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OCR Page 1 of 35
Early spring on the trail.
(Spring 1904)
A tent of silk flaps overhead
And I, in a bag of furs
Am laying there in the far, far north
Hearing that biteing, stinging wind
With sixty degrees of frost in it's teeth,
Twanging the guyes outside.
The frost breath rises from my mouth
Sifting through the reindeer skin,
Leaving it's tole of rime and ice-
Clinging to each and every hair
But only to melt and freeze again there,
And drip back into my eyes.
The only sound that vigilant wind,
A whine from a restless dog;
An occasional clank from his steel stake chain--
A groan that springs from the fevered brain
Of my bunkey, asleep like a log.
Then it's up. and warm that pemican stew,
Then bolt it before the warmth is gone,
In steam through which you can hardly see,
Composed of icy spiculae--
And then go forth in the storm.
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