The Cabin Of Mystery

No trail leads to this cabin,
Not even a blaze on a tree,
Hidden beneath the tall dark firs
Is this cabin of mystery.
No one knew its builder
Or when this cabin was made,
Not one of the oldest trappers
Can explain or give any aid.
The stove still stands in the corner,
The table all neat and clean
And the cupboard still holds its grubstake
As fine as ever was seen.
But there are no traps or stretchers
So no trapper was he,
No prospector’s pick or shovel,—
All adds to the mystery.
No name upon the door-jamb,
No initials cut in the wall,
No calendar hangs by the window,
Just silence and mystery—that’s all.
But the hills hold many a secret,
That the trails and streams never tell,
We can only guess at the answer
And perhaps it’s just as well.
Now as I gaze at this cabin,—
Brush almost obscuring the door,—
Many moons have you guarded the secret,
Keep guard for as many more.
But perhaps when we cross the border
And step aboard death’s train,
The secrets of hills and mountains,
To us will then be plain.