The stream is shrunk--the pool is dry, And we be comrades, thou and I; With fevered jowl and dusty flank Each jostling each along the bank; And, by one drouthy fear made still, Forgoing thought of quest or kill. Now 'neath his dam the fawn may see, The lean Pack-Wolf as cowed as he, And the tall buck, unflinching, note The fangs that tore his father's throat. The pools are shrunk--the streams are dry, And we be playmates, thou and I, Till yonder cloud--Good Hunting!--Loose The rain that breaks our Water Truce.