Culled From Camp
by Max O. Klotz
Xmas 1912
Dedicated to my fellow members of the
Wa-Wash-Keshi Fishing & Hunting Club
whose genial company, during our perennial migrations to land of the moose and the beaver, hs helped in no small way, to add to the pleasures and good things of this life.
My Little Log Cabin
Half buried in its snowy shroud,
besides a frozen stand,
'Neath towering pines and balsams proud
That welcome man accents loud,
My little cabin stands.
In front a trackless waste of ice,
The ancient wood behind,
Nor sign nor sound of man's device
Disturbs this wintry paradise,
Where I contentment find.
The trees and shrubs all bathed in light,
Their frosted twigs entwined,
And toying brooks now veiled in white
Are singing all in glad delight,
And laughing in the wind.
When night her darkling robe o'erspreads
On forest, lake and stream;
When thro' the gloom the lone wolf treads,
And Luna, cold, her radiance sheds,
And ghostlike shadows gleam:
Then like an olden time recluse,
Secure within my den
Before the cheering hearth I muse,
And down to Hades send the blues,
As I smoke my "Canayen."
The Tail of a Moose
All hands were sitting round the Camp
Enjoying smokes by Luna's lamp,
And Jim, as usual, on the vamp,
When in came Ben and Lyman;
By Jove, says he, there's Hell to pay,
I missed a moose we saw this day,
Who wouldn't wait but skinned away
So fast he's now in China.
We hit his trail this early morn,
My fancy saw his head adorn
The stately hall where I was born;
But all my hopes are futile.
With bated breath and cautious care,
We tracked him till we came to where
We thought we'd surely struck his lair-
The pace was simply brutal.
With eyes alert and noiseless tread
We followed on, till just ahead
Was hewho us this chase had led-
A monarch in his glory.
majestic, proud, down in the glen
He stood, a sight for Gods and men.
Thinks I, a moemt more and then
Your end it will be gory.
With courage that had never waned,
But nerves and muscles sadly strained,
Upon his heart the gun I trained.
Bang! Bang! I've surely hit!
But then, alas, my shells did jam,
And thought the brush that moose did slam,
While all that Ben could say was, "Dam,"
And echo answered, "Nit."
Poor Lyman did dejected look
As from his belt he slowly took
A trophy, and before us shook
Three hairs the moose had shed.
This trinity of treasures dear
He pasted in his hat for fear
The evidence might not be clear,
And hied him to his bed.
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More tales that i might yet unfold,
Had better far be left untold.
