Chapter I

Do you know the blackened timber--do you know that racing stream
With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end;
And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream
To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend?
It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and traces,
To a silent, smoky Indian that we know--
To a couch of new-pulled hemlock with the starlight on our faces,
For the Red Gods call us out and we must go!

_They must go--go_, etc.