The Project Gutenberg eBook ofWayside WeedsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Wayside WeedsAuthor: William Hodgson EllisRelease date: January 21, 2011 [eBook #35033]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Brenda Lewis, Charlie Howardand the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team athttp://www.pgdpcanada.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAYSIDE WEEDS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Wayside WeedsAuthor: William Hodgson EllisRelease date: January 21, 2011 [eBook #35033]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Brenda Lewis, Charlie Howardand the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team athttp://www.pgdpcanada.net
Title: Wayside Weeds
Author: William Hodgson Ellis
Author: William Hodgson Ellis
Release date: January 21, 2011 [eBook #35033]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Brenda Lewis, Charlie Howardand the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team athttp://www.pgdpcanada.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAYSIDE WEEDS ***
W. H. Ellis / Emery Walker Ph.sc.W. H. EllisEmery Walker Ph.sc.
W. H. EllisEmery Walker Ph.sc.
WAYSIDE WEEDS BY WILLIAM HODGSON ELLIS TORONTO: PUBLISHED BY J. M. DENT & SONS LTD. MCMXIVWAYSIDEWEEDSBY WILLIAMHODGSONELLISTORONTO: PUBLISHED BYJ. M. DENT & SONS LTD.MCMXIV
BY WILLIAMHODGSONELLIS
TORONTO: PUBLISHED BYJ. M. DENT & SONS LTD.MCMXIV
The verses in this volume have been collected by a few of Dr. Ellis’s friends, and in this form are presented to him by them as a New Year’s gift
1January,1914
BYMAURICE HUTTON, LL.D.,Principal of University College, Toronto
There is a Heav’n:at least on earth below:It is where scholars read and thinkers brood:Forcrowns and halosvolumes in a rowFor angels’ wings it has itsgown and hood.
There is a Heav’n:at least on earth below:
It is where scholars read and thinkers brood:
Forcrowns and halosvolumes in a row
For angels’ wings it has itsgown and hood.
In that seraphic choir see Ellis sit!With that Elys-ian light his numbers glow:The scholar’s seriousness, the scholar’s wit,Twin spiritsin alternate ebb and flow.[1]
In that seraphic choir see Ellis sit!
With that Elys-ian light his numbers glow:
The scholar’s seriousness, the scholar’s wit,
Twin spiritsin alternate ebb and flow.[1]
Studious and silent he has read life’s page,Scholar and chemisthe sees part and whole;Teaching and thought let loose hisnoble rageAndstir the genial currentof his soul.
Studious and silent he has read life’s page,
Scholar and chemisthe sees part and whole;
Teaching and thought let loose hisnoble rage
Andstir the genial currentof his soul.
Hisgolden rodabsorbs our meaner stavesAs Aaron’s rod the rods of Phara-oh,Or as New Brunswick’s river-name outbraves[2]Thepious Jordanof Ontario.
Hisgolden rodabsorbs our meaner staves
As Aaron’s rod the rods of Phara-oh,
Or as New Brunswick’s river-name outbraves[2]
Thepious Jordanof Ontario.
His May-blossoms relieve ourstrenuous May,Our evening smoke curls bluer as we read,The earliest pipe of half-awakened dayDraws a new fragrance from his choicer weed.
His May-blossoms relieve ourstrenuous May,
Our evening smoke curls bluer as we read,
The earliest pipe of half-awakened day
Draws a new fragrance from his choicer weed.
His artless puff-balls have a tale to tell,His Flora opens treasures new and old,Hisway-side weedshave been our asphodel[3]His “dandy lines” become our “harmless gold.”[4]
His artless puff-balls have a tale to tell,
His Flora opens treasures new and old,
Hisway-side weedshave been our asphodel[3]
His “dandy lines” become our “harmless gold.”[4]
[1]Plato (sixth letter—323 c.) speaks of Elysian or Ellis-i-an scholars “Swearing with scholarly seriousness and with that playfulness which is seriousness’ twin sister.” Thompson’sGorgias, 41.[2]See“Weed,” p. 37.[3]See“Weed,” p. 43.[4]See Lowell on “Dandelions”:—“Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold.”
