Page:The Overland Monthly, Jan-June 1894.djvu/187

1894.]

There, night and day, are heard the buzzing saws, And day and night, without a rest or pause The engine toils, and flames of furnace glow, And workmen, in their shifting, come and go. No Sabbath bell is heard along the shore; But echoing song: "Ye—Ho," of stevedore.

In autumn days of eighteen, sixty-two, When balmy breathed the winds, and skies were blue At noon; at morn in haze; at even, red; And strewed the ground with fallen foliage, dead; Through dark and trackless woods, from Madison, A stranger hailed the camp, with guide and gun. A youth was he, scarce from his mother's "strings"; Without that caution which experience brings; But fearless, energetic, rash, and bold, Inured by summer's toil and winter's cold. Across the wild peninsula he came; No idler he, nor in pursuit of game; Nor pilgrim poet, woodland muse to court; But pressing on to Townsend's shining port.

A bark lay moored, and waiting for her load; Upon the quiet bay she lightly rode; Her painted skiff beside her lay afloat; Its painter slightly held the little boat. No rest nor food the traveler bespoke; But from his drowsy mood the skipper woke, And questioned him when next would ebb the tide,