Within this weather-beaten hut Of logs, by many a tempest tried, With doors and windows closely shut, To keep the genial warmth inside; A group of hardy mountaineers, Blockaded by the winter's snow, Sat by the fireside's ruddy glow. Some old, and old beyond their years, As disappointments, toil and strife, Which constitute the miner's life, Must operate with process sure, Toward age, unduly premature; [Blank Page] For years, in stern privation spent, Are traced in seam and lineament, Which gives the patriarchal face Its rugged dignity and grace. [Illustration: "Exceeding the tremendous height Of brother peaks, on left and right." _See page 19._] Although by fond illusions led, Through phantasies of empty air, Which mark an ultimate despair, The miner still sees hope ahead. The prospector could never cope With dangers and realities, But for the visionary hope Which both deceives and mollifies, Alluring him with siren song Her vague uncertain paths along. Yet some, this stalwart group among, Were adolescent,--even young. For hearts, which youthful breasts conceal, Oft burn with energetic zeal, To ope, with labor's patient key, The mountain's hidden treasury. Most furiously it blew and snowed, Most cheerily the firelight glowed, And as the forkèd tongues of flame, In fierce combustion, writhed and burned, Nor moment's space remained the same, The conversation swayed and turned. For tales were told of avalanche, Of army scenes, of mine and ranch, Of wily politician's snares, Of gold excitements, smallpox scares, Of England's debt and grizzly bears. When all but three their stories told Of tropic heat, or arctic cold, The conversation dragged at length, An interim for future strength. Outspoke a voice: "Let Uncle Jim Some past experience relate, For Fate has kindly granted him, At least, diversity of fate." II. A CHAPTER FROM AN OLD MAN'S LIFE As ample wreaths of curling smoke From his time-honored meerschaum broke, A kindly-faced, gray-bearded man Rose up and sadly thus began,-- "You ask a tale,--well, I'll express The reason why in manhood's prime I left a more congenial clime And sought this rugged wilderness." But, gentle reader, don't expect A tale in mongrel dialect, For "Uncle Jim," or James T. Hale, Who lived as anchorite or monk, Once led the senior class at Yale, And had his sheepskin in his trunk. There, while the crackling flames leaped high, And serpentine gyrations played Around the logs of hemlock, dry, And with the tempest seethed and swayed, As curled the drowsy wreaths of smoke Above his pipe, the old man spoke: