| September/October 1955

Box 6, Byron, Oklahoma

The smoke is gone from the prairie, and the boys from the cook shack door the whistle is silenced forever And it's call is heard no more.

No more in the summers darkness will the engineer rise at three and crawl in a sooty fireboxs black as black could be.

No more on sunlit mornings will we load the racks with sheaves and across the fields go trailing to some old faithful Reeves.

No more we'll wash together in the dishpans rimmed with dirt and dry on a towel wet and grimy or the tail of our sweaty shirt.

No more we'll eat the cook shack grub Herring, beans and punk Java, tomatoes, lovely spuds Sow bacon by the chunk.