[1]Plato (sixth letter—323 c.) speaks of Elysian or Ellis-i-an scholars “Swearing with scholarly seriousness and with that playfulness which is seriousness’ twin sister.” Thompson’sGorgias, 41.
[2]See“Weed,” p. 37.
[3]See“Weed,” p. 43.
[4]See Lowell on “Dandelions”:—“Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold.”
“Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold.”
“Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold.”
“. . . amidst the fairest flowersOf the blest isles, Elysium’s blooming bowers.”
“. . . amidst the fairest flowers
Of the blest isles, Elysium’s blooming bowers.”
J. M.J. J. M.
picture of open book, pages transforming into plant leaves
Christmas 1913Toronto
To those good friends in whose indulgent eyesthey seemed worth collecting and preserving;And to the beloved memory of somewho once trod with me the Highways and Bywayswhere they were gathered;I offer this handful ofWayside Weeds.
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 grinAt the sound of the war-whoop’s hideous dinParted his silent lips.
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.
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 sharpcouteau,A carbine, and powder and shot:And the scalps of the braves whom he’d sent belowHung at his girdle, a goodly row.He’d a med’cine bag where he was wont to stowCharms against famine and fever and foe:And over his shoulders he used to throwA 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 soThe Indian Department might possibly knowAsk Deputy Minister Scott.
Little White Crow had a sharpcouteau,
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.
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 heHad 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.
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 sentTo Ottawa’s banks, with the pious intentTo 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 CocqHad 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,—Notable 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-onWould 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 canoeFloat down bottom upwards, while close behind thatSwam 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!
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,—
Notable 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 CrowDid 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 skillThat 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.
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 on it,—thenHe kissed it with fervour again and again,One last lingering look of affection,—and soHe handed it over to Little White Crow.
“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 on it,—then
He kissed it with fervour again and again,
One last lingering look of affection,—and so
He handed it over to Little White Crow.
With stately politeness the Indian receivedThe treasure so prized, and at once he perceived,(With some disappointment, to tell you the truth,)A badly decayed, rather large, double tooth!
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 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 alarmSo long as this relic you wear;You’ll find it indeed an infallible charmAgainst every conceivable species of harmTo which poor humanity’s heir.”
“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 childAddressed the priest in accents mild,And this is what he said:
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 gullLittle White Crow, I ween;Hollow and empty he deems his skull,He fancies his wits are all gone dull,—He’s wrong,—they’reAl-gon-keen!”
“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’reAl-gon-keen!”
He grinned, and without any further delayPut 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.”
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 liesBefore 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 friendsTo 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.
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 tradeFor the goods of the French, which long habit had madeIf not indispensable still very handy,—Knives, gunpowder, kettles, beads, bullets and brandy.To keep to my story: our friends on this dayDown the river were calmly pursuing their way,When Little White Crow in the foremost canoeWas 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 crewsPaddled quickly ashore and pulled up their canoes.
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 strayIn 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 playIn the top of the pine trees tall and greyA sweet regretful tune.
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 lakeThrough 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.
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.
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 invadesThe Sabbath rest of the solemn shades;A Paradise of peace!
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 breathOf 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!
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 scoreAnd 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 blowTo 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 revenge on his brow,With his knife in his teeth and his gun in his hand,As he urged on his comrades to make one last stand,Though his bullets were spent and their arrows all gone—He looked more like Old Nick, I’m afraid, than Saint John!
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 revenge on his brow,
With his knife in his teeth and his gun in his hand,
As he urged on his comrades to make one last stand,
Though his bullets were spent and their arrows all gone—
He looked more like Old Nick, I’m afraid, than Saint John!
