And down from the hills where the rivers are
fed
We harry the hemlock and spruce.
We hurroop them with the peavies from their
sullen beds of snow;
With the pickpole for a goadstick, down the
brimming streams we go;
They are hitching, they are halting, and they
lurk and hide and dodge,
They sneak for skulking eddies, they bunt the