OvER THE TRAPPING LINE. 

And just below them on its side 
Rests a pine tree on the ground ; 
Men were born, have lived and died 
Since its prime, and yet ’tis sound. 
There is built upon the pine 
A wooden trap with heavy crusher ; 
This is on the trappers line, 
And is for the cruel Fisher. 
All the way as they were coming, 
Wooden traps were oft repairing ; 
Hunting axe was ever swinging, 
Rusty steel traps often oiling. 
Thick about them granite boulders, 
Scattering fir trees, little spruces ; 
Just beside them at their shoulders, 
Mountain ash tree red with berries. 
Here was once the eagles eyrie, 
Now his call is never heard ; 
Who could ere so thoughtless be 
As to harm this kingly bird. 
Oh the lovely autumn morning, 
Breezes blowing rich and rare ; 
Johnny Frost has been adorning 
All the woodland far and near. 
Green and red and golden yellow 
And the moosewood’s mottled leaves ; 
All around is rich and mellow, 
A balmy fragrance from the trees. 
