Wayside Weeds. Ellis William Hodgson

      Little White Crow was an Algonkin,

      And he lived on the Isle of Chips;

      His legs were long, and his flanks were thin,

      He had high cheek-bones, and a strong square chin,

      Jet black was his hair, dark red was his skin,

      And white were his teeth, when a joyful grin

      At the sound of the war-whoop’s hideous din

      Parted his silent lips.

      Three eagles’ feathers adorned his head,

      Well greased was his snaky hair;

      His face was daubed with black and with red,

      No trousers he wore, but fringed leggings instead,

      And moccasins ’broidered with quills for thread.

      Very proud was his look, very stately his tread,

      And of this he was fully aware.

      Little White Crow had a sharp couteau,

      A carbine, and powder and shot:

      And the scalps of the braves whom he’d sent below

      Hung at his girdle, a goodly row.

      He’d a med’cine bag where he was wont to stow

      Charms against famine and fever and foe:

      And over his shoulders he used to throw

      A beaver-skin robe on occasions of show:

      Oh, a very fine fellow was Little White Crow!

      If you’re curious to learn why they christened him so

      The Indian Department might possibly know

      Ask Deputy Minister Scott.

      Father Le Cocq was a priest from Quebec,

      Rather spindle of shank, rather scraggy of neck;

      He’d a stoop in the shoulder, was yellow of skin,

      With closely cut hair, and a smooth shaven chin,

      He had very black eyes, and a rather red nose;

      Wore shoes with steel buckles and very square toes,

      A big shovel hat, a black cassock and bands,

      And a rosary seldom was out of his hands.

      But Loyola never, and nowhere than he

      Had a loyaller or a more staunch devotee;

      And none carried further the Jesuit virtue,

      Viz.: – “Do as you’re bid, and don’t cry if it hurt you!”

      Though gentle by nature and fond of his ease,

      He would work like a slave his Superior to please;

      He would shrink from no danger, pain, toil or disgrace,

      Or would swear wrong was right until black in the face!

      As wise as a serpent, as firm as a rock,

      Yet as meek as a dove was good Father Le Cocq.

      With bell, book and candle the priest had been sent

      To Ottawa’s banks, with the pious intent

      To find, if he could, after diligent search,

      A few stray, red sheep for the fold of the church;

      And there in a cabin of poles and of bark,

      He sang hymns and said masses from daylight to dark.

      It happened one day that good Father Le Cocq

      Had been visiting some of the lambs of his flock,

      And homeward returning, his pious task done,

      Was paddling along at the set of the sun.

      Now a man may be virtuous, learned, austere,

      In religion devout, and in morals severe,

      Yet, – true as it’s strange, and sad as it’s true, —

      Not able to manage a birch bark canoe!

      So now, – at the paddle by no means a dab, —

      He caught what is vulgarly known as a “crab”:

      His balance he lost, the canoe was upset,

      And Father Le Cocq tumbled into the wet!

      Poor Father Le Cocq! any chance looker-on

      Would have fancied for certain, his usefulness gone.

      And, indeed, the priest’s chance was uncommonly slim,

      The current ran fast, not a stroke could he swim,

      And he thought all was over in this world for him.

      But, thanks to St. Francis, St. Anne, St. Ignatius,

      Or some saintly personage equally gracious,

      It happened that not fifty paces below,

      Behind a big boulder sat Little White Crow.

      He was fishing for trout, and I wish I could catch,

      In these days of saw-mills another such batch!

      The rock, as I’ve said, hid the priest from his view,

      But he heard a great splash, and he saw a canoe

      Float down bottom upwards, while close behind that

      Swam jauntily after, – a big shovel hat.

      No moment to ponder paused Little White Crow:

      He sprang from the bank like a shaft from a bow;

      He could swim like a mallard and dive like a loon,

      But he reached the poor priest not a moment too soon;

      Caught hold of his cassock and collared him fast,

      Just while he was sinking the third time and last;

      Then reaching the shore, dragged the poor Father out,

      As you’d land a remarkably overgrown trout!

      It’s needless to mention that Little White Crow

      Did not know, and could not be expected to know,

      Doctor Marshall Hall’s method, so justly renowned,

      For restoring to life the apparently drowned;

      But he worked in his own way with such a good will,

      He rubbed and he chafed with such zeal and such skill

      That the priest after heaving some very deep sighs,

      First yawned, and then groaned, and then opened his eyes.

      Little Crow’s simple means as completely succeeded,

      As ever the treatment of any M.D. did.

      (Where credit is due I’m determined to give it)

      And the priest before long was as right as a trivet.

      “My friend and preserver, you very well know,”

      Thus the Father the red-skin addressed,

      “That of gold and of silver I’ve none to bestow,

      In return for the life that to you I must owe”;

      (Here he drew a silk bag from his breast) —

      “But one precious treasure I beg you’ll accept.”

      (And here, overcome by emotion, he wept.)

      Then he took a small object from out of the bag,

      Which he carefully wiped with a small piece of rag.

      A moment he tenderly gazed