RAIN at Muchalat, rain at Sooke, br And rain, they say, from Yale to Skeena, br And the skid-roads blind, and never a look br Of the Coast Range blue over Malaspina, br And west winds keener br Than jack-knife blades, br And rocks grown greener br With the long drip-drip from the cedar shades br On the drenched deep soil where the footsteps suck, br And the camp half-closed and the pay-roll leaner,– br Say, little horse, shall we hunt our luck? br br Yet. . . I don't know. . .