The Call From the West

The Grasping Hand of Progress on it’s Borders ne’er Intrudes

Where the grass lands roll in stretches like an endless tossing sea,

To the mountains white and hoary, over ranges wide and free,

Where the country lies unbroken, and the soft prairie breezes blow,

It is there my heart turns fondly and the siren bids me go.


It is far from cares and worries and the sordid haunts of man,

And the ceaseless rush and turmoil of the money making clan;

Only peace and gladness linger ’round its quiet solitudes,

For the grasping hand of Progress on its border ne’er intrudes.

Mark and John Patterson, father and son, in the Tonto National Forest


My country fair and shining, lies where sunset’s glory gleams,

Over mountain tops and mesas and long smooth, winding streams.

Where the greasewood and the sagebrush fling their sweet perfume afar,

And the cow-men watch their trail-herds by the blazing evening star.


I see it every evening in the dreams that come to me-

My glorious Western homeland across the sage brush sea!

It lures my thoughts off yonder, where soft the twilights fall,

Where hearts are true and tender, and prairie breezes call.


John H. Patterson, Tonto National Forest

And I must rise and answer, for the lure is ever strong;

It calls and beckons to me and breathes the West’s own song.

It sings of wide horizons and sunny skies and fair,

Which seem to smile upon me and turn my footsteps there.

E. A. Brininstool 1870-1957


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