Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/165

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
  He's t'rowing on de blanket of dose sky  Dose plenty-plenty handfuls of w'ite stars;  He's sewing on dose plenty teet' of elk,  Dose shiny looking-glass and plenty beads.  Somebody's dere . . . somet'ing he's in dere. . ."
The green moons went—and many many winters,Yet we held together, Joe, until our dayOf falling leaves, like two split sticks of willowLashed tight with buckskin buried in the bark.Do you recollect our last long cruise together,To Hollow-bear, on our line of marten traps?—When cold Pee-bóan, the Winter-maker, hurdlingThe rim-rock ridge, shook out his snowy hairBefore him on the wind and heaped up the hollows?—Flanked by the drifts, our lean-to of toboggans,Our bed of pungent balsam, soft as downFrom the bosom of a whistling swan in autumn . . .Our steaming sledge-dogs buried in the snow-bank,Nuzzling their snouts beneath their tented tails,And dreaming of the paradise of dogs . . .Our fire of pine-boughs licking up the snow,And tilting at the shadows in the coulee . . .And you, rolled warm among the beaver-pelts,Forgetful of your sickness-on-the-lung,Of the fever-pains and coughs that wracked your bones—You, beating a war song on your drum,And laughing as the scarlet-moccasined flamesDanced on the coals and bellowed up the sky.
Don't you remember? . . . the snowflakes drifting downThick as the falling petals of wild plums . . .The clinker-ice and the scudding fluff of the whirlpoolMuffling the summer-mumblings of the brook . . .The turbulent waterfall protesting againstSuch early winter-sleep, like a little boyWho struggles with the calamity of slumber,

150

This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.