The snow-slide up behind the gaard;
The farm beside old Trondjem fjord;
Daughters seven with their cold blue eyes,
And the great pine where his father lies;
The boat that brought him over the sea;
And the toothless woman who makes his tea.
(Their picture, framed on the rough log wall,
Proves she had teeth when he was tall.)
He sees the balsam thick on the hill,
And all he’s cleared with a stubborn will.