Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, GOING CROSSLOTS IN VERMONT, by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY



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GOING CROSSLOTS IN VERMONT, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: The man who says with solemn pride
Last Line: "that ""wheel"" themselves to death."
Subject(s): Country Life; Farm Life; Migrant Labor; Vermont; Agriculture; Farmers; Migratory Workers; Agricultural Laborers


THE man who says with solemn pride
He'd ruther go afoot than ride,
And adds to this strange speech beside,
That "crosslots" beats the road—
That man's the man for whom I've tried
To write this rural ode.

His hand-sled, dog and stick compose
About the closest friends he knows,
And after these his spirit flows
To certain tracks and trails,
While fences form the fiercest foes
His "beeline" soul assails.

He knows the time his legs can make,
He knows his forrard ex won't break,
His pistons pound, or windshield shake,
Nor is he apt to land
In Plymouth pond or Caspian lake
Or dig his head in sand.

In blizzard times he's out the first,
And when the going gets the worst,
He'll beat a horse to Cedarhurst,
And what is better still,
His pung don't scrape, his tubes don't burst
Or radiator chill.

And how he likes to start and go
To band rehearsal when the snow
Is gently falling—pick up "Joe"
Beyond the sawmill shed,
And get back home by nine or so
And have no horse to bed!

On 'lection days he strikes a gait
And plows right through the woodlot straight,
And gets to Center Town by eight,
While them with "power" to spare
Fetch in behind your Uncle Nate
A-driving Shanks's mare.

The place to pick a rozberry pie,
The knoll a fox will foxtrot by,
The holes to which the high-holes fly,
Within his eyeball float,
And stepping stones more satisfy
His feet than bridge or boat.

"Poor man," you say, "he wanteth wit,"
But stop; the language doesn't fit;
We needn't pity him a bit,
We'd better save our breath;
He's happier than the whole blamed kit
That "wheel" themselves to death.





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