But he never stops to reck; or cares 

 The biting frost and cold he bears 

 He is doing this work for civilized man, 

 He's clearing the way and far in the van. 



He drags the logs from the woods deep hid 

 And decks them high on the slippery skid 

 With strong steel chain coiled round each trunk 

 Then loads them on the great sleigh bunk, 

 His four-in-hand then forth are led 

 And hitched to the roll of the massive sled, 

 Down the sparkling ice road with ruts like glass 

 They from the branch to the landing pass. 



Here he loads the logs on a long flat car, 

 They're shipped to mills both near and far, 

 Where lumber is made from the old pine tree 

 To build warm houses for you and me, 

 His work is done; from the camp built low 

 He vanishes now like the winter's snow, 

 And comes not again to his old retreat 

 Till the frost succeed the summer's heat. 



Then here's to the lumberjack, bad or good, 

 Who toils in the depths of the dark green wood, 

 Though rough of dress, of visage grim. 

 Beneath it all there's a heart in him, 

 At sight of misery or wants appeal 

 He'll give his all for the sufferer's weal, 

 He's done his work well, the forest laid low, 

 Socn, in story alone we'll the lumberjack know. 



A HOMESTEADER. 



25 



