Do you know the blackened timber 

 do you know that racing stream 

 With the raw, right-angled log- 

 jam at the end; 



And the bar of sun-warmed shingle 

 where a man may bask and 

 dream 

 To the click of shod canoe-poles 



round the bend? 

 It is there that we are going with 



our rods and reels and traces, 

 To a silent smoky Indian that we 



know 



To a couch of new-pulled hemlock, 

 with the starlight on our faces, 

 For the Red Gods call us out and 

 we must go! 



RUDYARD KIPLING, The Feet 

 of the Young Men. 



