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The Call

by Norma E. Clayton

There isn't an hour of the twenty-four,
There isn't a day in the seven,
There’s not a month in the changing years,
Nor a sunset red in the heavens,
That I do not long for the long ago:
When memories come crowding back
Of the thrill of living and doing boys,
Ahead of the railroad track

I can hear the sound of the ripping saws,
I can hear the hammers ring,
I can see the tents and brown cook shack,
I can hear the cookee sing;
I see the silhouette of the men
'Gainst the sky as I gaze o'erhead.
Atop of the mighty trestle-work
As they bridge the river bed.

In read in the papers everyday
Of a railroad to the sea:
My four-horse team in the furrow halts,
I am tied ot the soil and the season’s whim,
While I'm dreaming day by day,
I'm ahead of the track with the bridging gang,
Up north by the Hudson Bay

Oh, time has flown since last I heard
The sound of the dinner-gong
Sending its echoes far and near,
Sounding its welcome song.
I can smell the coffee and beans again,
I can hear the merry jest,
Oh, give me one day of it just once more
And you may have the rest.

There isn't an hour of the twenty-four,
There isn't a day in the seven,
There isn't a month in the changing years,
That bring me nearer to Heaven,
That I do not long for that far-off time
Would to God I could bring it back.
But my race is run and my day is done
And youth is ahead of the track.

Source: Manitoba Free Press, June 22, 1929.