Between two burrs on the map

Was a hollow-headed snake.

The burrs were hills, the snake was a stream,

And the hollow head was a lake.

And the dot in front of a name

Was what should be a town.

And there might be a house we could buy

For only a dollar down.

With two wheels low in the ditch

We left our boiling car,

And knocked at the door of a house we found,

And there to-day we are.

It is turning three hundred years

On our cisatlantic shore

For family after family name.

We’ll make it three hundred more

For our name farming here,

Aloof yet not aloof,

Enriching soil and increasing stock,

Repairing fence and roof;

A hundred thousand days

Of front-page paper events,

A half a dozen major wars,

And forty-five presidents.