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HIS stormy old day in October, on the heels of a snow- storm, 't is true, That covered the earth as a blanket in a day, had the sun- shine got through, And now as the leaves have all faded, and many have gone to the ground, They respond to the winds and the raindrops, and rustle the broken-harp sound. The smoke from the Newmaker sawmill drifts lazily out on the air, While the steam from the massive old boiler is as white as the threads in my hair; And the trains on the road, up the river, cross the great iron bridge o'er the stream, And the picture to me is enchanting, perhaps, as a mid- summer's dream. Fine dwellings are cosily nestled, all over the South Side to- day, And the woods which I plainly remember, have gone as a summer-time play, But the massive old bank in the background, a sort of a, history book, Takes us back to the period called Glacial, on which we with wonder may look. Perhaps ere mankind to creation had been wrought in the thousand-year day, While the earth was an uncertain problem, when the glaciers and storms held the sway; While our continent now so productive, in things so essential and nice Was swept by the most frozen rivers, and covered with mountains of ice. The Glacial moraine o'er the river is history we cannot deny, The deposit attests to this wonder, and the sheet of the author is dry, And where courses the old Conewango was the track of this leveling glare, And high up on the hills are the sand-beds, that show that the washings were there. The Encyclopedia's teaching touches this with a beautiful ray, And says, between Russell and Akeley are the most famous traces to-day Known as kettle-holes, simply the ear-marks where the mountains of ice came along And in evidence left the great cellars, the trail, with its history song. |
