Chapter 3

"That mornin' I had crossed the stream straight on a sheet of ice An' now, God help me! There it was, churned up an' cracked to dice, The flood went boiling past--I stood like one shut in a vice.

"No way ahead, no path aback, trapped like a rat ashore, With naught but death to follow, and with naught but death afore; The howl of hungry wolves aback--ahead, the torrent's roar.

"An' then--a voice, an Indyan voice, that called out clear and clean, 'Take Indyan's horse, I run like deer, wolf can't catch Wolverine.' I says, 'Thank Heaven.' There stood the chief I'd nicknamed Wolverine.

"I leapt on that there horse, an' then jest like a coward fled, An' left that Indyan standin' there alone, as good as dead, With the wolves a-howlin' at his back, the swollen stream ahead.

"I don't know how them Indyans dodge from death the way they do, You won't believe it, sir, but what I'm tellin' you is true, But that there chap was 'round next day as sound as me or you.

"He came to get his horse, but not a cent he'd take from me. Yes, sir, you're right, the Indyans now ain't like they used to be; We've got 'em sharpened up a bit an' _now_ they'll take a fee.

"No, sir, you're wrong, they ain't no 'dogs.' I'm not through tellin' yet; You'll take that name right back again, or else jest out you get! You'll take that name right back when you hear all this yarn, I bet.

"It happened that same autumn, when some Whites was comin' in, I heard the old Red River carts a-kickin' up a din, So I went over to their camp to see an English skin.

"They said, 'They'd had an awful scare from Injuns,' an' they swore That savages had come around the very night before A-brandishing their tomahawks an' painted up for war.

"But when their plucky Englishmen had put a bit of lead Right through the heart of one of them, an' rolled him over, dead, The other cowards said that they had come on peace instead.

"'That they (the Whites) had lost some stores, from off their little pack, An' that the Red they peppered dead had followed up their track, Because he'd found the packages an' came _to give them back_.'

"'Oh!' they said, 'they were quite sorry, but it wasn't like as if They had killed a decent Whiteman by mistake or in a tiff, It was only some old Injun dog that lay there stark an' stiff.'

"I said, 'You are the meanest dogs that ever yet I seen,' Then I rolled the body over as it lay out on the green; I peered into the face--My God! 'twas poor old Wolverine."

THE VAGABONDS

What saw you in your flight to-day, Crows, awinging your homeward way?

Went you far in carrion quest, Crows, that worry the sunless west?

Thieves and villains, you shameless things! Black your record as black your wings.

Tell me, birds of the inky hue, Plunderous rogues--to-day have you

Seen with mischievous, prying eyes Lands where earlier suns arise?

Saw you a lazy beck between Trees that shadow its breast in green,

Teased by obstinate stones that lie Crossing the current tauntingly?

Fields abloom on the farther side With purpling clover lying wide--

Saw you there as you circled by, Vale-environed a cottage lie,

Girt about with emerald bands, Nestling down in its meadow lands?

Saw you this on your thieving raids? Speak--you rascally renegades!

Thieved you also away from me Olden scenes that I long to see?

If, O! crows, you have flown since morn Over the place where I was born,

Forget will I, how black you were Since dawn, in feather and character;

Absolve will I, your vagrant band Ere you enter your slumberland.

THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS

West wind, blow from your prairie nest, Blow from the mountains, blow from the west. The sail is idle, the sailor too; O! wind of the west, we wait for you. Blow, blow! I have wooed you so, But never a favour you bestow. You rock your cradle the hills between, But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail, unship the mast: I wooed you long but my wooing's past; My paddle will lull you into rest. O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west, Sleep, sleep, By your mountain steep, Or down where the prairie grasses sweep! Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky, Laughing while paddle, canoe and I, Drift, drift, Where the hills uplift On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed; My paddle is plying its way ahead; Dip, dip, While the waters flip In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now; The eddies circle about my bow. Swirl, swirl! How the ripples curl In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

And forward far the rapids roar, Fretting their margin for evermore. Dash, dash, With a mighty crash, They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe! The reckless waves you must plunge into. Reel, reel. On your trembling keel, But never a fear my craft will feel.

