The cabin oracle so often used, A pack of playing cards, was soon produced. A turn at whist the afternoon before, Told who should cut the wood and sweep the floor. As one of the disasters of defeat, Washing the dishes fell to Russian Pete. A game of freeze-out, played with equal zeal, Decided who should cook the evening meal; Conspiring cards electing Uncle Jim, The culinary task devolved on him. Accordingly, with acquiescent nod, Abiding by the fortunes of the game, This patriarch, so venerable and odd,-- Whose skill in cooking was of local fame, Knocked out the ashes from his meerschaum pipe And laid it tenderly upon the shelf, Took a preliminary wash and wipe, And squinting in the mirror at himself, Like most of those possessed of little hair, Brushed what he still had left with greatest care. Small use for comb or brush had Uncle Jim, His capillary wealth, a grayish rim Or hirsute chaplet, as it had been called By other miners less completely bald, Fringing his head an inch above the ears, Marked off his shining pate in hemispheres. His flowing beard, of venerable air, Enjoyed a strict monopoly in hair, As if the raven curls that once adorned His occiput, that habitation scorned And took, as an expression of chagrin, A change of venue to his ample chin. When Uncle Jim was duly washed and groomed, The running conversation was resumed, And as the veteran his task pursued, Mixing the biscuit dough with judgment good, All smoked and talked, excepting Dad McGuire, Who, helping Uncle Jim, stirred up the fire, Raking the embers in a little pile, Then warmed the old Dutch oven up a while, And after greasing with a bacon rind, The biscuit dough was to its depths consigned.