202 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
When first he strikes the higher hills 
And suffers ‘pedatory’ chills! 
‘‘ At first each separate ‘forty’ seems 
A mile across! Each ‘corner’ gleams 
A beacon in a world of night; 
The tyro thinks: ‘This run’s a fright, 
I’ll never see the camp again— 
My kingdom for an aeroplane!’ 
‘*His legs are stiff; his feet are sore, 
He carries bruises by the score; 
Each day’s a crisis in his life, 
An aeon of unending strife 
And even as at night he dreams, 
The cook, with breakfast ready, screams. 
“‘He grumbles at the ‘rotten chuck,’ 
And figures that he’s out of luck, 
Nurses a grouch exceeding glum 
And wishes that he’d never come; 
Like Job, his last despairing ery, 
‘T’ll curse the Government, and die!’ 
‘*But as the season wears along, 
He finds he’s growing hard and strong, 
The steepest peaks with glee attacks, 
And gaily, skilfully he tracks 
The elusive contour to its death 
Nor pauses once to gasp for breath! 
“His attitude is altered quite, 
The work’s a cinch, the world is bright, 
He has a glance for towering trees, 
For rocks and streams; the mountain breeze 
