Oh, such quakers we begin it,
Timorous of the icy route!
But to learn in half a minute
What felicity is in it,
As we shoot down the chute,
Smothered in toboggan suit,
Redingote or roquelaure,
Buttoned up (and down) before,
Mittens, cap, and moccasin,
Just the garb to revel in;
So, the signal given, lo!
Over solid ice and snow,
Down the narrow gauge we go
Swifter than a bird o'erhead,
Swifter than an arrow sped
From the staunchest, strongest bow.
Oh, it beats all "Copenhagen,"
Silly lovers' paradise!
Like the frozen Androscoggin,
Slippery, and smooth, and nice,
Is the track of the toboggan;
And there's nothing cheap about it,
Everything is steep about it,
The insolvent weep about it,
For the biggest thing on ice
Is its tip-top price;
But were this three times the money,
Then the game were thrice as funny.
Ye who dwell in latitudes
Where "the blizzard" ne'er intrudes,
And the water seldom freezes;
Ye of balmy Southern regions,
Alabama's languid legions,
From the "hot blast" of your breezes,
Where the verdure of the trees is
Limp, and loose, and pitiful,
Come up here where branches bare
Stand like spikes in frosty air;
Come up here where arctic rigor
Shall restore your bloom and vigor,
Making life enjoyable;
Come and take a jog on
The unparalleled toboggan!
Such the zest that he who misses
Never knows what perfect bliss is.
So the sport, the day's sensation,
Thrills and recreates creation.
The Woods.
I love the woods when the magic hand
Of Spring, as if sweeping the keys
Of a wornout instrument, touches the earth;
When beauty and song in the gladness of birth
Awaken the heart of the desolate land,
And carol its rapture to every breeze.
In summer's still solstice my steps are drawn
To the shade of the forest trees;
To revel with Pan in his secret haunts,
To pipe mazourkas while satyrs dance,
Or lull to soft slumber some favorite faun
And fascinate strange wild birds and bees.
I love the woods when autumnal fires
Are kindled on every hill;
When dead leaves rustle in grove and field,
And trees are known by the fruits they yield,
And the wild grapes, sweetened by frost, inspire
A mildly-desperate, bibulous thrill.
There's a joy for which I would fling to the air
My petty portion of wealth and fame,
In tracking the rabbit o'er fresh-fallen snow,
The ways of the 'coon and opossum to know,
To capture squirrels when branches are bare
As the cupboard shelf of that ancient dame.
Oh, I long to explore the woods again
In my own aboriginal way,
As before I knew how culture could frown
On a hoydenish gait and a homespun gown
Or dreamed that the strata of proud "upper-ten"
Would smile at rusticity's naïveté.