At sight of him the birds berate;
The blackbird points him to her mate,
The bluejay screams a scathing word,
Even the thrush is anger-stirred;—
Stealthy his step by wood-path dim,
Yet they know and jeer at him.

His coming makes the fields less gay;
The men who work there look away,
No welcome, only a half-hid sneer,
For Paul who loafs—and traps the deer!

When night-mist softens clearings rough,
And men who work have worked enough,
Around the shanty doors you hear
Laughing girls make music clear;
Jest answers jest, heart's cheer to heart,—
But Paul Fineffe still keeps apart!

Sleepin' he dreams, and seems to hide
Close by a spruce-tree's shadowy side;
A slender doe through the mosses stepped,
Under her foot a deer-trap leapt
And fastened on her, biting deep,
Biting deeper at each wild leap!
She is no stolid, brutish bear
To crouch and wait the trapper there;

Frantic she plunges, crazed with fright,
Bruised and broken, a piteous sight!—
Paul sees and shudders and would away,
But something holds him—he too must stay!

Such day-time joy, such night-time cheer,
For Paul Fineffe who traps the deer!