The Call of the Great Northern Loon

Have you passed a night on the shore of a lake In that northern country, afar? Where fish abound, and the jack pines lift Their sage-green plumes to the evening star? Where the lap, lap, lap, of the restless wave, And the dank, moss-scented air, With incense sweet from the balsam boughs, Ascend with your evening prayer?

'Tis there you may learn the song of the loon, The strange Great Northern Loon; And some may hear, and call it queer, This twisting, haunting, eerie tune. It sounds somewhat like a rusty hinge, Or the creak of an unoiled cart, An old fashioned, time worn, wooden pump; But it strikes a chord in my primal heart.

All day these queer birds swim, and dive, And feed, and sport in the lake. With a wary eye for a foe near by, They know which path 'neath the waves to take. Behold they fade, are gone for a while! There is naught but the rippling wave— Then, off to the right some half a mile, A black head wearing a large bird-smile Escapes from a watery grave.

As the sun sinks low in the gilded west, And the moon comes forth to ride, The bed time call of the loon sounds best; Its cog-wheel, eerie strains abide. When high in the air he wings his way Over camp, and cabin, shore, and bay, His plaintive, pleading, good night call Is a priest's benediction voiced for all.