Lifts his foot, with a croak, and looks wisely below;
But onward we journey—we catch, as we pass
Through the vistas, quick glimpses of rock, stream and grass,
Then fitful we loiter by mounds plump with moss,
With sunbeams, like fluid gold, streaking across,
We peel the sweet birch bark, we pluck from the ground
The rich, pungent wintergreen growing around,
We taste the sour sorrel, in handfulls we pick
The bright partridge-berry sown crimson and thick,
We hear the near quail, from the rye stubble, call,