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Tire Aroostook Woops. 

Well beyond the rocky raceway 
Shooting downward yet they go; 
Then to shore beside the eddy 
To drain out the birch canoe. 
Now with spruce root neatly stitching 
While turned to the sun and drying ; 
Afterward a little pitching 
On again and swiftly flying. 
Far ahead see waters bonny 
Far behind the ‘+ dam the jutting ; ” 
Thus did joke the stern end cronie 
All recovered from his ducking. 
Shorter grow their moving shadows 
At the quiet hour of noonday ; 
Passing by the hill of echoes 
By the deer glade and their pathway. 
Now they hear the merry brooklet, 
Hear its murmuring, purling, running ; 
Stop they here to broil the troutlet, 
Dry their blankets, have their luncheon. 
Sitting by the murmuring brookside 
Dinner over, scrape tomahwee ; 
Dry it on the heated rockside, 
Mix it half and half tobacco. 
Fill they then the calumet, 
Light it with a coal of hardwood ; 
Few there are so happily met 
As these cronies in the wildwood. 
