Beneath a massive pinnacle, Whose weird, forbidding shadows fell, And gulch and forest overcast With mantle ominous and vast, Nestling amid the spruce and pine, Which fringe the edge of timberline, This miner's cabin, quaint and rude, From the surrounding forest hewed, With primitive, yet stable form, Withstood the onslaught of the storm, And at the entrance of a dell Stood as a rustic sentinel. Beneath a pine's protecting skirt, It reared its modest roof of poles, Laid close, then overlaid with dirt, To cover up the cracks and holes; The intervals between the logs Were daubed with mud from mountain bogs. The ground did service as a floor In this, as many huts before; So beaten down beneath the tread, It more resembled tile instead. The plastic clay, compressed and sleek, Was level and as hard as brick. Protruding boulders, smooth and bare, Exposed their faces here and there; And with their surfaces displayed, A primitive mosaic made. And, terminating in a stack, Some feet above the cabin's roof, The fireplace, comfortless and black, Arose the dingy form uncouth. This object of depressing gloom, Built in the corner of the room, When filled with lurid tongues of flame, A cheerful cynosure became. The furnishings within were crude; A table fastened to the wall Had been with some exertion hewed From aspen timbers straight and tall, And was, in lieu of table legs, Supported by protruding pegs. A cracker box, with shelves inside, The leading corner occupied, And made an ample cupboard there, Where tin supplanted chinaware. A frying pan, which from a nail Suspended, dripped a greasy trail. Framed from the hemlock's poles and boughs, The rustic bunks within the house Were not elaborate affairs; While boxes filled the place of chairs. Tacked on the unpretentious wall Were advertisements, great and small, While lithograph and crayon scenes, Clipped from the standard magazines, Comprised a mimic gallery, Which broke the wall's monotony. No carpets were upon that floor, But at the bottom of the door The rug, against its yawning crack, Consisted of a gunny-sack. Nor was there lock upon that door, The guardian of sordid pelf; The traveller, distressed and sore, Might enter there and help himself.