The first night we lodged in one of our newly-erected camps, its dedication was proposed. It was moved and carried by acclamation that Hobbs should sing us a song, and that "Nick" should give us one of his yarns. Hobbs, who, by-the-way, was a short, thick-set little fellow, with a chubby red face, and, withal, rather musical in his turn, gave vent to the following beautiful song, dedicated to the "Lumbermen" by the poet Whittier. "Comrades! round our woodland quarters Sad-voiced autumn grieves; Thickly down these swelling waters Float his fallen leaves. Through the tall and naked timber, Column-like and old, Gleam the sunsets of November With their skies of gold. O'er us, to the South-land heading, Screams the gray wild goose; On the night-frost sounds the treading Of the stately moose. Fast the streams with ice are closing, Colder grows the sky, Soon, on lake and river frozen, Shall our log-piles lie. When, with sounds of smother'd thunder, On some night of rain, Lake and river break asunder Winter's weaken'd chain, Down the wild March-flood shall bear them To the saw-mill's wheel, Or, where Steam, the slave, shall tear them With his teeth of steel. Be it starlight, be it moonlight In these vales below, When the earliest beams of sunlight Streaks the mountain's snow, Crisps the hoar-frost keen and early To our hurrying feet, And the forest echoes clearly All our blows repeat. When the crystal Ambijejis Stretches broad and clear, And Millnoket's pine-black ridges Hide the browsing deer; Where, through lakes and wide morasses, Or through rocky walls, Swift and strong Penobscot passes, White with foamy falls. Where, through clouds, are glimpses given Of Katahdin's sides-- Rock and forest piled to heaven, Torn and plowed by slides! Far below the Indian trapping In the sunshine warm, Far above the snow-cloud wrapping Half the peak in storm! Where are mossy carpets better Than the Persian weaves, And, than Eastern perfumes, sweeter Seem the fading leaves; And a music wild and solemn From the Pine-tree's height, Rolls its vast and sea-like volume On the wind of night. Make we here our camp of winter, And through sleet and snow Pitch knot and beechen splinter On our hearth shall glow; Here, with mirth to lighten duty, We shall lack alone Woman, with her smile of beauty, And her gentle tone. But her hearth is brighter burning For our work to-day, And her welcome at returning Shall our loss repay. Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waiting On our rugged toil, Far ships waiting for the freighting Of our woodland spoil!