The Harvest Maids

The Harvest Malds.
70.2

(Four society girls of Walla Walla, Wash, are
helping their father harvest his wheat.-Press
Dispatch.)
You can talk about your bridge whist girls,
And those who love pink teas,
Or the girls that drive their motor-boats
Right through the foaming seas:
But give to me the Western malds.
Pure grit from head to feet,
Who sally forth in summer time
To help dad harvest wheat.

Oh, the girls of Walla Walla:
Who wouldn’t follow, fallow,
When they don the jeans and jumpers and start
out to work, b’gosh!
The boys flock from the city
To view these girls so pretty
When they wallow in the wimpling wheat at Walla,
Walia, Wash.!

They cannot drive the horses straight
And they fear to swing the scythe.
But they look well in the scenery.
And they carol songlets blythe;
They’re advertised from East to West,
And they’ve every chance to wed,
For o’er such pretty harvest malds
Mere man will lose his head.
Oh, the girls of Walla Walla!
Their hearts are hollow, hollow,
If they do not wed some fellow who is too lovesick
to joch.
The fence is lined with sultore-
All enthusiastic rooters,
For each goddess of the harvest fields at Walla
Walla Wash.!
Denver Republican.