Floating ’neath the alder’s shade,
Where the moose at noon-tide wallows,
And the beaver plies his trade;
Shoving through the rustling sedges,
Battling with the autumn gale;
Lifting over rocky ledges,
Sweating on the portage trail—
On we go, with steadfast faces,
Till at last with gladdened eyes,
We behold the secret places