The junipers whiten with snow softly falling,
Somewhere down the draw there's an old cow a-bawling.
There ain't nothing ails her; we’re plumb sure of that,
For the grass has been good and the stock is all fat.

And yet drifting in on the snow-feathered breeze,
The sound brings a feeling of wishful unease,
To us old 'uns a-sitting here this Christmas eve night,
Thinking of cowboys that’s gone off to fight.

Thinking it's Christmas and wondering when,
Those three empty saddles will be rode again.
There's three pair of spurs, three hats on their pegs,
And three pair of chaps meant for young cowboys' legs.

They’re hanging unused on the old bunkhouse wall,
But the boys they belong to aren’t hearing cows bawl.
They’re hearing machine guns, the whine of a shell,
And all the strange sounds of a battlefield's hell.

The sea slapping soft 'gainst the side of a boat,
The four motored roar of a big bomber's throat.
While deep in their hearts what they're longing to hear,
Is the wind in the cedar and the bawl of a steer.

This poem was published in "The Western Livestock Journal", "Ranch Romance", "Western Story Magazine" or similar publication in the early to mid 1940s. I remember it being called "Bunkhouse Christmas" but that may not be the correct title. I would sure like to hear from anyone who knows this poem.

Horseshoer