Hunt the Squirrel

It was Atle of Yermeland
In Winter used to go
A -hunting up in the pine-forest,
With snow-shoes, sledge, and bow.

Soon his sledge with the soft fine furs
Was heaped up heavily,
Enough to warm old Winter with,
And a wealthy man was he.

When just as he was going back home,
He looked up into a Tree;
There sat a merry brown Squirrel, that seemed
To say — " You can't shoot me!

And he twinkled all over temptingly,
To the tip of his tail a-curl!
His humour was arch as the look may be
Of a would-be-wooed sweet Girl,
That makes the Lover follow her, follow her,
All his life up-caught,
A-dreaming on with sleeping wings,
High in the heaven of thought.

Atle he left his sledge and furs;

All clay his arrows rung, —
The Squirrel went leaping from bough to
bough, —
Only himself they stung.

I le hunted far in the dark forest,
Till died the last day-gleams;
Then wearily laid him clown to rest,
And hunted it through his dreams.

All night long the snow fell fast,
And covered his snug fur-store;

Long, long did he strain his eyes,
But never found it more.

Home came Atle of Vermeland,
No Squirrel! No furs for the mart!

Empty head brought empty hand;
Both a very full heart.

Ah, many a one hunts the Squirrel,
In merry or mournful truth;
Until the gathering snows of age
Cover the treasures of Youth.

Deeper into the forest dark
The Squirrel will dance all day;

'Till eyes go blind and miss their mark,
And hearts will lose their way.

My Boy! if you should ever espy
This Squirrel up in the tree,
With a dancing devil in its eye,
Just let the Squirrel be!