Little White Crow had poured into his gunHis last charge of powder, but bullets he’d none;He searched in his shot pouch again and again,He begged of his comrades, but begged all in vain;Among the whole party in fact there was notSo much as one pellet of No. 6 shot.He was just giving up the whole job in disgustWhen his hand in his med’cine bag chancing to thrust,As Fortune would have it his fingers he ranAgainst the back tooth of the blessed Saint Anne!Little White Crow gave a terrible shout,The tooth in a trice from the bag he whipped out,Dropped it into his musket, and yelling still louder,He rammed it well home on the top of the powder.But here come the foe! From rocks, bushes and treesThey start like a swarm of exasperate bees;A capital simile that is in any case,To describe an assault of Oneidas or Senecas:And one, as it happens, remarkably apt inThis particular case, for the Iroquois CaptainWas a chief called Big Hornet,—a beggar to fight,Who measured six feet and some inches in height.’Twas he gave the signal to make the attack,’Twas he led the rush of the bloodthirsty pack,And ’twas he, as he charged in the front of the foe,Attracted the notice of Little White Crow.Little White Crow brought his gun to his shoulder,And rested the barrel on top of a boulder,Singled out the Big Hornet’s conspicuous figure,Drew a bead on his forehead,—and then pulled the trigger.
Little White Crow had poured into his gun
His last charge of powder, but bullets he’d none;
He searched in his shot pouch again and again,
He begged of his comrades, but begged all in vain;
Among the whole party in fact there was not
So much as one pellet of No. 6 shot.
He was just giving up the whole job in disgust
When his hand in his med’cine bag chancing to thrust,
As Fortune would have it his fingers he ran
Against the back tooth of the blessed Saint Anne!
Little White Crow gave a terrible shout,
The tooth in a trice from the bag he whipped out,
Dropped it into his musket, and yelling still louder,
He rammed it well home on the top of the powder.
But here come the foe! From rocks, bushes and trees
They start like a swarm of exasperate bees;
A capital simile that is in any case,
To describe an assault of Oneidas or Senecas:
And one, as it happens, remarkably apt in
This particular case, for the Iroquois Captain
Was a chief called Big Hornet,—a beggar to fight,
Who measured six feet and some inches in height.
’Twas he gave the signal to make the attack,
’Twas he led the rush of the bloodthirsty pack,
And ’twas he, as he charged in the front of the foe,
Attracted the notice of Little White Crow.
Little White Crow brought his gun to his shoulder,
And rested the barrel on top of a boulder,
Singled out the Big Hornet’s conspicuous figure,
Drew a bead on his forehead,—and then pulled the trigger.
“Click” went the flint lock, and the musket went “bang,”The forest around with the loud echo rang,The gun burst to atoms, so great was the shock,And vanished entirely, lock, barrel and stock:While wholly uninjured, incredible though,It seems, I acknowledge, was Little White Crow.
“Click” went the flint lock, and the musket went “bang,”
The forest around with the loud echo rang,
The gun burst to atoms, so great was the shock,
And vanished entirely, lock, barrel and stock:
While wholly uninjured, incredible though,
It seems, I acknowledge, was Little White Crow.
But the Iroquois Chief gave a horrible yell,He threw up his arms and then backward he fell;He sprang to his feet and fell backward again,He rolled, and he writhed, and he wriggled with pain.His friends gathered round him and started aghast,At seeing atoothto his nose sticking fast.
But the Iroquois Chief gave a horrible yell,
He threw up his arms and then backward he fell;
He sprang to his feet and fell backward again,
He rolled, and he writhed, and he wriggled with pain.
His friends gathered round him and started aghast,
At seeing atoothto his nose sticking fast.
“Away,” they cried, smitten with panic, “away!Let us fly to the distant hills!The Devil is fighting against us to-day,Our foemen are shedding their teeth as they sayThat the porcupine sheds its quills!”
“Away,” they cried, smitten with panic, “away!
Let us fly to the distant hills!
The Devil is fighting against us to-day,
Our foemen are shedding their teeth as they say
That the porcupine sheds its quills!”
And shaking with terror away they all ran,Big Hornet, as usual, leading the van,While astride on his nose sat the tooth of Saint Anne!
