts that the
strong men claim;
And after the days of the struggle, the grief and toil and tears,
The wilderness smiles in its beauty 'neath the stars of a wondrous
fame.

Caught on the Fly.

The younger a bride, the sooner a grass widow.

Lilies are pretty, but the old fashioned potato sticks closer to the
ribs.