With sorely overtaxed and waning strength, As some spent swimmer struggling to the shore, The weary party found its way at length, Back through the forest to the cabin's door. As Uncle Jim, whose life was ever spent In ministering to others, had been sent Ahead, the dying coals had been renewed With fresh supplies of pine and aspen wood, And blazed a cheery invitation forth To those who sought the comfort of the hearth. [1] Norwegian snowshoes. The two survivors were the strangers who Had just arrived the afternoon before; Their names nor antecedents no one knew, But western miners do not close the door On weary travellers, whosoe'er they be, No matter what their race or pedigree; The one credential needed in the west Is--human being, storm-bound and distressed. The rescued miners, much benumbed and chilled, To show some signs of conscious life began; So Dad McGuire, in therapeutics skilled To cure the maladies of beast or man, Pursuant of his self-appointed task, From out some secret depths produced a flask, Which to the rescued miners he applied As guaranteed to warm them up inside. By way of chance digression, should you ask The nature of the liquid in the flask, Which, evidently, the boys had used before, We must admit, the empty bottle bore, Like most of bottles used in mining camps, The revenue collector's excise stamps. The senior of the rescued men appeared In age to crowd the three-score years and ten; Of stalwart form, with whitened hair and beard, The peer of multitudes of younger men, In matters appertaining to physique; He first recovered and essayed to speak. As Dad McGuire and kind old Uncle Jim Were ministering as best they could to him, In kindly interest they inquired his name, "John T. McGuire," the labored answer came. As Dad McGuire leaned over him to hear, His gaze descried a mole behind his ear, Then with an exclamation of surprise, As one who scarcely can believe his eyes, He turned the stranger over on his back, Found two more moles,--and cried--"My brother Jack!" * * * * * * * * * *