by C. B. Rich
"Why do you live out here?" they asked

As they entered our gravel drive.

"Don't you like civilization,

Don't you want to feel alive?"

I told them I live in a mountain flower,

In a million blades of grass,

In a stately pine or twisted fir

High on a windy pass.

In a winding stream or a quiet lake

Close by a mountain high,

Whose timbered slopes and steep, sheer cliffs

Seem to pierce the very sky.

I live in the heart of an honest horse,

As he plods his weary way

O're rocky trails, 'neath heavy loads

From dawn 'til close of day.

In the rhythmic bob of heavy packs,

As I look back over the string.

When we make our way to our mountain camp

Far from cars and towns and such things.

I live in a rambling old log house

That my dear ones all call home

In its quiet walls by its cheery hearth,

Many happy hours we've known.

It's true I care not for the city,

With its hustle, bustle and strife.

I'll live out here and feel close to God

Happy in this way of life.