And shaking with terror away they all ran,
Big Hornet, as usual, leading the van,
While astride on his nose sat the tooth of Saint Anne!
In the Iroquois towns very deep was the grief,When they heard of the pitiful plight of their chief;There wasn’t a woman in all the Five Nations,Who didn’t indulge in prolonged lamentations.They tried to relieve him, but tried all in vain,The tenderest touch produced exquisite pain:The med’cine men tried incantations and sorceries,And yet, though their magic as strong as a hawser is,The tooth wouldn’t budge for the best of the lot;The more they incanted the tighter it got.
In the Iroquois towns very deep was the grief,
When they heard of the pitiful plight of their chief;
There wasn’t a woman in all the Five Nations,
Who didn’t indulge in prolonged lamentations.
They tried to relieve him, but tried all in vain,
The tenderest touch produced exquisite pain:
The med’cine men tried incantations and sorceries,
And yet, though their magic as strong as a hawser is,
The tooth wouldn’t budge for the best of the lot;
The more they incanted the tighter it got.
A Dutchman from Albany came to their aid,Who had once been a student of medicine at Leyden;He practised in vain each resource of his trade,And swore that the tooth by the foul fiend was made,While its carious cavity was, so he said,A hole for the Devil to hide in.
A Dutchman from Albany came to their aid,
Who had once been a student of medicine at Leyden;
He practised in vain each resource of his trade,
And swore that the tooth by the foul fiend was made,
While its carious cavity was, so he said,
A hole for the Devil to hide in.
Big Hornet meanwhile grew haggard and grey,With grief and chagrin he was wasting away;His friends found their efforts all powerless to saveTheir chief in his rapid descent to the grave;There was nobody able to set the tooth free,It clung like a little Old Man of the Sea!
Big Hornet meanwhile grew haggard and grey,
With grief and chagrin he was wasting away;
His friends found their efforts all powerless to save
Their chief in his rapid descent to the grave;
There was nobody able to set the tooth free,
It clung like a little Old Man of the Sea!
It happened one day there was brought to the townA captive French priest in a shabby black gown;He had very black eyes and a rather red nose,Wore shoes with steel buckles, and very square toes;He’d a stoop in the shoulder, was yellow of skin,And a week’s growth of bristles disfigured his chin.Alas and alack! it was Father Le Cocq:The Iroquois wolves had both harried the flockAnd kidnapped the shepherd—now doomed to be fried asSoon as it suited the heathen Oneidas!
It happened one day there was brought to the town
A captive French priest in a shabby black gown;
He had very black eyes and a rather red nose,
Wore shoes with steel buckles, and very square toes;
He’d a stoop in the shoulder, was yellow of skin,
And a week’s growth of bristles disfigured his chin.
Alas and alack! it was Father Le Cocq:
The Iroquois wolves had both harried the flock
And kidnapped the shepherd—now doomed to be fried as
Soon as it suited the heathen Oneidas!
Now, just as a drowning man grabs at a straw,His aid was besought by the favourite squawOf the sick man—no doubt at some saint’s kind suggestionTo specify which is quite out of the question.“O Frenchman, remove the excrescence that growsSo horribly tight on the bridge of his nose,And home to your friends you shall safely returnInstead of remaining among us to burn!”Thus urged, the good Jesuit followed the squaw;But oh! his bewilderment, wonder and awe,No tongue can describe, and no pencil can paint,When lifting his hands in amazement he sawOn the nose of the red-skin the tooth of the saint.
Now, just as a drowning man grabs at a straw,
His aid was besought by the favourite squaw
Of the sick man—no doubt at some saint’s kind suggestion
To specify which is quite out of the question.
“O Frenchman, remove the excrescence that grows
So horribly tight on the bridge of his nose,
And home to your friends you shall safely return
Instead of remaining among us to burn!”
Thus urged, the good Jesuit followed the squaw;
But oh! his bewilderment, wonder and awe,
No tongue can describe, and no pencil can paint,
When lifting his hands in amazement he saw
On the nose of the red-skin the tooth of the saint.
