THE WINTER CAMP-FIRE 



silently in with burdens of game. The 

 squaws sit in the ruddy light plying 

 their various labors, while their impish 

 children play around them in mimicry 

 of battle and the chase. 



All then vanish, and white-clad sol- 

 diers of France bivouac in their place — 

 or red-coated Britons, or Provincial rang- 

 ers, unsoldierly to look upon, in home- 

 spun garb, but keen-eyed, alert, and the 

 bravest of the brave. 



These dissolve like wreaths of smoke, 

 and a solitary white hunter, clothed all 

 in buckskin, sits over against you. His 

 long flint-lock rifle lying across his lap, 

 he is looking with rapt gaze into the 

 fire, dreaming as you are. 



So, growing brighter as the daylight 

 grows dim and the gloaming thickens 

 to the mirk, and paling again as day- 

 light creeps slowly back upon the world, 

 but always bright in the diurnal twi- 

 light of the woods, the camp-fire weaves 

 and breaks its magic spells, now leap- 

 ing, now lapsing, as its own freaks 

 move it. Then, perhaps, when it has 

 charmed you far across the border of 

 227 



