Traditions of a hunter tells— A hardy man, and stout; Who ne'er used snow-shoes—for his feet Were large enough without! With dog and gun, across-lots, he Would roam 'mong bush and stump; Nor swerved he from the snow-drifts deep,- He'd very seldom slump!
But once, 'tis said, he sank far down While crossing o'er a field; The damp snow caved upon his feet And there he stuck—and squealed! Then, standing like a statue Beneath the sun 's warm glow— His feet, like steamship's anchor Fast pinioned under snow.
He one mighty effort made— He gave a piercing yell,— The language wafted far and wide E'en Echo ne'er would tell! His pleading tones reached listening ears And help soon reached the spot.— And altho more we fain would know Tradition telleth not.
