TAMARACK BLUE
As any brush-wolf, driven from the hillsBy winter famine, waits upon the fringeOf a settlement for cover of the dusk,And enters it by furtive, devious route,Cowering among the shadows, freezing tautWith every sound,—so came the widow BlueIn winter-moons to parish Pointe aux Trembles,Doubled to earth beneath her pack of furs,To ply her trade, to barter at the Post.And if she ventured near the village inn,Baring their yellow tusks the roustaboutsWould toss a dry slow leer at her and stoneOld Tamarack numb with "Mag, the Indian hag,"With ribald epithet and jibe and gesture.And when they waxed melodious with rye,Pounding their ribs, and knew no way to freeThe head of steam that hammered in their breasts,Save in a raucous music, they would blare:
21