But Father Le Cocq wasn’t long at a loss;He made on the relic the sign of the cross,When, wondrous to hear and amazing to tell,The tooth from the nose incontinent fell.And the chief, from that moment, began to get well!
But Father Le Cocq wasn’t long at a loss;
He made on the relic the sign of the cross,
When, wondrous to hear and amazing to tell,
The tooth from the nose incontinent fell.
And the chief, from that moment, began to get well!
My story is told. There’s no more to relate.The Iroquois sent back the Father in state;They feasted him daily as long as he’d tarry,Then gave him more furs than he knew how to carry,And safe in his bosom, thrice fortunate man,He bore the back tooth of the blessed Saint Anne!
My story is told. There’s no more to relate.
The Iroquois sent back the Father in state;
They feasted him daily as long as he’d tarry,
Then gave him more furs than he knew how to carry,
And safe in his bosom, thrice fortunate man,
He bore the back tooth of the blessed Saint Anne!
As for Little White Crow from that day to the endOf his life he was known as the “Frenchman’s best friend”;A friend of French missions he called himself, and heWithout any doubt was a friend of French brandy.At the close of a well spent career the old man had aCollection of scalps quite unequalled in Canada:But never again did he venture to sneerAt the bones of the saints, looked they never so queer.He often would say that his good luck began,On the day he received the back tooth of Saint Anne;And for all his successes he piously thanked it. HeDied full of years in the odour of sanctity.
As for Little White Crow from that day to the end
Of his life he was known as the “Frenchman’s best friend”;
A friend of French missions he called himself, and he
Without any doubt was a friend of French brandy.
At the close of a well spent career the old man had a
Collection of scalps quite unequalled in Canada:
But never again did he venture to sneer
At the bones of the saints, looked they never so queer.
He often would say that his good luck began,
On the day he received the back tooth of Saint Anne;
And for all his successes he piously thanked it. He
Died full of years in the odour of sanctity.
1878.
O weary child of toil and care,Trembling at every cloud that lowers,Come and behold how passing fairThy God hath made the flowers.
O weary child of toil and care,
Trembling at every cloud that lowers,
Come and behold how passing fair
Thy God hath made the flowers.
From every hillside’s sunny slope,From every forest’s leafy shadeThe flowers, sweet messengers of hope,Bid thee “Be not afraid.”
From every hillside’s sunny slope,
From every forest’s leafy shade
The flowers, sweet messengers of hope,
Bid thee “Be not afraid.”
The windflower blooms in yonder bowerAll heedless of to-morrow’s storm,Nor trembles for the coming showerThe lily’s stately form.
The windflower blooms in yonder bower
All heedless of to-morrow’s storm,
Nor trembles for the coming shower
The lily’s stately form.
No busy shuttle plied to deckWith sunset tints the blushing rose,And little does the harebell reckOf toil and all its woes.
No busy shuttle plied to deck
With sunset tints the blushing rose,
And little does the harebell reck
Of toil and all its woes.
The water-lily, pure and white,Floats idle on the summer stream,Seeming almost too fair and brightFor aught but Poet’s dream.
The water-lily, pure and white,
Floats idle on the summer stream,
Seeming almost too fair and bright
For aught but Poet’s dream.
The gorgeous tulip, though arrayedIn gold and gems, knows naught of care,The violet in the mossy gladeOf labour has no share.
The gorgeous tulip, though arrayed
In gold and gems, knows naught of care,
The violet in the mossy glade
Of labour has no share.
They toil not—yet the lily’s dyesPhœnicean fabrics far surpass,Nor India’s rarest gem out-viesThe little blue-eyed grass.
They toil not—yet the lily’s dyes
Phœnicean fabrics far surpass,
Nor India’s rarest gem out-vies
The little blue-eyed grass.
For God’s own hand hath clothed the flowersWith fairy form and rainbow hue,Hath nurtured them with summer showersAnd watered them with dew.
