They must find that blackened timber, they must head that racing stream,
With its raw, right-angled log jam at the end,
And a bar of sun-warmed gravel where a lad can bask and dream
To the click of shod canoe poles ’round the bend.
It is there that they are going with their rods and reels and traces,
With a silent, smoky packer that they know;
To their beds of fleecy fir-mat with the star light on their faces,
All are ready now to hold the evening show.
So they go, go, go, away from here!
On the summit of the world they’re overdue.