  Round the mountain peak called “Going-To-The-Sun,” In Glacier Park, a steep and soaring one, Circled a curious bird with pointed nose Who led us on to every cave, and rose And swept through every cloud, then brought us berries, And all the acid gifts the mountain carries, And let us guess which ones were good to eat. And even when we slept his sharp wings beat The weary fire, or shook the tree-top cones, Or rattled dead twigs like a fairy’s bones. The vulgar bird, “Curiosity”! When we Were tired, and lean, and shaking at the knee, We put this bird in harness. He was strong As any ostrich, pulled our packs along, Helped us up over the next annoying wall, And dragged us to the chalet, and the tourists’ resting hall. And when once more we were young, well-fed men, He beat the door to call us forth again. |
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