Tom was a big black ox, red Jerry
Was his mate,- a willing team.
On their necks a burden lay,
They must move an Empire westward.
Men saw visions in harth-fire smoulder ;
Yoked their oxen - bow against shoulder ;
Trekked along that road never ending,
Forward, onward, forever wending.
Tom was a big black ox, red Jerry
Was his mate,- a sturdy yoke.
Swaying necks held true the course,
Moving an Empire westward.
Flick of goad on lagging flank,
Wound of arrow from hidden bank
Throbbing, festering in the heat,
Quicksand sucking at their feet,
Swollen throats that lowed of thirst,
Sullen streams where clouds had burst,
Blizzard-driven storms of ice,
Weary miles that lengthened twice,
Dragging wagon's cruel jolt,
Crunching wheels and broken bolts,
Mute white bones upon the sand,
Wooden crosses on prairie land.-
These meant torture on the trail
Leading to that western grail.
Men saw meadows and harth fires burning ;
Swung their oxen - made the last turning ;
Slipped the bow from hot weary shoulder.
Here was grass and a brook ran colder.
Tom was a gaunt black ox, Red Jerry
Was his mate,- a rawboned pair.
Calloused necks beneath a yoke
Had moved our Empire westward.
--Hellen Hastings Abbott
From typescript:
Behind the Years by Hellen Hastings Abbott. Denver,
Colorado, May 20, 1934. [Copyright (c) 1934]. Fair
use. Vintage Colorado poetry would welcome
hearing from the poet's family.
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Credit: Western History Collection, Denver Public Library, Denver, Colorado.
