Volume 146 — SMITHERS, B.C.

I saw it on a map, most large and fine (I saw it with the naked eye—no dream), Showing how trains upon the Grand Trunk line, Grand but Pacific, run along by steam Right to Prince Rupert on the sea (a port) And there are brought up short. Smithers! I saw it on a map, I say, A panoramic map in Cockspur Street. And sudden in my heart began to play Echoes of old romance, and all my feet Fluttered responsive to the name's sheer beauty, So rhythmical and fluty. Smithers! The music of it filled my mouth. I saw Provence and that enchanted shore, And lotus-isles amid the dreamy South, And champions out of mediæval lore Looking at large for ladies in distress Round storied Lyonnesse. I was a trovatore (with guitar); Venezia's airy domes above me shone; I heard Alhambra's fountains, faint and far; I broke the Kaliph's line at Carcassonne; All kinds of lost chords latent in my withers Woke at the name of Smithers. Ah, if in Avalon's vale I may not rest When envious Time has worn me to a thread, Then let me go to Smithers in the West, And on my gravestone let these words be read: Attracted by its name to this fair scene, He died a Smitherene. O. S.