ny tales are told about it, how it grew so very high,
That the tops were broke and shattered where they rubbed against the
sky.

And no man had ever ventured in that forest deep and dark
Till old Noah got to thinking he would build himself an ark.

So he looked the timber over and decided it would take
Every tree if he would carry every bird and beast and snake;

If he just could get it yarded; there he had a serious doubt,
Till Paul Bunyan finally told him he would get the round stuff out.

So he harnessed up his Blue Ox, took the big logs on the run.
Never even stopped for dinner, worked right through from sun to sun.

Many logs he dogged together, took three hundred turns a day;
Still Old Noah hollered "Faster," said that snail's pace didn't pay.

Then old Bunyan got quite peevish, sent the loggers all to camp;
Started hauling in the sections; he'd put Noah on the tramp.

But he bragged a bit too early, tho each day he hauled eight score,
Noah cleared them off by noontime and sat down and yelled for more.

Paul got madder than a logger, cussed and jumped upon his hat;
Noah was a domned slave driver, contract didn't call for that.

But old Noah only guyed him, called his ox a lazy slob,
Then to keep Paul Bunyan working put a bonus on the job.

Next Paul hooked upon a township and the ox pulled with a will,
But the cable only parted when it caught upon a hill;

Broke in twenty-seven pieces; the Blue Ox sure had the power;
Then Paul set his splicing record, twenty-six within an hour.

But he never got discouraged, he would still show Noah that
A true logger always finished anything he started at.

So he hooked onto the ridges, pulled them all into the mill;
Then they say of real hard labor Noah finally got his fill.

Thus the task was finally finished, nor was that the only gain:
Naught was left in the Dakotas but a large and level plain

Save in just two places only, where the logging had begun,
And where all the refuse ridges were left drying in the sun.

First is called the Black Hills district, there the ancient land still
stands,
And the pile of broken ridges is Dakota's famed Bad Lands.

THE YEAR OF THE GREAT HOT WINTER

This is probably a true Western story.

I was punching a half breed roader down on Shoalwater Bay
The year the nights came together, some called it the great dark day.

We hit the deck at sun