i p ' ' esT'Y THE OLD WISCONSE WsE^- By WILLIAM ELLIS THE PHILOSOPHER PRESS, WAUSAU, WISCONSIN. JUNE. MDCCCXCIX njy Glass _ THE OLD WISCONSE By WILLIAM ELLIS THE PHILOSOPHER PRESS. WAUSAU. WISCONSIN, IUNE.MDCCCXCIX Publ. Iff £ This poem was written for, and originally published in. The Northwestern Lumberman, and to its publisher, Mr. W. B. Judson, acknowledge- ment for its use is made by The Philosopher Press. THE OLD WISCONSE The Old Wisconse An' so ye think the Old Wisconse *s a mighty pretty stream ? A tumblin' 'round among the rocks, an* sparklin ' with the gleam Of sunshine fallin' through the spray, like di'monds in the hair Of women who seem bent to see what gewgaws they kin wear? Well, yes, she is a pretty stream, leastwise she is to me — But laws — I ' ve seen the days when ' deed she was a stream to see. She aint no-ways the crick she was way back in early days. With lots of camps an ' loggers all along her windin ' ways. The Old Wisconse The railroad seems to kind o ' knock the beauty from the scene. The birds don't seem to harmonize with sizz'Iin screechm ' steam ; There aint no livin ' railroad that can run a piece o' wood. An ' do the sense of nature in a man a bit of good. It kind o ' takes the tuck clean out a quiet, peaceful stream. To see the world go rushin ' by behind the push of steam. An ' when it comes to foliage, bright with all its autumn shades. You can't get that from wire-strung poles cut out from forest glades. The Old Wisconse You folks don't know the Old Wisconse, a-hdin ' by in cars ; A-leavin * Tomah when the sun 's just kissin ' out the stars. An ' gett ' n ' up to Tomahawk along at sun-high noon — That's goin* up the Old Wisconse a heap o' sight too soon. You can't see where she glides out from the ovefhangin ' trees — That smile upon her as they bow beneath the gentle breeze : You can 't see where the waters dash up into angry foam Against the rocks that seem to try to stop them as they roam. The Old Visconse I mind the time — it 's years ago — I started from the P'int, An ' got along to Joe Dessert *s to stay for over- night. An ' thanked my lucky stars an ' all the gods I ever had. That I had got a chance to sleep one more night in a bed ; 'Cause I was on my way clear up to seven-thirty- three. An * I knew that was nigh the last of livin ' I should see. Yes, Hess your soul, I looked the land all over this here stream Long 'fore they ever had a mill that used a pound of steam. The Old Wisconse An' when a feller's got his house all strapped across his back. An* starts out in the woods to tramp without a sign of track , With heaven's great, broad, blue, deep sky the only roof he's got. An' sweetly smellin' boughs of pine to be his only cot. He somehow gets a long ways nearer to what God had ought to be. Than you can get in any church that I have ever see ; An' I don't b'lieve you ever heerd such songs of music sweet As comes from God ' s bright songsters in the Wildest wood * s retreat. The Old Wisconse Somehow you get away from things that bother up the mind , An ' then you can *t help thinkin ' things a mighty different kind Than when the rush of saw-raills an ' the crash of railroad trains Keep business deals and flggers hustlin', bustlin ' through yer brains : An , somehow when ye get alone, away out in the pines , Ye think of things ye would n * t think at any other times. An * on such trips as these, alone , in days long years ago , The Old Wisconse an ' me was friends , as on her way she flowed. The Old Wisconse An * then she was a pretty stream — shy like a modest maid. She ' d peep out from a glassy pool beneath a forest glade , Then coy she ' d dance along awhile , as gay as any girl , An * then she ' d break out in the gayest , maddest, merriest swirl , An ' dash down over rocks an ' stones , as mad as any shrew. An', 'shamed-like, on she 'd float away in quiet, placid blue. Oh, she was like a woman in them good old by- gone days — She had her failin ' s , true to tell , but she had her winnin ' ways. The Old Wisconse But now her beauty* s most all gone ; she *s broken down by work , For , what with all hef loveliness , the "Wisconse aint no shirk ; She's toted down the saw -logs that was once her life an ' pride , She ' s turned the wheels of saw-mills , that have sprung up by her side ; She ' s give her wealth of water to the clouds for gentle rain That bathes the land in plenty so it brings forth fruit again ; She waits in prison-cage dams for the drive the saw-mills need. While beauty fades and glory dies to satisfy man * s greed. The Old Wisconse But then , she ' s still the Old Wisconse , an * still she * s dear to me ; I love her for the long years past ; for what she used to be ; An ' now I s * pose she * s worth the more, with all her towns an ' mills ; The whistles mean more business than the wild birds ' sweetest trills. But I can ' t help rememb'rin ' how she looked long years ago , When through the untouched timber was the path she used to flow , An' 'taint no use a talkin ', them there was the days for me — The Old Wisconse wont never seem the crick she used to be.