BOTANICAL SOCIETY OF CANADA. 
A SUMMER RAMBLE IN THE WOODS. 
By John May, A.M. 
Read by Professor Litchfield., M. Z^., \^ih December.^ 1861. 
Quite lately I was asked to write 
A paper to be read to-night ; 
(Something on shrubs, or flowers, or trees ;) 
So here is my attempt to please, 
As full of reason and of rhyme 
As I could make it in the time. 
It might, perchance, not be unwise. 
Ere going further, to premise 
That none can speak, with any shew 
Of sense, on what he does not know ; 
And thus my simple, modest Muse 
Avoids the lofty and abstruse, 
But loves in simple garb to go 
Where forests wave and streamlets flow. 
O ! it is sweet on summer morn, 
When flowers the grassy mead adorn. 
To wander in the wild-wood glen. 
The thicket shade, the quivering fen ; 
To climb the heights and see the spray 
Dash'd on the face of toying day ; 
To hear the distant waters roar, 
Or gather pebbles on the shore ; 
To start the hare, or, with your cur. 
To know the partridge by his whirr; 
To hear on some tall bough the dove 
Utter the soft complaint of love; 
Whilst mocking squirrel on lofty limb 
Defies you to get up to him ; 
Thechipmonk, too, in nimble style, 
Darts tim'rously to the stony pile, 
Sits temptingly a moment there. 
Then vanishes into his lair; 
Or if, perchance, his house should be 
Beneath the roof of some tall tree. 
He quick descends, with sudden squeak ; 
For him your dog begins to seek ; 
First snuifs a while, then tears away 
The leaves, the rubbish and ths clay, 
With many a howl and rapid scratch. 
Intent the little scamp to catch: 
Perhaps, while thus engaged, his prey 
Makes his escape some other way, 
Leaving his foe to dig with pain — 
As better folks have done— in vain ; 
But, should the persevering brute 
Find him at last beneath the root, 
The hapless little creature's fate 
Is far too mournful to relate ! 
You next descry,' a few yards hence, 
A squirrel sitting on the fence, 
His wide tail sloping o'er his back. 
Endeavouring a nut to crack. 
Or chiselling out with yellow tusk 
The fleshy part within the husk. 
In high relief, on topmost rail 
He sits ; you think you cannot fail 
To end his d lys with random shot ; 
You shy the stone— it hits him not! 
Away he springs, and doubly quick 
You give pursuit with murd'rous stick; 
That lofty oak !— see how he strains 
To reach it ! should he, all your pains 
Are lost ; for if you have no gun, 
Here is the end "of all your fun. 
Now, when your sport begins to fail, 
Perchance upon the morning gale 
A fragrant odour steals along ; 
At first 'tis faint, but soon how strong ! 
Then, as the odorous spot you fly, 
A pretty creature you espy 
With bushy tail above his back ; 
While broad, clean stripes of white and black 
With fair pretence attract the eye 
Of 'th unsuspecting passer-by. 
Like some lost child of splendid sin, 
All bright without, all foul within ; 
Or like the scamp with pious art 
That hides the blackness of his heart ; 
Outward all grace and beauty bloom ; 
Within — more noisesome than the tomb ! 
A person, once, to skunks unknown. 
Was rambling through the woods alone ; 
When suddenly, at bend of road, 
He lights upon the skunk's abode. 
Enravish'd with the creature's charms, 
He takes the sweet thing to his arms ; 
Returning home at evening gray 
He meets a neighbour by the way ; 
His prize displays, and asks " is that 
Not a fine sample of the cat?" 
Whilst thus engaged in quick retreat, 
A sudden rustling at your leet, 
Among the leaves and herbage dry. 
Announces that a snake is nigh. 
An instant fear your heart assails, 
As one before the spectre quails 
That sudden rises on his sight 
Passing a lonely house at night : 
A moment only : stooping quick, 
You seize the nearest stone or stick ; 
His wrathful head is ra sed on high. 
Malignant gleams his baleful eye ; 
His rapid tongue, fork'd, quivering, bright, 
Breathes deadly challenge to the tight : 
Brave, foolish thing ! swift on his head 
Descends the blow, and he is dead! 
But, should you, in a boyish vein. 
His sc ily body part in twain, 
Half moving ofi^ with toilsome gait 
Leaves the remainder to its fate ; 
And only when the sun doth fail 
Ceases the motion of the tail ! 
Or, if the serpent you would slay 
A more refined and neater way. 
Seize it as though it were a whip. 
Snap it, and ofl the head will slip ! 
Pray whence this feeling mixed with fear 
And hatred when a snake is near ? 
How comes it with such eager will 
We haste the harmless thing to kill? 
Who meets a partridge with his gun 
And kills it, does so just for fun ; 
But all men seem to think it right 
To kill \he snake for very spite. 
Methinks 'tis some unsettled score 
Dated in ages long before 
The flood, when Satan lying spake 
From the curs'd belly of the snake 
Words fraught with ruin and disgrace. 
And death and torn ent to our race ! 
Hark ! 'tis the baying of the bound ; 
The hemlocks echo back the sound. 
Behold ! a creature strange is here, 
Thick coated with the prickly spear ; 
A bristling porcupine with skill 
(Some people say) to hurl his quill. 
Your dog, impatient, fumes in vain ; 
Advances, snaps, retreats with pain! 
Swift on the sturdy creature's^ pate 
Descends the club and seals his fate. 