For God’s own hand hath clothed the flowers
With fairy form and rainbow hue,
Hath nurtured them with summer showers
And watered them with dew.
To-day, a thousand blossoms fair,From sunny slope and sheltered glade,With grateful incense fill the air—To-morrow they shall fade.
To-day, a thousand blossoms fair,
From sunny slope and sheltered glade,
With grateful incense fill the air—
To-morrow they shall fade.
But thou shalt live when sinks in nightYon glorious sun, and shall not HeWho hath the flowers so richly dight,Much rather care for thee?
But thou shalt live when sinks in night
Yon glorious sun, and shall not He
Who hath the flowers so richly dight,
Much rather care for thee?
O, faithless murmurer, thou may’st readA lesson in the lowly sod,Heaven will supply thine utmost need,Fear not, but trust in God.
O, faithless murmurer, thou may’st read
A lesson in the lowly sod,
Heaven will supply thine utmost need,
Fear not, but trust in God.
1865.
[5]Awarded the prize for English verse in the University of Toronto in 1865.
[5]Awarded the prize for English verse in the University of Toronto in 1865.
“Along the oozing margins of swampy streams, where Spring seems to detach the sluggish ice from the softening mud, the Skunk Cabbage is boldly announcing nature’s revival. Handsome, vigorous and strong, richly coloured in purple, with delicate . . . markings of yellow, it rises . . . a pointed bulb-like flower, as large as a lemon. . . . Even its devoted admirers, who seek it as the earliest of all the awakening flowers, feel constrained to apologise for the odour it exhales.”—S. T. Wood, inThe Globe.
The soft south wind hath kissed the earthThat long a widowed bride hath been;And she begins in tearful mirth,To weave herself a robe of green.The budding sprayOn maples greyProclaims the quick approaching spring;And brooks their new-found freedom sing.
The soft south wind hath kissed the earth
That long a widowed bride hath been;
And she begins in tearful mirth,
To weave herself a robe of green.
The budding spray
On maples grey
Proclaims the quick approaching spring;
And brooks their new-found freedom sing.
Green is the moss in yonder gladeOn cedars old that loves to grow;And, underneath the pine tree’s shade,The wintergreen peeps through the snow.The fields no moreWith frost are hoar;But not a flower doth yet appearIn glade or wood or meadow sere.
Green is the moss in yonder glade
On cedars old that loves to grow;
And, underneath the pine tree’s shade,
The wintergreen peeps through the snow.
The fields no more
With frost are hoar;
But not a flower doth yet appear
In glade or wood or meadow sere.
The earth within her sheltering breastThe pale hepatica doth hide;The bloodroot and wake-robin restIn quiet slumber side by side;The violetIs sleeping yet;And still the sweet spring-beauty liesBeyond the reach of longing eyes.
The earth within her sheltering breast
The pale hepatica doth hide;
The bloodroot and wake-robin rest
In quiet slumber side by side;
The violet
Is sleeping yet;
And still the sweet spring-beauty lies
Beyond the reach of longing eyes.
But look! beside the silent stream,Beneath the alders brown and bare,What is it shines with purple gleam’Mid withered leaves that moulder there?I know thee well,But may not tellThy name. Yet I rejoice to meet thee,And from my heart, old friend, I greet thee!
But look! beside the silent stream,
Beneath the alders brown and bare,
What is it shines with purple gleam
’Mid withered leaves that moulder there?
I know thee well,
But may not tell
Thy name. Yet I rejoice to meet thee,
And from my heart, old friend, I greet thee!
The lily hangs her dainty headTo hear her charms so loudly sung;The rose doth blush a deeper redTo know her praise on every tongue.But no kind wordIs ever heardOf thee: The poets all reject thee,The vulgar scorn thee or neglect thee.
The lily hangs her dainty head
To hear her charms so loudly sung;
The rose doth blush a deeper red
To know her praise on every tongue.
But no kind word
Is ever heard
Of thee: The poets all reject thee,
The vulgar scorn thee or neglect thee.