Till it reach across de reever

Dat'll geev' some moose de fever!

Wait now, Johnnie, don't you worry,
No use bein' on de hurry,

But lissen for de answer, it'll come before you know.

For w'y you jomp lak dat? w'at's matter wit' your ear?
Steady, Johnnie, steady-kip your head down low—
Tak' your finger off de trigger, dat was only bird you hear.
Can't you tell de pine tree crickin'

Or de boule frog w'en he's spikin'?
Don't you know de grey owl singin'

From de beeg moose w'en he's ringin'

Out hees challenge on de message your ole gran'fader blow?

You're lucky boy to-night, wit' hunter man lak me!

Steady, Johnnie, steady-kip your head down low

Can tole you all about it! H-s-s-h! dat's somet'ing now I see,
Dere he's comin' t'roo de bushes,

So get down among de rushes,
Hear heem walk! I t'ink, by tonder,

He mus' go near fourteen honder.

Dat's de feller I been watchin' all de evening, I dunno.

I'll geev' anoder call, jus' a leetle wan or two,

Steady, Johnnie, steady-kip your head down low

W'en he see dere's no wan waitin' I wonder w'at he'll do?
But look out for here he's comin';

Sa-pris-ti! ma heart is drummin'!
You can never get heem nearer
An' de moon is shinin' clearer,

W'at a fine shot you'll be havin'! now, Johnnie, let her go!

Bang! bang! you got heem sure! an' he'll never run away
Nor feed among de lily on de shore of Wessonneau.

So dat's your first moose, Johnnie! wall! remember all I say—
Doesn't matter w'at you're chasin',
Doesn't matter w'at you're facin',
Only watch de t'ing you're doin';

If you don't, ba gosh! you're ruin!

An' steady, Johnnie, steady-kip your head down low.

DREAMS

Bord à Plouffe, Bord à Plouffe,

W'at do I see w'en I dream of you?
A shore w'ere de water is racin' by,
A small boy lookin', an' wonderin' w'y
He can't get fedder for goin' fly

Lak de hawk makin' ring on de summer sky
Dat's w'at I see.

Bord à Plouffe, Bord à Plouffe,

W'at do I hear w'en I dream of you?
Too many t'ing for sleepin' well!
De song of de ole tam cariole bell,
De voice of dat girl from Sainte Angèle,
(I geev' her a ring was mark "fidèle")
Dat's w'at I hear.

Bord à Plouffe, Bord à Plouffe,
What do I smoke w'en I dream of you?
Havana cigar from across de sea,

An' get dem for not'ing too? No, siree!
Dere's only wan kin' of tabac for me,
An' it grow on de Rivière des Prairies-
Dat's w'at I smoke.

Bord à Plouffe, Bord à Plouffe,

How do I feel w'en I t'ink of you?

Sick, sick for de ole place way back dere—
An' to sleep on ma own leetle room upstair
W'ere de ghos' on de chimley mak' me scare,
I'd geev more monee dan I can spare—
Dat's how I feel.

Bord à Plouffe, Bord à Plouffe,
W'at will I do w'en I'm back wit' you?
I'll buy de farm of Bonhomme Martel,
Long tam he's been waitin' a chance to sell,
Den pass de nex' morning on Sainte Angèle,
An' if she's not marry-dat girl-very well,
Dat's w'at I'll do.

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN

[BORN at Morpeth, Canada, 1861; died at Ottawa, 1899. He became a clerk in the Civil Service. He published two volumes of verse, Among the Millet and Lyrics of Earth, and was preparing a third volume, Alcyone, for the press at the time of his death. His collected poems were published in 1900 with a memoir by Mr. Duncan Campbell Scott.]

A new manner and a new temper of thought came into Canadian literature shortly after 1880, and Mr. Roberts and Mr. Carman, Mr. Wilfred Campbell, Mr. D. C. Scott, and Archibald Lampman, are the poetic voices of our renaissance. Each was soon to develop his own peculiar vein, but they all shared a kindred enthusiasm for nature, Mr. Roberts and Mr. Carman reproducing the atmosphere of the Eastern sea-board, Mr. Campbell writing vigorous lyrics of the Great Lakes region, and Mr. Scott and Lampman taking as their province the beautiful country that lies about Ottawa, where cultivation merges so rapidly into the untamed beauty of the Laurentian hills that bound the near horizon.

Of this group Lampman has subordinated himself most completely to the influences which flow from nature, and he takes rank as the finest of our descriptive poets. He cannot be said to have any systematic philosophy of nature, unless it be that to yield oneself completely to her sway is to master the secret of unselfish and noble living. It is not exciting poetry, and it is probable that the more dramatic methods and the more fluid technique of our present-day writers have made us careless of his quieter perfection. But Lampman's work has solid virtues that will keep it alive long after the collapse of many an ultra-modernist reputation, and among Canadian poets at least he will remain a classic.

HEAT

From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;

Up the steep hill it seems to swim

Beyond, and melt into the glare.

Upward half-way, or it may be.
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily

With idly clacking wheels.

By his cart's side the wagone.
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur

Of white dust puffing to his knees.
This waggon on the height above,
From sky to sky on either hand,
Is the sole thing that seems to move
In all the heat-held land.

Beyond me in the fields the sun

Soaks in the grass and hath his will;
I count the marguerites one by one;
Even the buttercups are still.
On the brook yonder not a breath
Disturbs the spider or the midge.
The water-bugs draw close beneath
The cool gloom of the bridge.

Where the far elm-tree shadows flood
Dark patches in the burning grass,
The cows, each with her peaceful cud,
Lie waiting for the heat to pass.
From somewhere on the slope near by
Into the pale depth of the noon
A wandering thrush slides leisurely
His thin revolving tune.

In intervals of dreams I hear

The cricket from the droughty ground;
The grasshoppers spin into mine ear
A small innumerable sound.

I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze:
The burning sky-line blinds my sight:
The woods far off are blue with haze:
The hills are drenched in light.

And yet to me not this or that
Is always sharp or always sweet;
In the sloped shadow of my hat

I lean at rest, and drain the heat;
Nay more, I think some blessed power
Hath brought me wandering idly here:
In the full furnace of this hour

My thoughts grow keen and clear.

OUTLOOK

Not to be conquered by these headlong days,
But to stand free: to keep the mind at brood
On life's deep meaning, nature's altitude
Of loveliness, and time's mysterious ways;
At every thought and deed to clear the haze
Out of our eyes, considering only this,

What man, what life, what love, what beauty is,
This is to live, and win the final praise.
Though strife, ill fortune, and harsh human need
Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb
With agony; yet, patience there shall come
Many great voices from life's outer sea,

Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed,
Murmurs and glimpses of eternity.

Far

up

THE WOODCUTTER'S HUT

in the wild and wintry hills in the heart of the cliff-broken woods,

Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless soli

tudes.

The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show

A blunted peak and a low black line, from the glittering waste of

snow.

In the frost-still dawn from his roof goes up in the windless, motionless air,