My heart is a-cry with the calls of canaries;
My heart is a-swoon with the odor of clover”
This was the shouting of one logger.
Another’s roar sounded above the many:
“A snow of daisies on the hill,
White drifts all starred with gold.
But, ah, such snow wilt never chill—
It never makes thee cold.”
This logger went on yelling about a rain of buttercups that would not make you wet, and a soft hail of poppy petals, and a wind of bluebells; but by and by he seemed to get mixed up and his voice got hoarse. Then another logger made himself heard above the tumult of bawled rhythms. He cried:
“From Onion River did I come,