ON HEARING AN OLD CAMP-COMPANION'S VOICE FROM THE STREET.
THE autumn-spruces sadly shake,
The leaves are falling.
The night is still; far down the lake
The loons are calling.
From cabin-door outstreams the light,
Within's the rustling
Of cleaning guns, and converse bright -
The guides are bustling.
The noon through fleecy clouds shines clear,
Their veil despising,
The while, old friend, again I hear
Your voice arising.