The snow lies deep on hill and dale,In rocky gulch and grassy vale:The tiny, trickling, tumbling fallsAre frozen 'twixt their rocky wallsThat grey and brown look silent downUpon Kiandra's shrouded town.
The Eucumbene itself lies dead,Fast frozen in its narrow bed;And distant sounds ring out quite near,The crystal air is froze so clear;While to and fro the people goIn silent swiftness o'er the snow.
And, like a mighty gallows-frame,The derrick in the New Chum claimHangs over where, despite the cold,Strong miners seek the hidden gold,And stiff and blue, half-frozen through,The fickle dame of Fortune woo.
Far out, along a snow-capped range,There rose a sound which echoed strange:Where snow-emburthen'd branches hang,And flashing icicles, there rangA gay refrain, as towards the plainSped swiftly downward Carl the Dane.
His long, lithe snow-shoes sped alongIn easy rhythm to his song;Now slowly circling round the hill,Now speeding downward with a will;The crystals crash and blaze and flashAs o'er the frozen crust they dash.
Among the hills the first he shoneOf all who buckled snow-shoe on;For though the mountain lads were fleet,But one bold rival dare compete,To veer and steer, devoid of fear,Beside this strong-limbed mountaineer.
'Twas Davy Eccleston who daredTo cast the challenge: If Carl caredOn shoes to try their mutual pace,Then let him enter for the race,Which might be run by anyone--A would-be champion. Carl said "Done!"
But not alone in point of speedThey sought to gain an equal meed;For in the narrow lists of loveDave Eccleston had cast the glove:Though both had prayed, the blushing maidAs yet no preference betrayed,
But played them off, as women will,One 'gainst the other one, until--A day when she was sorely pressed--To loving neither youth confessed;But did exclaim--the wily dame!--"Who wins this race, I'll bear his name!"
Her words were ringing through Carl's headAs o'er the frozen crust he sped,But suddenly became awareThat not alone he travelled there:He sudden spied, with swinging stride,A stranger gliding by his side:
The breezes o'er each shoulder tossedHis beard, bediamonded with frost;His eyes flashed strangely, bushy-browed;His breath hung round him like a shroud;He never spoke, nor silence broke,But by the Dane sped stroke for stroke.
"Old man! I do not know your name,Nor what you are, nor whence you came--But this: if I but had your shoesThis champion race I ne'er could lose.To call them mine, those shoes divine,I'll gladly pay should you incline."
The stranger merely bowed his head--"The shoes are yours," he gruffly said."I change with you, though at a loss;And in return I ask that crossWhich, while she sung, your mother hungAround your neck when you were young."
Carl hesitated when he heardThe price, but not for long demurred,And gave the cross. With trembling hasteThe shoes upon his feet were laced--So long, yet light and polished bright--His heart beat gladly at the sight.
Now, on the morning of the race,Expectancy on every face,They come the programme to fulfilUpon the slope of Township Hill.With silent feet the people meet,While youths and maidens laughing greet.
High-piled the flashing snowdrifts lie,And laugh to scorn the sun's dull eye,That, glistening feebly, seems to say:"When Summer comes you'll melt away!You'll change your song when I grow strong:I think so, though I may be wrong."
The pistol flashed, and off they wentLike lightning on the steep descent.Resistlessly down-swooping, swiftO'er the smooth face of polished driftThe racers strain with might and main;But in the lead flies Carl the Dane.
Behind him Davy did his best,With hopeless eye and lip compressed:Beat by a snow-shoe length at most,They flash and pass the winning-post.The maiden said, "I'll gladly wedThe youth who in this race has led."
But where was he? Still speeding fast,Over the frozen stream he passed.They watched his flying form untilThey lost it over Sawyers' Hill;Nor saw it more: the people sworeThe like they'd never seen before.
The way he scaled that steep ascentWas quite against all precedent;While others said he could but chooseTo do it on those demon shoes.They talked in vain, for Carl the DaneWas never seen in flesh again.
But now the lonely diggers sayThat sometimes at the close of day,They see a misty wraith flash by,With the faint echo of a cry.It may be true; perhaps they do:I doubt it much; but what say you?