We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead! The river slips through its silent bed. Sway, sway, As the bubbles spray And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky, A fir tree rocking its lullaby, Swings, swings, Its emerald wings, Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

THE CAMPER

Night 'neath the northern skies, lone, black, and grim: Naught but the starlight lies 'twixt heaven, and him.

Of man no need has he, of God, no prayer; He and his Deity are brothers there.

Above his bivouac the firs fling down Through branches gaunt and black, their needles brown.

Afar some mountain streams, rockbound and fleet, Sing themselves through his dreams in cadence sweet,

The pine trees whispering, the heron's cry, The plover's passing wing, his lullaby.

And blinking overhead the white stars keep Watch o'er his hemlock bed--his sinless sleep.

AT HUSKING TIME

At husking time the tassel fades To brown above the yellow blades, Whose rustling sheath enswathes the corn That bursts its chrysalis in scorn Longer to lie in prison shades.

Among the merry lads and maids The creaking ox-cart slowly wades Twixt stalks and stubble, sacked and torn At husking time.

The prying pilot crow persuades The flock to join in thieving raids; The sly racoon with craft inborn His portion steals; from plenty's horn His pouch the saucy chipmunk lades At husking time.

WORKWORN

Across the street, an humble woman lives; To her 'tis little fortune ever gives; Denied the wines of life, it puzzles me To know how she can laugh so cheerily. This morn I listened to her softly sing, And, marvelling what this effect could bring I looked: 'twas but the presence of a child Who passed her gate, and looking in, had smiled. But self-encrusted, I had failed to see The child had also looked and laughed to me. My lowly neighbour thought the smile God-sent, And singing, through the toilsome hours she went. O! weary singer, I have learned the wrong Of taking gifts, and giving naught of song; I thought my blessings scant, my mercies few, Till I contrasted them with yours, and you; To-day I counted much, yet wished it more-- While but a child's bright smile was all your store,

If I had thought of all the stormy days, That fill some lives that tread less favoured ways, How little sunshine through their shadows gleamed, My own dull life had much the brighter seemed; If I had thought of all the eyes that weep Through desolation, and still smiling keep, That see so little pleasure, so much woe, My own had laughed more often long ago; If I had thought how leaden was the weight Adversity lays at my kinsman's gate, Of that great cross my next door neighbour bears, My thanks had been more frequent in my prayers; If I had watched the woman o'er the way, Workworn and old, who labours day by day, Who has no rest, no joy to call her own, My tasks, my heart, had much the lighter grown.

EASTER

April 1, 1888

Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading In her reluctant hands. Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading, As pensively she stands Awaiting Easter's benediction falling, Like silver stars at night, Before she can obey the summons calling Her to her upward flight, Awaiting Easter's wings that she must borrow Ere she can hope to fly-- Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow Against the far, blue sky. Has not the purple of her vesture's lining Brought calm and rest to all? Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining Been naught but pleasure's pall? Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning In youth's light joyousness, We'll wear some rarer jewels we found burning In Lent's black-bordered dress. So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers To beg the crowning grace Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers The veil from April's face. Sweet, rosy April--laughing, sighing, waiting Until the gateway swings, And she and Lent can kiss between the grating Of Easter's tissue wings. Too brief the bliss--the parting comes with sorrow. Good-bye dear Lent, good-bye! We'll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow Against the far blue sky.

ERIE WATERS

A dash of yellow sand, Wind-scattered and sun-tanned; Some waves that curl and cream along the margin of the strand; And, creeping close to these Long shores that lounge at ease, Old Erie rocks and ripples to a fresh sou'-western breeze.

A sky of blue and grey; Some stormy clouds that play At scurrying up with ragged edge, then laughing blow away, Just leaving in their trail Some snatches of a gale; To whistling summer winds we lift a single daring sail.

