me. And I'm daring a rampageous river that runs the devil knows where; My hand is athrill on the paddle, the birch-bark bounds like a bird. Hark to the rumble of rapids! Here in my morris chair Eager and tense I'm straining -- isn't it most absurd? Now in the churn and the lather, foam that hisses and stings, Leap I, keyed for the struggle, fury and fume and roar; Rocks are spitting like hell-cats -- Oh, it's a sport for kings, Life on a twist of the paddle . . . there's my "Kim" on the floor. How I thrill and I vision! Then my camp of a night; Red and gold of the fire-glow, net afloat in the stream; Scent of the pines and silence, little "pal" pipe alight, Body a-purr with pleasure, sleep untroubled of dream: Banquet of paystreak bacon! moment of joy divine, When the bannock is hot and gluey, and the teapot's nearing the boil! Never was wolf so hungry, stomach cleaving to spine. . . . Ha! there's my servant calling, says that dinner will spoil. What do I want with dinner? Can I eat any more? Can I sleep as I used to? . . . Oh, I abhor this life! Give me the Great Uncertain, the Barren Land for a floor, The Milky Way for a roof-beam, splendour and space and strife: Something to fight and die for -- the limpid Lake of the Bear, The Empire of Empty Bellies, the dunes where the Dogribs dwell; Big things, real things, live things . . . here on my morris chair How I ache for the Northland! "Dinner and servants" -- Hell!! Am I too old, I wonder? Can I take one trip more? Go to the granite-ribbed valleys, flooded with sunset wine, Peaks that pierce the aurora, rivers I must explore, Lakes of a thousand islands, millioning hordes of the Pine? Do they not miss me, I wonder, valley and peak and plain? Whispering each to the other: "Many a moon has passed . . . Where has he gone, our lover? Will he come back again? Star with his fires our tundra, leave us his bones at last?" Yes, I'll go back to the Northland, back to the way of the bear, Back to the muskeg and mountain, back to the ice-leaguered sea.
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