Part 6 (1/2)

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 ta.s.sels, 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 s.h.i.+rt unb.u.t.toned 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.