THE autumn-spruces sadly shake,
The leaves are falling.
The night is still; far down the lake
The loons are calling.
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From cabin-door outstreams the light,
Within's the rustling
Of cleaning guns, and converse bright -
The guides are bustling.
The noon through fleecy clouds shines clear,
Their veil despising,
The while, old friend, again I hear
Your voice arising.
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