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THE SPRING FRESHETS 51
Little leaves me
The solid earth.”
Food was his of the torrent’s bearing,
Fire himself he bore,
Caves roofed him, and there was fire-wood.
Sought he one evening a safer shelter,
Found it too, a cavern protected
By rough-hewn timbers,
Long since built by Finns for their shelter,
Or by hunted outlaw-folk.
From its cavernous depths and passages narrow
To his sense an unbearable stench
Came from all sides. Little he heeded,
Laid him to rest, and was sleeping almost
Ere his head found a pillow.
But in his sleep the pestilent stench
Filled his head with distressful dreams;
Now he thought him in futile conflict,
His foes not men,
But a pack of small gray beasts that grunted.
Now close-wrapped in ice-gray wool
Lay he and suffered, scarce able to breathe.
Cast he the wrappings off, and was lifted
In and out of a sea of fog.
Sinister creatures floated around him,
Changing their shapes as past they drifted,
Hideous forms through the fog-bank peered,
Long and woolly tentacles reached out,
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