August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its way ahead;
Dip, dip,
While the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow. 
Swirl, swirl! 
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore. 
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe! 
The reckless waves you must plunge into. 
Reel, reel. 
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.

We’ve raced the rapid, we’re far ahead! 
The river slips through its silent bed. 
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

THE CAMPER

Night ’neath the northern skies, lone, black, and grim: 
Naught but the starlight lies ’twixt heaven, and him.

Of man no need has he, of God, no prayer;
He and his Deity are brothers there.

Above his bivouac the firs fling down
Through branches gaunt and black, their needles brown.

Afar some mountain streams, rockbound and fleet,
Sing themselves through his dreams in cadence sweet,

The pine trees whispering, the heron’s cry,
The plover’s passing wing, his lullaby.

And blinking overhead the white stars keep
Watch o’er his hemlock bed—­his sinless sleep.

AT HUSKING TIME

At husking time the tassel fades
To brown above the yellow blades,
  Whose rustling sheath enswathes the corn
  That bursts its chrysalis in scorn
Longer to lie in prison shades.

Among the merry lads and maids
The creaking ox-cart slowly wades
Twixt stalks and stubble, sacked and torn
At husking time.

The prying pilot crow persuades
The flock to join in thieving raids;
The sly racoon with craft inborn
His portion steals; from plenty’s horn
His pouch the saucy chipmunk lades
At husking time.

WORKWORN

Across the street, an humble woman lives;
To her ’tis little fortune ever gives;
Denied the wines of life, it puzzles me
To know how she can laugh so cheerily. 
This morn I listened to her softly sing,
And, marvelling what this effect could bring
I looked:  ’twas but the presence of a child
Who passed her gate, and looking in, had smiled.