What tonic days were they
Where shy streams dart and play,—
Where rivers brown and strong
As caribou bound along,
Break into angry parle
Where wildcat rapids snarl,
Subside, and like a snake
Wind to the quiet lake!
We've paddled furtively,
Where giant boughs hide the sky,—
Have stolen, and held our breath,
Thro' coverts still as death,—
Have left with wing unstirred
The brooding phoebe-bird,
And hardly caused a care
In the water-spider's lair.
For love of his clear pipe
We've flushed the zigzag snipe,—
Have chased in wilful mood
The wood-duck's flapping brood,—