THE BOOK OF ADVENTURE.
Oh the glory of the trappers!
Oh to be as in this book,
Chasing things in furry wrappers,
Poking from their crevice-nook
Loudly though they squeak and grumble,
Squirrel fitch and Arctic cat
(Editor: "I do not tumble;
Will you please explain this jumble?"
Author: "I shall come to that").
Oh! (as I was just remarking
When you interrupted me)
Where the marabouts are barking
It is there that I would be;
Where on promontories stony
All the loud Atlantic raves
And the, if not very tony,
Still quite practical seal coney
Plunges in the wind-whipt waves.
Where the graceful skunk opossum
And the stylish leopard mink
Scamper as you come across 'em,
Climb upon the cañon's brink,
Gambol with the pony musquash,
Claimed not for a collar yet—
Far away from London's bus-squash
And advertisements of tusk-wash
Are my yearning visions set.
If such dreams and such romances,
Editor and reader mine,
Have not filled your heart with fancies—
Silence and the lonely pine,
Distant snows that cool the fever
Of a weary world-worn soul,
There where life is no deceiver
And the wallaby-dyed-beaver
Makes a very natural mole—
If you have not heard the calling
Of the lone, lone trail and far,
Where the animals enthralling
I have lately mentioned are,
Nature splendid and full-blooded,
Just a gun and pipe and dog
(How those avalanches thudded!)—
No? Why, then you can't have studied
Perkins' Bargain Catalogue.
Evoe.
