A man might live and work beside
The fellows around the wagon;
And never say two words unless
Its just hoorah and braggin'.

But sometimes in the solitude
Of some old line camp shack;
He smooths a fruit can label out
And writes there on it's back.

A group of words redeemed there from time to time
To last when he moves on;
Set down with a hurried flourish
Before his memory of them are gone.

The spelling may not be exact
Or commas where they ought
But there within those rugged lines
A mood is somehow caught.

It might be full of sadness
From a death or crippled friend;
To just the mournful yearning
For a way that's bound to end.

Some others could be bawdy
While full of life and mirth
Or stories about some saddle horse
That has no peers on earth.

There's many through the years been lost
Or burned or thrown away
But others yet survive
To give us views of yesterday.

And still among the working hands
The words come now and then
To write a living history
Of the stock, and earth and men.