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Sediments from the Old Tea Kettle
by Ralph Bryenton

These poems were copied from a Trappers' Festival Program from The Pas, page 73.  The year is unknown, but probably late 50s or early 60s. The last poem does not appear to be complete and perhaps it continued on page 74 ??

By Ralph Bryenton

My trapline 'tis of thee
Land of bannock and of tea
Of thee I sing.

Land where we've all tried,
To break the laws and lied,
Thru the woods on every side
My trapline swings.
Land of the Christmas tree,
My native country thee
I love thy streams.

I love thy hills and lakes
And the noise my paddle makes,
My heart with longing aches,
When I'm away.

By Ralph Bryenton

There's a tiny little cabin
Built of logs, and roofed with moss,
By a creek that winds and ripples past the door.
There's a team of husky sleigh dogs,
And a sleigh that's worn and weathered,
And a hundred miles of trapline, yes, and more.

And it's there I like to wander,
And it's there I often ponder,
As my kettle babbles to me on the stove.
There's moose meat on my table,
And there's tea and bannock too,
And there's furs upon the stretchers up above.

And it's there my nerves are steady,
And that's where I am always ready,
In that land of silent beauty that I love.
And tho' I roam the city
With its lights and din and glare,
My thoughts are down some river on my trapline thru the hills.

And as the cars go speeding
And the crowds go milling by,
I hear the roar of rapids tho' its made by noisy mills.
Balance of poem is unavailable.

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