374 



RECREA TION. 



and the only way to reach it was by an 

 overland journey. Two of the natives 

 agreed, for a knife each, to act as guides. 

 The next day, with a supply of meat, we 

 started, and for 4 days climbed over rocks, 

 waded through snow, crossed streams and 

 glaciers, sleeping among the rocks at 

 night. In crossing a glacier, we nearly 

 lost one of our companions. 



The guides said it was not safe to walk 

 on a certain glacier without all taking hold 

 of a long line, for the ice sounded hollow. 

 It might break and let us down. One of 

 our companions, who was always in the 

 rear, would not hold on to the line, as he 

 thought it unnecessary. In crossing a 

 deep crevasse, on a snow bridge, the man 



stopped to look down. There came a 

 crash and a roar. The bridge, with our 

 companion, had disappeared. Horrified, 

 we turned back, though we never expected 

 to see the man again. A shout came from 

 the crevasse. He was alive! With a line 

 fastened about his waist, one of the guides 

 crawled to the edge and looked down. Not 

 more than 25 feet below, our friend stood 

 on a shelving mass of snow. A line was 

 passed down to him, and he was hauled 

 out, badly frightened, but unhurt. 



A high cliff overlooking the site of our 

 camp was finally reached; then, in a short 

 time, we were back in our old quarters 

 with our friends, and never again did we 

 trust our lives to the uncertain ice floes. 



IN AUTUMN TIME. 



OLANCHA. 



When the brown, dried leaves of autumn, 



Floating earthward on the breeze, 

 Sound that gentle, far-off rustling, 



As they blow against the trees — 

 And the forest softly moaning, 



While the wind goes whistling through, 

 Sending show'rs of ripened chestnuts 



Down among the drops of dew — 



Something smould'ring in my nature 



Then is fanned to life once more, 

 With that burning, restless longing 



Felt so many times before; 

 And I catch my mind oft wand'ring 



From the duties of the day 

 To the dark and stately forest, 



Ah! so many miles away. 



Till at length is born a feeling 



That I cannot well explain — 

 Though 'tis known to ev'ry hunter — 



Far from power to restrain; 

 So I pack my traps together, 



Oil my rifle and my gun, 

 Cast to wind the cares of living 



With the setting of the sun. 



Call my dogs to make them ready 



Long before the break of dawn, 

 For they, too, have caught the fever, 



And are eager to be gone. 

 Why, the short time spent in travel 



Seems to never have an end, 

 Scarce can I control my patience 



Till the train comes round the bend! 



When, in time, I've gained my freedom, 



Reached at last my hunting ground, 

 Ev'ry fibre in my being, 



With my pulses, seems to bound. 

 Here the golden autumn sunshine 



Seems to clarify the air, 

 And my lungs are filled with fragrance 



From the balsams growing there. 



As I lay me down at even, 



In the camp-fire's beaming light, 

 Warmly wrapped in heavy blankets, 



Gazing out into the night — 

 Then I watch the sparks ascending, 



Hear the great logs crack and hiss, 

 Till my soul is soothed and rested, 



And my heart is filled with bliss. 



And I wonder, as I lie there, 



Quite at peace with all mankind, 

 How my brother in the ball-room 



Can the least enjoyment find — 

 If he would not gladly follow 



In my footsteps as I go — 

 Gladly make his home the forest, 



With the nimble buck and doe. 



