Wayside Weeds. Ellis William Hodgson
again,
One last lingering look of affection, – and so
He handed it over to Little White Crow.
With stately politeness the Indian received
The treasure so prized, and at once he perceived,
(With some disappointment, to tell you the truth,)
A badly decayed, rather large, double tooth!
“In your estimation, I very much fear,”
Thus gravely the Father began,
“Devoid of all value my gift will appear;
But when you have heard me its worth will be clear:
’Tis a relic of Holy Saint Anne!
To tell half its virtues all night would require:
’Tis an excellent cure for the vapours;
’Twill heal any dropsy, no matter how dire,
Put out the last spark of Saint Anthony’s fire,
And stop all Saint Vitus’s capers!
The twinges of toothache, so hard to endure,
The quinsy, the gout and the spleen,
The scurvy, the jaundice, all these it will cure;
While to break up an ague you’ll find it more sure —
And a great deal more cheap, – than quinine.
“In short, there is nothing need cause you alarm
So long as this relic you wear;
You’ll find it indeed an infallible charm
Against every conceivable species of harm
To which poor humanity’s heir.”
He ceased, the red-skin gravely smiled,
And gravely shook his head,
And then the simple forest child
Addressed the priest in accents mild,
And this is what he said:
“My uncle thinks it’s easy to gull
Little White Crow, I ween;
Hollow and empty he deems his skull,
He fancies his wits are all gone dull, —
He’s wrong, – they’re Al-gon-keen!”
He grinned, and without any further delay
Put the tooth in his med’cine bag safely away,
And then with a gesture more free than polite,
Clapped the priest on the shoulder and wished him, “good night.”
A year and a day! A year and a day!
How the days and the weeks and the months roll away!
How little we know what of joy or of sorrow lies
Before us next year – but I’ve no time to moralize.
Well, a year and a day had elapsed as I’ve stated,
Since the incidents happened I lately related.
Little White Crow and a score of his friends
To further their own individual ends
(And those of their neighbours as well, I’ve no doubt),
Deep loaded with furs for Quebec had set out.
They’d been rather more lucky than usual, I think,
In hunting the beaver, the bear and the mink;
And their spoils at Quebec they intended to trade
For the goods of the French, which long habit had made
If not indispensable still very handy, —
Knives, gunpowder, kettles, beads, bullets and brandy.
To keep to my story: our friends on this day
Down the river were calmly pursuing their way,
When Little White Crow in the foremost canoe
Was startled to hear a wild hullabaloo.
He sprang to his feet, and he shaded his eyes,
Then cried in a voice of alarm and surprise —
(We all use strong words when things happen to plague us),
“Oh bother it! here are those bless’d Onondagas!”
He said; and with yells of defiance the crews
Paddled quickly ashore and pulled up their canoes.
Oh! pleasant it is through the forest to stray
In the gladsome month of June;
To list to the scream of the merry blue jay,
And the chirp of the squirrel so blithe and gay,
And the sigh of the soft south winds that play
In the top of the pine trees tall and grey
A sweet regretful tune.
And pleasant it is o’er a forest lake
Through the cool white mists to glide,
Ere the bright warm day is half awake,
When the trout the glassy surface break,
And the doe comes down her thirst to slake,
With her dappled fawn by her side.
Where the loon’s loud laugh rings wild and clear,
Where the black duck rears her brood;
Where the tall blue heron with mien austere,
Poised on one leg at the marge of the mere,
Muses in solitude.
Yes, sweet and fair are the forest glades,
Where the world’s rude clamours cease;
Where no harsh, workaday sound invades
The Sabbath rest of the solemn shades;
A Paradise of peace!
But oh! it’s a different thing when one knows,
That each bush is an ambush concealing one’s foes;
When the sweet flowers are choked by the sulphurous breath
Of the musket whose mouth is the portal of death;
When instead of the song of the frolicsome bird,
Shots, shrieks, yells and curses alone can be heard;
Then the streamlet’s sweet tinkle seems changed to a knell,
And the forest’s deep gloom to the blackness of hell!
Little White Crow, at the close of the day,
With a handful of comrades was standing at bay;
Things had gone with them badly, they were but a score
And the enemy numbered a hundred or more.
Now flushed with success and of victory sure,
The Iroquois, thinking their triumph secure,
Were preparing to deal one last finishing blow
To annihilate utterly Little White Crow!
Poor Little White Crow! though a “fisher of men,”
He hardly looked like an apostle just then;
He’d been dodging all day behind rock, bush and tree,
A cunning old fox in a scrimmage was he.
But numbers will tell in the long run, and now,
With hate in his heart and