LABRADOR. 



A POETICAI, EPISTLE. 



" Fond, in the Summer, on young twigs to browse, 

 The social Beavers quit their Winter's house. 

 Around the Lake they cruise, nor fear mishap. 

 And sport unheedful of the Furrier's trap. 



September comes, the Stag's in season now ; 



Of Ven'son, far the Richest you'll allow. 



No Long-legg'd, Ewe-neck'd, Cat-hamm'd, Shambling Brute 



In him strength, beauty, size, each other suit. 



All this is pleasure ; but a Man of sense. 



Looks to his Traps ; 'tis they bring in the Pence. 



The Otter-season's short ; and soon the frost 



Will freeze your Traps, then all your Labour's lost. 



Of Beaver too, one Week will yield you more, 



Than later, you can hope for, in a Score. 



The Furrier now, with care his Traps looks o'er 

 These he puts out in paths, along the Shore, 

 For the rich Fox ; although not yet in kind. 

 His half-price Skin, our Labour's worth we find. 

 And when the Beaver lands, young Trees to cut, 

 Others he sets for his incautious foot. 

 On Rubbing-places, too, with nicest care, 

 Traps for the Otter, he must next prepare. 

 Then Deathfalls, in the old tall Woods he makes. 

 With Traps between, and the rich Sable takes. 



Now cast your Eyes around, stern Winter see. 

 His progress making, on each fading Tree. 

 The yellow leaf, tli' effect of nightly frost, 

 Proclaims his Visit, to our dreary Coast. 

 Fish, Fowl, and Ven'son, now our Tables grace ; 

 Roast Beaver too, and e'ery Beast of chase. 

 Luxurious living this ! who'd wish for more? 

 Were QuiN alive, he'd haste to Labrador ! " 



— George Carhvright — ijg: 



