BIRCH AND PADDLE.

Friend, those delights of ours

Under the sun and showers,—

Athrough the noonday blue

Sliding our light canoe,

Or floating, hushed, at eve,

When the dim pine-tops grieve!

What tonic days were they

Where shy streams dart and play,—

Where rivers brown and strong

As caribou bound along,

Break into angry parle

Where wildcat rapids snarl,

Subside, and like a snake

Wind to the quiet lake!

We've paddled furtively,

Where giant boughs hide the sky,—

Have stolen, and held our breath,

Thro’ coverts still as death,—

Have left with wing unstirred

The brooding phoebe-bird,

And hardly caused a care

In the water-spider's lair.

For love of his clear pipe

We've flushed the zigzag snipe,—

Have chased in wilful mood

The wood-duck's flapping brood,—

Have spied the antlered moose

Cropping the young green spruce,

And watched him till betrayed

By the kingfisher's sharp tirade.

Quitting the bodeful shades

We've run thro’ sunnier glades,

And dropping craft and heed

Have bid our paddles speed.

Where the mad rapids chafe

We've shouted, steering safe,—

With sinew tense, nerve keen,

Shot thro’ the roar, and seen,

With spirit wild as theirs,

The white waves leap-like hares.

And then, with souls grown clear

In that sweet atmosphere,

With influences serene

Our blood and brain washed clean,

We've idled down the breast

Of broadening tides at rest,

And marked the winds, the birds,

The bees, the far-off herds,

Into a drowsy tune

Transmute the afternoon.

So, Friend, with ears and eyes

Which shy divinities

Have opened with their kiss,

We need no balm but this,—

A little space for dreams

On care-unsullied streams,—

‘ Mid task and toil, a space

To dream on Nature's face!