O! wind so sweet and swift, O! danger-freighted gift Bestowed on Erie with her waves that foam and fall and lift, We laugh in your wild face, And break into a race With flying clouds and tossing gulls that weave and interlace.

THE FLIGHT OF THE CROWS

The autumn afternoon is dying o'er The quiet western valley where I lie Beneath the maples on the river shore, Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair sky Environ all; and far above some birds are flying by

To seek their evening haven in the breast And calm embrace of silence, while they sing Te Deums to the night, invoking rest For busy chirping voice and tired wing-- And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping cradles swing.

In forest arms the night will soonest creep, Where sombre pines a lullaby intone, Where Nature's children curl themselves to sleep, And all is still at last, save where alone A band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown.

Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day, Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blend With fields of yellow maize, and leagues away With rivers where their sweeping waters wend Past velvet banks to rocky shores, in canyons bold to end.

O'er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead, Till lashed to life by storm-clouds, have they flown? In what wild lands, in laggard flight have led Their aerial career unseen, unknown, 'Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone?

The flapping of their pinions in the air Dies in the hush of distance, while they light Within the fir tops, weirdly black and bare, That stand with giant strength and peerless height, To shelter fairy, bird and beast throughout the closing night.

Strange black and princely pirates of the skies, Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know! Would that my soul could see, and, seeing, rise To unrestricted life where ebb and flow Of Nature's pulse would constitute a wider life below!

Could I but live just here in Freedom's arms, A kingly life without a sovereign's care! Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms, And all is cradled in repose, save where Yon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air.

MOONSET

Idles the night wind through the dreaming firs, That waking murmur low, As some lost melody returning stirs The love of long ago; And through the far, cool distance, zephyr fanned. The moon is sinking into shadow-land.

The troubled night-bird, calling plaintively, Wanders on restless wing; The cedars, chanting vespers to the sea, Await its answering, That comes in wash of waves along the strand, The while the moon slips into shadow-land.

O! soft responsive voices of the night I join your minstrelsy, And call across the fading silver light As something calls to me; I may not all your meaning understand, But I have touched your soul in shadow-land.

MARSHLANDS

A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim, And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh's brim.

The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould, Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold.

Among the wild rice in the still lagoon, In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.

The wild goose, homing, seeks a sheltering, Where rushes grow, and oozing lichens cling.

Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight, Sail up the silence with the nearing night.

And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil, Steals twilight and its shadows o'er the swale.

Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapours creep, Thick, grey and humid, while the marshes sleep.

JOE

AN ETCHING

A meadow brown; across the yonder edge A zigzag fence is ambling; here a wedge Of underbush has cleft its course in twain, Till where beyond it staggers up again; The long, grey rails stretch in a broken line Their ragged length of rough, split forest pine, And in their zigzag tottering have reeled In drunken efforts to enclose the field, Which carries on its breast, September born, A patch of rustling, yellow, Indian corn. Beyond its shrivelled tassels, perched upon The topmost rail, sits Joe, the settler's son, A little semi-savage boy of nine. Now dozing in the warmth of Nature's wine, His face the sun has tampered with, and wrought, By heated kisses, mischief, and has brought Some vagrant freckles, while from here and there A few wild locks of vagabond brown hair Escape the old straw hat the sun looks through, And blinks to meet his Irish eyes of blue. Barefooted, innocent of coat or vest, His grey checked shirt unbuttoned at his chest, Both hardy hands within their usual nest-- His breeches pockets--so, he waits to rest His little fingers, somewhat tired and worn, That all day long were husking Indian corn. His drowsy lids snap at some trivial sound, With lazy yawns he slips towards the ground, Then with an idle whistle lifts his load And shambles home along the country road That stretches on, fringed out with stumps and weeds, And finally unto the backwoods leads, Where forests wait with giant trunk and bough The axe of pioneer, the settler's plough.

SHADOW RIVER

MUSKOKA

A stream of tender gladness, Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies; Of warm midsummer air that lightly lies In mystic rings, Where softly swings The music of a thousand wings That almost tones to sadness.

