Over THE TrAppPiING LINE. 249 

Between the shore and bushy islands, 
Where each year the loons are nesting ; 
Then o’er the bar of whitest sands, 
Gliding on through rushes rustling. 
Anon they reach a sapling pine 
Which marks a path they ’re often tr amping 
And there we leave them on the line, 
Slowly jogging o« to home camping. 
