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.