THE CANOE RACE.
Now a light rustling wind from the South
shakes his wings o'er the wide, wimpling waters:
Up the dark-winding river DuLuth
follows fast in the wake of Tamdoka.
On the slopes of the emerald shores
leafy woodlands and prairies alternate;
On the vine-tangled islands the flowers
peep timidly out at the white men;
In the dark-winding eddy the loon
sits warily watching and voiceless,
And the wild-goose, in reedy lagoon,
stills the prattle and play of her children.
The does and their sleek, dappled fawns
prick their ears and peer out from the thickets,
And the bison-calves play on the lawns,
and gambol like colts in the clover.
Up the still-flowing _Wakpa Wakan's_
winding path through the groves and the meadows,
Now DuLuth's brawny boatmen pursue
the swift-gliding bark of Tamdoka;
And hardly the red braves out-do
the stout, steady oars of the white men.
Now they bend to their oars in the race--
the ten tawny braves of Tamdoka;
And hard on their heels in the chase
ply the six stalwart oars of the Frenchmen.
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