How could I till my forty acres not to speak of getting more, With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos Stirred in my brain by crows and robins And the creak of a wind-mill--only these? And I never started to plow in my life That some one did not stop in the road And take me away to a dance or picnic. I ended up with forty acres I ended up with a broken fiddle -- And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories, And not a single regret. -- Edgar Lee Masters