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The Sleepy Traveller

Edward S. Sorenson

He’d only one bad fault in him
    When tracks with us he trod,
He cooked his share like Bill and Jim,
    And never made a sod;
He carried water in his turn,
    And made the fire in camp,
When wood was wet and hard to burn,
    And everywhere was damp.

At night he sang a rare good song,
    Or whistled cheerily;
And on the track the whole day long
    Tall yarns he told to me;
But through the frosty nights of June,
    Or when we needed smoke,
As skeeters hummed their dismal tune,
    He never stirred to stoke.

A tree might crash, the fire go out,
    The coals grow dull and dim,
And hurricanes might rage and shout,
    They could not waken him.
When he turned in, or dark or light,
    ‘Neath rugs he tucked his head,
And let the night be what it might,
    He was as good as dead.

We stuck together till the rain
    One night in sheets came down;
I yelled to him, but yelled in vain,
    Half-dreading he would drown,
Then dragged him up a sandy slope
    And trudged off through the wet
That he awoke I nursed a hope,
    But p’r’aps he’s sleeping yet.

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