Midway 'twixt earth and heaven, A bubble in the pearly air, I seem To float upon the sapphire floor, a dream Of clouds of snow, Above, below, Drift with my drifting, dim and slow, As twilight drifts to even.

The little fern-leaf, bending Upon the brink, its green reflection greets, And kisses soft the shadow that it meets With touch so fine, The border line The keenest vision can't define; So perfect is the blending.

The far, fir trees that cover The brownish hills with needles green and gold, The arching elms o'erhead, vinegrown and old, Repictured are Beneath me far, Where not a ripple moves to mar Shades underneath, or over.

Mine is the undertone; The beauty, strength, and power of the land Will never stir or bend at my command; But all the shade Is marred or made, If I but dip my paddle blade; And it is mine alone.

O! pathless world of seeming! O! pathless life of mine whose deep ideal Is more my own than ever was the real. For others Fame And Love's red flame, And yellow gold: I only claim The shadows and the dreaming.

RAINFALL

From out the west, where darkling storm-clouds float, The 'waking wind pipes soft its rising note.

From out the west, o'erhung with fringes grey, The wind preludes with sighs its roundelay,

Then blowing, singing, piping, laughing loud, It scurries on before the grey storm-cloud;

Across the hollow and along the hill It whips and whirls among the maples, till

With boughs upbent, and green of leaves blown wide, The silver shines upon their underside.

A gusty freshening of humid air, With showers laden, and with fragrance rare;

And now a little sprinkle, with a dash Of great cool drops that fall with sudden splash;

Then over field and hollow, grass and grain, The loud, crisp whiteness of the nearing rain.

UNDER CANVAS

IN MUSKOKA

Lichens of green and grey on every side; And green and grey the rocks beneath our feet; Above our heads the canvas stretching wide; And over all, enchantment rare and sweet.

Fair Rosseau slumbers in an atmosphere That kisses her to passionless soft dreams. O! joy of living we have found thee here, And life lacks nothing, so complete it seems.

The velvet air, stirred by some elfin wings, Comes swinging up the waters and then stills Its voice so low that floating by it sings Like distant harps among the distant hills.

Across the lake the rugged islands lie, Fir-crowned and grim; and further in the view Some shadows seeming swung 'twixt cloud and sky, Are countless shores, a symphony of blue.

Some northern sorceress, when day is done, Hovers where cliffs uplift their gaunt grey steeps, Bewitching to vermilion Rosseau's sun, That in a liquid mass of rubies sleeps.

The scent of burning leaves, the camp-fire's blaze, The great logs cracking in the brilliant flame, The groups grotesque, on which the firelight plays, Are pictures which Muskoka twilights frame.

And Night, star-crested, wanders up the mere With opiates for idleness to quaff, And while she ministers, far off I hear The owl's uncanny cry, the wild loon's laugh.

THE BIRDS' LULLABY

I

Sing to us, cedars; the twilight is creeping With shadowy garments, the wilderness through; All day we have carolled, and now would be sleeping, So echo the anthems we warbled to you; While we swing, swing, And your branches sing, And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

II

Sing to us, cedars; the night-wind is sighing, Is wooing, is pleading, to hear you reply; And here in your arms we are restfully lying, And longing to dream to your soft lullaby; While we swing, swing, And your branches sing, And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

III

Sing to us, cedars; your voice is so lowly, Your breathing so fragrant, your branches so strong; Our little nest-cradles are swaying so slowly, While zephyrs are breathing their slumberous song. And we swing, swing, While your branches sing, And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

OVERLOOKED

Sleep, with her tender balm, her touch so kind, Has passed me by; Afar I see her vesture, velvet-lined, Float silently; O! Sleep, my tired eyes had need of thee! Is thy sweet kiss not meant to-night for me?

Peace, with the blessings that I longed for so, Has passed me by; Where'er she folds her holy wings I know All tempests die; O! Peace, my tired soul had need of thee! Is thy sweet kiss denied alone to me?

Love, with her heated touches, passion-stirred, Has passed me by. I called, "O stay thy flight," but all unheard My lonely cry: O! Love, my tired heart had need of thee! Is thy sweet kiss withheld alone from me?

