THE HERO OF THE COONSKIN CAP
When the blaze leaps forth from the camp’s
great hearth,
And the fitful shadows come and go;
When the ruddy beam lights the deacon-seat
And the silent faces in a row;
As the storm-gust drags at the sighing eaves
And moans at the shuddering window-pane,
Some droning voice from a shadowy bank
Intones a song to the wind’s long strain,
And like the soughing, ebbing blast
The gusty chorus bursts and swells;
And then one single, sighing voice
Drones plaintively the tale it tells.
They’re simple songs, they’re homely songs,
And yet they cling in heart and brain,——
Those songs of the darkling forest depths,
These songs of the lumber woods of Maine.
There’s the song of home and the song of love,
And the lilt of battle, bold and free;
There’s the song of the axe in the ringing wood,
And the sighing song of the distant sea.
Yet oft when the choruses are stilled
Some honest woodsman’s voice can wake
A tender thrill with the homely song
Of a nameless hero of Moosehead Lake.