Poem Hunter
The Woodcutter's Hut
(17 November 1861 - 10 February 1899 / Morpeth, Ontario)

The Woodcutter's Hut

Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken
Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes,
The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show
A blunted peak and a low black line, from the glittering waste of snow.
In the frost-still dawn from his roof goes up in the windless,
motionless air,
The thin, pink curl of leisurely smoke; through the forest white and
The woodcutter follows his narrow trail, and the morning rings and
With the rhythmic jet of his sharp-blown breath and the echoing shout of
his axe.
Only the waft of the wind besides, or the stir of some hardy bird--
The call of the friendly chickadee, or the pat of the nuthatch--is
Or a rustle comes from a dusky clump, where the busy siskins feed,
And scatter the dimpled sheet of the snow with the shells of the
Day after day the woodcutter toils untiring with axe and wedge,
Till the jingling teams come up from the road that runs by the valley's
With plunging of horses, and hurling of snow, and many a shouted word,
And carry away the keen-scented fruit of his cutting, cord upon cord.
Not the sound of a living foot comes else, not a moving visitant there,
Save the delicate step of some halting doe, or the sniff of a prowling
And only the stars are above him at night, and the trees that creak and
And the frozen, hard-swept mountain-crests with their silent fronts of
As he watches the sinking glow of his fire and the wavering flames
Cleaning his rifle or mending his moccasins, sleepy and slow of
Or when the fierce snow comes, with the rising wind, from the grey
He lies through the leaguering hours in his bunk like a winter-hidden
Or sits on the hard-packed earth, and smokes by his draught-blown
guttering fire,
Without thought or remembrance, hardly awake, and waits for the storm
to tire.
Scarcely he hears from the rock-rimmed heights to the wild ravines
Near and far-off, the limitless wings of the tempest hurl and go
In roaring gusts that plunge through the cracking forest, and lull,
and lift,
All day without stint and all night long with the sweep of the hissing
But winter shall pass ere long with its hills of snow and its fettered
And the forest shall glimmer with living gold, and chime with the
gushing of streams;
Millions of little points of plants shall prick through its matted
And the wind-flower lift and uncurl her silken buds by the woodman's
The sparrow shall see and exult; but lo! as the spring draws gaily on,
The woodcutter's hut is empty and bare, and the master that made it is
He is gone where the gathering of valley men another labour yields,
To handle the plough, and the harrow, and scythe, in the heat of the
summer fields.
He is gone with his corded arms, and his ruddy face, and his moccasined
The animal man in his warmth and vigour, sound, and hard, and complete.
And all summer long, round the lonely hut, the black earth burgeons and
Till the spaces are filled with the tall-plumed ferns and the triumphing
The thick wild raspberries hem its walls, and, stretching on either
The red-ribbed stems and the giant-leaves of the sovereign spikenard
So lonely and silent it is, so withered and warped with the sun and
You would think it the fruit of some dead man's toil a hundred years
And he who finds it suddenly there, as he wanders far and alone,
Is touched with a sweet and beautiful sense of something tender and
The sense of a struggling life in the waste, and the mark of a soul's
The going and coming of vanished feet, the touch of a human hand.

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