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his lodge beside a river,

Close beside a frozen river,

Sat an old man, sad and lonely.

White his hair was as a snow-drift;

Dull and low his fire was burning,

And the old man shook and trembled,

Folded in his Waubewyon,

In his tattered white-skin-wrapper,

Hearing nothing but the tempest

As it roared along the forest,

Seeing nothing but the snow-storm,

As it whirled and hissed and drifted.