Range Fever                                                                                                   

Where the plains are high-and-wide ways,
Where the broncs buck up and sideways,
Where the air is clear enough so you can see
Sixty, eighty miles around you
With no city lines to bound you,
That is where I like to be.

Where there's room upon the highways
And the wind along the skyways
Goes a-swooping sort of jubilant and free;
Where the crisp, clean air of morning
Isn't choked while still a-borning.
That is where I like to be.

Where the men run lean and tall-ways,
Where a friend's a friend for always
And we still think women better far that we;
Where a horse is used to travel,
Not for trotting parkway gravel,
That is where I like to be.

Where I know the puncher's clanways,
Where we count on man-to-man ways,
Where a house don'tneed a padlock or a key;
Where the word is: "Welcome, stranger,
To the bed and grub and manger,"
That is where I like to be.

I have tried the busy town ways,
Elevator, up-and-down ways,
And decided they were never meant for me;
And I'm pulling stakes and heading
Where the cattle country's spreading,
That is where I'm gonna be!

Published in: Complete Stories - October 1927

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