A Swedish boy worked on a milk-wagon, and washed

dishes, shifted scenery, and went away to

Porto Rico to the war.

Later a Mr. Sandburg published twenty-two poems.

A poet out in Chicago wrote, "Hog-butcher for the

world, Player with Railroads and the Nation's

Freight-Handler; stormy, husky, brawling

City of the Big Shoulders," and all over the

country people turned to listen to a now voice.

His black hair turned slowly gray and Time carved

sadness on his face, the eyes ached, the

heart ached with love and pity for the con-

scripts, the good losers, the hungry and the

lonely of the world.

And who that has ever heard him can forget his voice?

Who that has ever heard him say, "Everybody loved

Chick Lorimer, nobody knows where she's gone,"

who could be content again with ordinary

words from ordinary human throats?

"The Prairie Years" had waited for man to write it,

a man with enough laughter, enough sun and

soil in him, enough pity and love and hate.

And all the time the voice. Carl Sandburg's voice.

Like a cello, like an organ? More than that.

Like great actor with "Tomorrow tomorrow and

tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day

to day"? More, more than even this.

The wind, Making its own music for its own voice

to sing.

The sea, Beating on all the shores of the world

the same.

Life gathered in a word, and the word spoken...

the heart stirred and troubled...and the

Sound of poetry.