Marching corn—
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saw it knee high weeks ago—now it is head high—tassels of red silk creep at the ends of the ears. I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting. They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, thefarmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens. They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of Julybasket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declara-tion of Independence, watching the pinwheels andRoman candles at night, the young men and womentwo by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges. They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in thefrost of late October saying good-morning to thehorses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market. They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb Nfwire. cay
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