Wayside Weeds Part 2

Part III.

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.

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 n.o.body 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 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 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!

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 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 sanct.i.ty.

1878.

Consider the Lilies of the Field[5]

O weary child of toil and care, Trembling at every cloud that lowers, Come and behold how pa.s.sing fair Thy G.o.d hath made the flowers.

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 bower All heedless of to-morrow's storm, Nor trembles for the coming shower The lily's stately form.

No busy shuttle plied to deck With sunset tints the blus.h.i.+ng 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 bright For aught but Poet's dream.

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 dyes Phnicean fabrics far surpa.s.s, Nor India's rarest gem out-vies The little blue-eyed gra.s.s.

For G.o.d'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.

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 read A lesson in the lowly sod, Heaven will supply thine utmost need, Fear not, but trust in G.o.d.

1865.

[5]Awarded the prize for English verse in the University of Toronto in 1865.

The Skunk Cabbage

"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, in _The Globe_.

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 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 h.o.a.r; But not a flower doth yet appear In glade or wood or meadow sere.

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 s.h.i.+nes 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 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.

And yet I love thee. Thou dost bring To me a thousand visions bright Of joyous birds that soon will sing Among the hawthorn blossoms white; Of happy hours 'Mid dewy flowers; The hum of bees; the silvery gleams Of leaping trout in amber streams.

Soon as the snows of winter yield To April sun and April floods, Retiring from the open field To strongholds in the thickest woods, Then like a scout, Dost thou peep out, And cheerily lift up thy head To tell the flowers the foe has fled.

O thou that comest our hearts to cheer, The first of all the flowers of spring, Brave herald of the opening year, Accept the tribute that I bring, When now once more, The winter o'er, Thy honest face has greeted us, O Symplocarpus ftidus![6]

1904.

[6]The fickle botanists have changed the generic name of the Skunk Cabbage to Spathyema. For reasons which will be obvious to the intelligent reader, the author prefers to retain the older designation.