The hairy man was a
trapper,
and he lived in the
wilds alone,
and he sought the
furs of the sleek beavers
where the
winds through the pine-trees groan.
He
found the pelt of the snow-white fox
while the
northern lights shone pink,
and the skins of the
hare, and he caught his share
Of the soft-furred, sly-eyed
mink.
For the fur of the mink is as soft as
wind
and as white as a
moonlit night
and the
stars and ice (and a fabulous price)
made
joy in his heart flame bright.
In a
land of snow and blue-black trees
and
peaks that cut the sky
In a run of luck where his
boots got stuck
and he couldn't trap a
fly
By a smould'ring
fire and a meager meal
and the
wind-wail's stolid moan
With a
sudden thrill the stars stood still
and a
mink strode there alone.
Its
fur was as white as a maiden's love
but its
eyes were as black as sin
And he sat
entranced in its death-dark glane
and its black eyes
burned through skin.
He dogged that mink with
haunted tread
for three months if a
day,
And it stalked his
dreams in a dark moon's beams
and it
robbed his traps like play.
For the eyes of a mink are as cold as
wind
and as black as a
starless night
And the
stars and ice (and wand'ring's price)
made
dark his heartfire's light.
One
gloomy day as he walked the lines
the
trapper glimpsed a streak,
A ghostly
glow past the week-old snow
black-eyed,
white-furred, and sleek.
With a blink and a
dream the mink led on
and the trapper followed
after,
With no heed of place in that
deadly race
to the sound of phantom
laughter.
On a twisted chase through the
darkling trees
with no thought for the
path it led,
For the fur of
white frolicked in his spite,
and the
mink ran just ahead.
Near
dusk he stood but a yard behind;
he
lunged to close the gap;
He fell,
face down, on the frozen ground,
with his arm in his own
steel trap.
For the mind of a mink is as sharp as
wind
and as deep as a
cloudless night,
And the
stars and eyes (and a worthless prize)
left him
cold in the red twilight.
In a bloody night on the bloody
snow
he woke afire with
pain,
Too weak to
stand or to free his hand,
though he tried for
hours in vain.
He knew as he lay on the
frozen dirt,
in cold and hurt and
fear,
With no help to
come, and his body numb,
that his only
choice was clear.
Trapped like a
beast, with a beast's resort
a man will save his
life,
A horrific deed, but a time of
need;
he unsheathed his
hunting knife.
It was gory
work, but he got it done,
and he
barely made it home;
But
never more, though his heart was sore,
did he
dare to trap or roam.
For the heart of a mink is as cruel as
wind
and deadly as
arctic night
And the
stars and ice (and a terrible price)
had
taught the worth of fright..
In the
smoky dens of the wild north,
where the
rovers rest and plan,
They'll tell, with a
drink and a cautious wink,
of the
one-armed hairy man.
But more
dreadful things than this, there are,
in the lore that the
northmen quote;
A
shadow, a tale, that turns strong men pale,
Of a mink in a
man-fur coat.
Though I imagine this qualifies as an original work, I take neither credit nor blame for it, as it came to me thus in a dream: On a stormy evening I read first Watership Down, then the collected poems of Robert Service; and having fallen asleep over the second volume, I woke with these verses playing in my head. I succeeded only in recording the first stanza and a half before I lost the spell; the rest, I fear, is only reconstructed from the images I remembered.
I kid you not.