Hear the sighing woodland's call,
When the frosts of autumn turn the leaves to
Do you ever feel a thrill,
Of delight in autumn's chill,
When the deep, dark shades of evening settle
Do you ever like to be,
Like the aborigine,
In a tent down in the woodland dark and wild,
Where the Hoot Owls with delight,
Chill with terror and affright,
Those who in their lonely haunts may be beguiled?
Do you love the camp fire's light,
Sputtering, sparkling, burning bright,
Then receding as the dying of the day?
Do you love the lullabies,
Of the zephyrs as they rise,
And among the forest branches softly play?
Come, then, 'tis October calling,
And the ripened nuts are falling,
And we'll build a booming camp fire near the tent,
For the year is not complete,
If we miss October's treat.
'Tis the sweetest hour the year has sent.
(Boston: The Gorham Press. 1914)