We saw how to strip the birch with our lip,
And to trample the shoots with our fore-leg weight;
We learned how to tell a foe by the smell,
That law in the wood was the law of hate.
Another year, and the wide ridge was clear,
As the snow grew less, and the day grew long;
With a start of the sap we swung from our trap,
While the chickadee whispered his mating song;
And the robin came, with feathers of flame,
To carol a psalm from the budding spray,