Sleep, sister-twin of Peace, my waking eyes So weary grow! O! Love, thou wanderer from Paradise, Dost thou not know How oft my lonely heart has cried to thee? But Thou, and Sleep, and Peace, come not to me.

FASTING

'Tis morning now, yet silently I stand, Uplift the curtain with a weary hand, Look out while darkness overspreads the way, And long for day.

Calm peace is frighted with my mood to-night, Nor visits my dull chamber with her light, To guide my senses into her sweet rest And leave me blest.

Long hours since the city rocked and sung Itself to slumber: only the stars swung Aloft their torches in the midnight skies With watchful eyes.

No sound awakes; I, even, breathe no sigh, Nor hear a single footstep passing by; Yet I am not alone, for now I feel A presence steal

Within my chamber walls; I turn to see The sweetest guest that courts humanity; With subtle, slow enchantment draws she near, And Sleep is here.

What care I for the olive branch of Peace? Kind Sleep will bring a thrice-distilled release, Nepenthes, that alone her mystic hand Can understand.

And so she bends, this welcome sorceress, To crown my fasting with her light caress. Ah, sure my pain will vanish at the bliss Of her warm kiss.

But still my duty lies in self-denial; I must refuse sweet Sleep, although the trial Will reawaken all my depth of pain. So once again

I lift the curtain with a weary hand, With more than sorrow, silently I stand, Look out while darkness overspreads the way, And long for day.

"Go, Sleep," I say, "before the darkness die, To one who needs you even more than I, For I can bear my part alone, but he Has need of thee.

"His poor tired eyes in vain have sought relief, His heart more tired still, with all its grief; His pain is deep, while mine is vague and dim, Go thou to him.

"When thou hast fanned him with thy drowsy wings, And laid thy lips upon the pulsing strings That in his soul with fret and fever burn, To me return."

She goes. The air within the quiet street Reverberates to the passing of her feet; I watch her take her passage through the gloom To your dear home.

Beloved, would you knew how sweet to me Is this denial, and how fervently I pray that Sleep may lift you to her breast, And give you rest--

A privilege that she alone can claim. Would that my heart could comfort you the same, But in the censer Sleep is swinging high, All sorrows die.

She comes not back, yet all my miseries Wane at the thought of your calm sleeping eyes-- Wane, as I hear the early matin bell The dawn foretell.

And so, dear heart, still silently I stand, Uplift the curtain with a weary hand, The long, long night has bitter been and lone, But now 'tis gone.

Dawn lights her candles in the East once more, And darkness flees her chariot before; The Lenten morning breaks with holy ray, And it is day!

CHRISTMASTIDE

I may not go to-night to Bethlehem, Nor follow star-directed ways, nor tread The paths wherein the shepherds walked, that led To Christ, and peace, and God's good will to men.

I may not hear the Herald Angel's song Peal through the Oriental skies, nor see The wonder of that Heavenly company Announce the King the world had waited long.

The manger throne I may not kneel before, Or see how man to God is reconciled, Through pure St. Mary's purer, holier child; The human Christ these eyes may not adore.

I may not carry frankincense and myrrh With adoration to the Holy One; Nor gold have I to give the Perfect Son, To be with those wise kings a worshipper.

Not mine the joy that Heaven sent to them, For ages since Time swung and locked his gates, But I may kneel without--the star still waits To guide me on to holy Bethlehem.

CLOSE BY

So near at hand (our eyes o'erlooked its nearness In search of distant things) A dear dream lay--perchance to grow in dearness Had we but felt its wings Astir. The air our very breathing fanned It was so near at hand.

Once, many days ago, we almost held it, The love we so desired; But our shut eyes saw not, and fate dispelled it Before our pulses fired To flame, and errant fortune bade us stand Hand almost touching hand.

I sometimes think had we two been discerning, The by-path hid away From others' eyes had then revealed its turning To us, nor led astray Our footsteps, guiding us into love's land That lay so near at hand.