A boy in dungaree overalls and white cotton shirt, with sleeves rolled clear to his shoulders, ran up to a cluster of men sitting on crates and bales on the loading dock of a feed and grain depot. The boy pulled a red bandana from the bib of his overalls and wiped the flush from his cheeks. Centered among the hayseed cluster sat an eager young man with skin the color of autumn wheat. Across his lap lay a campfire guitar, and snug to the top of his ears was a weathered Stetson Stampede hat.

“What you got for us, kid?” the man they called Stampede inquired.

The boy raised the rim of his cap to the crown of his brow, and with an outstretched arm, supported the weight of his body against the elevated platform. He spoke with the earthy twang of a freshly harrowed field.

“Iowa boys are on the move,” he replied, “calling themselves the Farmer’s Holiday Association. They stand as one against those who move to foreclose on their farms.”

The man called Stampede nodded his head and lifted the guitar to his breast.

“Sing with me, boys,” he implored, “it is time to share voice with our brothers.”

A chorus of voices rose in harmony like wind in the tassel of a great field of corn.

Oh tillers of land on the Iowa plains,
Lend a hand to your brothers in plight.
The shadow of peasantry all that remains,
Stand tall and put up a good fight.

Hold fast to your ground, old boy, old boy
Hold fast to your ground, old boy.
You got ten-cent corn to pay fifty-cent debt,
Hold fast to your ground, old boy.

With each passing day the hayseed choir added verse to the song, and repeated the chorus until men with conscience and vision gave weight to the side of the farmer and balanced the scale of justice. Content with the service to their brothers, the men talked amongst themselves about weather and dust and the need for an occasional shot of sour mash.

In short order the boy returned. He again wiped the flush from his face and leaned against the elevated platform.

“What you got for us, kid?” Stampede inquired.

The boy shoved his hands deep in his pockets and balanced his weight on his heels. He spoke with the mechanical drumming of a factory assembly line.

“Michigan boys are on the move,” he replied, “calling for a general strike. They stand as one against those who move to impose unfair labor practices.”

Stampede nodded his head and lifted the guitar from his lap.

“Sing with me, boys,” he implored, “it is time to share voice with our brothers.”

The voices rose in harmonious camaraderie like the tumbling purr of a Roadster Convertible.

You look upon the massive wave of hardship and despair.
And sit among your brothers ’til their wage is just and fair.
Four-hundred-thousand strong will e’er preserve the rank-and-file.
And one day soon your sacrifice will prove to be worthwhile.

Oh-la-waaaaaay, we share your anger.
Oh-la-waaaaaay, we feel your pain.
Mother Jones will guide your spirit.
Better days are on the way.

With each passing day the hayseed choir added verse to the song, and repeated the chorus until men with conscience and vision gave weight to the side of the worker and balanced the scale of justice. Content with the service to their brothers, the men talked amongst themselves about weather and dust and the need for an occasional shot of sour mash.

The young boy returned once again, his eyes betraying darkness well beyond his years. He lifted the cap from his head and held it against his heart.

“What you got for us, kid?” Stampede inquired

“The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor,” said the kid, “and boys are on the move from Cape Cod to L.A., calling for the ultimate sacrifice. They stand as one against those who move to threaten our freedom.”

The men on the platform were silent. The air stopped moving among them. The man they called Stampede looked down at the kid, nodded his head, and set the guitar to his side.

“Stand with me, boys,” he implored, “it is time to shed blood with our brothers.”