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stay; But it isn't as if There wasn't always Hudson's Bay And the fur trade, A small skiff And a paddle blade.

I can just see my tent pegged, And me on the floor, Crosslegged, And a trapper looking in at the door With furs to sell.

His name's Joe, Alias John, And between what he doesn't know And won't tell About where Henry Hudson's gone, I can't say he's much help; But we get on.

The seal yelp On an ice cake. It's not men by some mistake?

No, There's not a soul For a wind-break Between me and the North Pole—

Except always John-Joe, My French Indian Esquimaux,