OUR CAMPING GROUND

THERE is a spot where plumy pines
O’erhang the sylvan banks of Otter,
Where pigeons feed among the vines
That hang above the limpid water.
There wood-ducks build in hollow trees,
And herns among the matted sedges,
While, drifting on the summer breeze,
Float satin clouds with silver edges.

’Tis there the blue jay hides her nest
In thickest shade of drooping beeches,
The fish-hawk, statue-like in rest,
Stands guard o’er glassy pools and reaches.
The trout beneath the grassy brink
Looks out for shipwrecked flies and midges,
The red deer comes in search of drink,
From laurel brake and woodland ridges.

And on the stream a birch canoe
Floats like a freshly fallen feather—
A fairy thing, that will not do
For broader seas or stormy weather.
The sides no thicker than the shell
Of Ole Bull’s Cremona fiddle—
The man who rides it will do well
To part his scalplock in the middle.

Beneath a hemlock grim and dark,
Where shrub and vine are intertwining,
Our shanty stands, well roofed with bark,
On which the cheerful blaze is shining.
The smoke ascends in spiral wreath,
With upward curve the sparks are trending,
The coffee kettle sings beneath
Where smoke and sparks and leaves are blending.

Upon the whole this life is well:
Our lines are cast in pleasant places.
And it is better not to dwell
On missing forms and vanished faces.
They have their rest beyond our bourn;—
We miss the old familiar voices.
We will remember—will not mourn:
The heart is poor that ne’er rejoices.

We had our day of youth and May,
We may have grown a trifle sober;
But life may reach a wintry day,
And we are only in October.
Then here’s a round to every hound
That ran his deer by hill or hollow,
And every man who watched the ground
From Barber Rock to Furman fallow.