Wayside Weeds Part 4

Would you slay the Maskinonge In the fastness where he lurks?

Leave a card _pour prendre conge_ On the town and all its works.

Leave the tram-car's jarring jangle For the silent bark canoe; For the forest's leafy tangle, Bid the dusty streets adieu.

As befits her slender tonnage, In our tiny craft we stow Cunningly our modest dunnage- Shove her off, away we go!

Joy once more to grasp the paddle!

Farewell worry, doubt and gloom.

Care, who clings behind the saddle, Finds in our canoe no room.

Off we go! The lake before us Stretches far and stretches fair; Forest scents are wafted o'er us; Forest voices fill the air.

Paddling past the pebbly beaches Where the ancient cedar grows; Toiling in the open reaches When the stiff nor'wester blows.

Winding down the silent river Where the scarlet maples blaze, And the pallid aspens quiver Through the warm September days;

Past the oily eddies sweeping Where the hidden boulder lies; Down the rapid gaily leaping Where the spray about us flies.

Poling through the gravelly shallows, Floating 'neath the alder's shade, Where the moose at noon-tide wallows, And the beaver plies his trade;

Shoving through the rustling sedges, Battling with the autumn gale; Lifting over rocky ledges, Sweating on the portage trail-

On we go, with steadfast faces, Till at last with gladdened eyes, We behold the secret places Where the Maskinonge lies.

Shall we find him in the rushes?

Where the waterlilies grow?

Where the roaring torrent gushes?

In the foam-flecked pool below?

Fierce and cunning, bold and cruel, Is the Maskinonge grim, Who shall dare him to a duel?

Who shall fight and conquer him?

Proudly with his spoil returning, We with shouts the victor greet; By the camp-fire brightly burning, He shall have the warmest seat.

Is he hungry? Pile the platter; Thirsty? Join the gay carouse; Weary with his toil? What matter?

Heap his bed with balsam boughs.

Fill his pipe with rare Virginian, Cheer him till the echoes ring, Monarch of his new dominion, Maskinongewagaming.

1904.

[7]The place where the Maskinonge dwells. In the vulgar tongue "Lunge Lake."

Magaguadavic[8] and Digdeguash

"Are not Abana and Pharpar rivers of Damascus better than all the waters of Israel?"

Let each man praise the river That's dearest to his heart, The Rhine, the Guadalquivir, The Danube or the Dart.

Let others sing the Tavy, The Tweed, the Wye, the Lea, Give me the Magaguadavic, The Digdeguash for me.

Some men choose lakes for fis.h.i.+ng- Ceceebe or Couchiching, Namabinagas.h.i.+s.h.i.+ng, Kenongewagaming.

I'll take my affidavy That what they say is bosh; Give me the Magaguadavic, Give me the Digdeguas.h.!.+

Beneath the shady willow Cast cunningly your flies, His wake a widening billow; Behold the monster rise!

No dreadnought in the navy Could make so big a splosh; You'd hear at Magaguadavic The trout of Digdeguas.h.!.+

Behind the purple spruces The golden sunset dies, As each his pipe produces And puts away his flies.

The basket's full, the slavey To-morrow morn shall wash The spoils of Magaguadavic, The loot of Digdeguas.h.!.+

And when upon the table They come to lie in state, Hardly shall we be able A decent grace to wait.

They need no sauce nor gravy, For none can beat, by gos.h.!.+

The trout of Magaguadavic, But those of Digdeguas.h.!.+

O restless Bay of Fundy, O mist and fog and rain, Hope whispers I may one day Behold you yet again.

How gladly would I brave ye, Nor ask a mackintosh, To see the Magaguadavic, To fish the Digdeguash.

Callirrhoe's fair daughters Have fled their ancient grots; The voice of many waters Turns shrieking into watts.

But spare, oh! spare, I crave ye, Amid the general squash, The falls of Magaguadavic, The rips of Digdeguas.h.!.+

1910.

[8]p.r.o.nounced Mackadavy.

Rhona Adair

How dull these links to me!

Rhona's not there, She whom I long to see, Rhona Adair!

Who has a swing so true?

Who such a follow through?

Who, who can putt like you, Rhona Adair?

Who drives her ball so far, Far through the air Swift as a shooting star?

Rhona Adair.

Who hits her ball so clean, Landing, whate'er's between Dead on the putting green?

Rhona Adair!

Whose strokes, of all who strike With hers compare?