Author's Foreword
by George Albert Leddy
List' to the tales of the rugged trails,
And the rugged, rawboned men;
Gruesome and weird, tainted and smeared;
Blackened with crime and sin;
Lonesome and sad, men that are mad;
Men with an iron will;
Men with a mind, weakened and blind;
Filled with a lust to kill;
Men who have loved, men who have lost;
But ever they want to try.
They have chosen their trail, and they follow it on;
They thrive where the weakling die.
Thrive; aye, thrive, `though the soul be dead,
And the dry bones grind away;
And the flesh be drawn, and the eyes be wan,
And the hair and whiskers gray.
Painfully, slowly, stumbling along;
Feeling a joy in their pains;
Filled to the brim like the primitive men,
With the blood of an ancient age.
Coarse be their smile, rough be their song;
But never they pause to sigh.
They are the men, and they're out to win;
They thrive where the weakling die.
***
The Old Picket Fence
by George Albert Leddy
"Tear down the Old Picket Fence,” you say?
Well, no; I guess I'll let it stay.
I'll patch it up and paint it white;
I guess I'll make it look alright.
You see, that old fence means to me
A whole lot more than you can see;
It speaks to me of things I knew
When fields were green and skies were blue.
It speaks to me of long ago,
And yet it seems but yesterday;
Just Ma, and me, and Little Joe;
Our Little Joe just turning three.
He had to have a place to play
Where he'd be safe and wouldn't stray;
And so I built that fence for him,
A sort'o place to keep him in.
And in the spring a tiny shoot
Peeped from the earth to seek the sun.
It seemed to know the picket fence
Would make a place for vines to run.
And o'er that fence, so white and clean,
It spread a wealth of verdant green.
It seemed to know it held a grace
To help to beautify the place.
And very soon in brilliant hue;
Violet, and rose, and pink, and blue;
As if to meet the coming day,
The Morning Glories held full-sway.
And as the warm June days drew nigh,
A tiny rosebud caught my eye;
And soon the Roses, rich and rare,
Sent their sweet fragrance on the air.
Then later came our Little Sue,
Then Mary Jane, then Little Bill;
Then Little Ruth, who couldn't stay.
She sleeps