THE TROLL OF THE 



LANDLOCKED SALMON 



Sharp is the air along the lake ; 

 Seats in our birch canoe we take ; 

 Silver the foam in our zigzag wake; 

 Shake our barks^ as the winds out-break. 



Close by the bank our birches glide ; 

 Flame out the colors^ as flushed with pride ; 

 Longer and stronger grows the stride ; 

 Wider and wilder the waves we ride. 



On with the race, till we reach the ground 

 Where the noble fish by skill are found ; 

 Care I — have a care to make no sound. 

 Rounding in, where the game abound. 



'Trolls, now, are cast on either hand ; 

 Ah! but the captive's leaps are grand ; 

 Strong his pulls to rejoin his band 

 And escape from the twisted strand. 



Upward he darts and cuts the air ; 

 Trickily sulks and seeks to wear 

 In shreds the line ; till, in fierce despair. 

 Where he rushes he does not care. 



5S 



