﻿The Battle of Hurley 
 
It was a gladsome afternoon in Hurley’s classic gate; 
When shouts of joy and stirring tune resounded far and late. 
The joyous crowd did Hurley proud 
And celebrated long and loud. 
 
*Gogebic’s bold immortal hills re-echoed through the night; 
Moonshiners in their cozy 8sic] stills were filled with strange delight; 
And gentle folk in glad array 
Cut Capers on the great “white way.” 
 
“For years” poor Hurley’s bid for fame was shadow’d by a slump; 
For citizens in her domain would dodge the village pump; 
Until the “strangers” carried thoughts 
That “Hurley must be wet in spots.” 
 
“For years” her good right army of law had dangled in a sling; 
“Oh, if her feet would only thaw,” some joy said thaw would bring. 
And so poor Hurley sorrowed on— 
Her face grew haggard, pale and wan. 
 
“For years” poor Hurley’s visage bore the bluest of blue funks; 
The stillness crept in more and more while she was dragging drunks; 
But now, the civic trumpets blare 
And sheers have rent the civic air. 
. . . . 
I met a burly business man who capered like a boy; 
His cheeks a-glow with legal-tan, his voice diffusing joy. 
I bluntly asked him, “Tell me, sir, 
The why and wherefore of the stir.” 
 
He gazed at me quite stupefied—then slap’d me on the back; 
“You haven’t heard,” he gayly cried, “about the lumberjack!” 
And onct [once?] again he cleared his throat, 
And sent a cheer across the moat. 
 
“You haven’t heard (he check’d a frown) about the lumberjack 
Who walked right into this man’s town along the railroad track? 
He was a wildcat, sir, and touch— 
Some boys had seen him chewing snuff! 
 
“We watched him—as we would a thief, (to thieves we are inured), 
And sent a word up to the Chief ‘ to have his life insured,’ 
For here’s a man from down the creek 
With whiskers like bolshevik. 
 
“‘Twas then our warlike chief arose and and tightened up his belt; 
There was no frost upon his toes, no yellow streak he felt; 
But like a hero to a feast, 
He charged upon the timber-beast. 
 
“And dragged him through a goodly throng up to the village coop, 
And though we’re but few thousand strong, he ne’er put up his dook. 
Our gallant chief, our noble guard, 
Found on his hip—a union card. 
 
“We sloughed him in our modest jail to try our modest fare, 
And that is why the heavens quail and why the trumpets blare; 
And that is why our joy is rife— 
Poor stunted Hurley’s come to life!” 
 
“The Sainted Town.” within her crust, had found herself at last, 
And Hurley, rising from the dust, was mopping up her past. 
Thus Hurley rises triumphant 
Upon Gogebic’s iron front. 

* Gogebic (go gib ic) Iron Ore Range