Wayside Weeds

William Hodgson Ellis

Wayside Weeds

Little White Crow

(A LEGEND OF ST. ANNE)

Part ILittle 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.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 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.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.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, —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-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!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.“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.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!“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.”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:“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’re Al-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.”Part IIA 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.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.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.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.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!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!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 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.“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 a tooth to 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!”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!Part IIIIn 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 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!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!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.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 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.1878.

Consider the Lilies of the Field 1

O weary child of toil and care,Trembling at every cloud that lowers,Come and behold how passing fairThy 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.”The windflower blooms in yonder bowerAll heedless of to-morrow’s storm,Nor trembles for the coming showerThe 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.The water-lily, pure and white,Floats idle on the summer stream,Seeming almost too fair and brightFor 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.They toil not – yet the lily’s dyesPhœnicean fabrics far surpass,Nor India’s rarest gem out-viesThe 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.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?O, faithless murmurer, thou may’st readA lesson in the lowly sod,Heaven will supply thine utmost need,Fear not, but trust in God.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 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.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.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.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!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.And yet I love thee. Thou dost bringTo me a thousand visions brightOf joyous birds that soon will singAmong the hawthorn blossoms white;Of happy hours’Mid dewy flowers;The hum of bees; the silvery gleamsOf leaping trout in amber streams.Soon as the snows of winter yieldTo April sun and April floods,Retiring from the open fieldTo strongholds in the thickest woods,Then like a scout,Dost thou peep out,And cheerily lift up thy headTo 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 fœtidus!21904.

The Wanderer’s Song

We have left far behind us the dwellings of men,We have traversed the forest, the lake and the fen,From island to island like sea birds we roam,The waves are our path, and the world is our home.Juvallera, Juvallera, Juvallera, lera, lera!Juvallera, Juvallera, Juvallera, lera, lera!On the lone rugged rocks a rich table we spread,The balsam and hemlock afford us a bed;While the gleam of our camp fire illumines the sky,And the murmuring pines sing a soft lullaby.Juvallera, etc.When the orient hues of the dawning of dayEmblazon the clouds and smile back from the bay,We spring from our couch like the stag from his lair,And drink in new life with the free morning air.Juvallera, etc.Then we launch our light bark on the silvery lake,That dimples and breaks into smiles in our wake;While we sweeten our toil with a tale or a song,Or rest while the winds waft us bravely along.Juvallera, etc.At night when the deer to the thicket has fled,And the scream of the night hawk is heard overhead,We startle with laughter the wilderness dim,Or the forests resound with our evening hymn.Juvallera, etc.Then Hurrah for the north, with its woods and its hills;Hurrah for its rocks, and its lakes and its rills!And long may its forests be lovely as now,Untouched by the axe, and unscathed by the plow!Juvallera, etc.1870.

The Cowdung Fly

Of all the flies that ever I seeThe Cowdung Fly is the fly for meIn cloud or shine, in wet or dryYou can’t find the beat of the Cowdung Fly!So early in the morning or when the sun is sinking,So early in the morning or any time of day.The salmon fly shines in purple and goldBrighter than Solomon shone of oldBut give me the finest that money can buyAnd I’ll give it you back for the Cowdung Fly!So early, &c.A cute little chap is the silver troutWhen the wind is still and the sun shines out!No maiden so coy and no widow so slyBut he’ll jump like a shot at the Cowdung Fly!So early, &c.A tough old cuss is the big black bassIt’s a mighty hard job to bring him to grassBut it makes no odds how hard he may tryHe can’t resist the Cowdung Fly!So early, &c.There’s many a fly of old renownGreen Drake, Red Spinner and little March Brown,Coachman, Professor, but Oh my eye!They ain’t a patch on the Cowdung Fly!So early, &c.There are Hackles black and Hackles whiteGood by day and good by nightHackles brown and Hackles redBut the Cowdung Fly is away ahead!So early, &c.There’s the little black gnat when the sun shines brightAnd the big white moth for the cool twilightBut of all the bugs in earth and skyI’ll bet my boots on the Cowdung Fly!So early, &c.Then anglers all you can’t go wrongIf you’ve plenty of Cowdung Flies alongYou never will want for fish to fryIf your book’s well stocked with the Cowdung Fly!

Song of the Bass

Over the waters, merrily dancing,Softly glides our light canoe,While the phantom mirror glancing,Shines alternate white and blue.Chorus.Never can tell when the bass is a-coming,Never can tell when he’s going to bite;First thing you know your reel will be humming,Strike him quickly and hold him tight.Past the maples, red and yellow,Crimson oak and purple ash —Gosh! you’ve hooked a monstrous fellow!Golly! don’t you hear him splash?Hold him lightly, reel him slowlyIf you wish your fish to save;Nothing’s gained by hurry – HolyMoses! what a jump he gave.Lower your rod; now take the slack up —Thank your stars you’ve got him yet!Now he sticks his thorny back up —Now you’ve got him in the net!In the basket, wrapped in fern, he’llLie in state in scaly grace;In the pan, when we return, he’llFind a warmer resting place.Let him fry in crumbs and butter —Hear the appetizing fizz!No weak words that I could utterCan describe how good he is.Serve him with a slice of bacon,Quickly to the banquet come,And unless I’m much mistakenYour remark will be “yum, yum!”

Never can tell when the Bass is a-comin’

Words: Drs. Ellis & Spencer. Music: Adapted.

Allegro piscatore: con brio.

[play] Maskinongewagaming 3 Would you slay the MaskinongéIn the fastness where he lurks?Leave a card pour prendre congéOn the town and all its works.Leave the tram-car’s jarring jangleFor the silent bark canoe;For the forest’s leafy tangle,Bid the dusty streets adieu.As befits her slender tonnage,In our tiny craft we stowCunningly our modest dunnage —Shove her off, away we go!Joy once more to grasp the paddle!Farewell worry, doubt and gloom.Care, who clings behind the saddle,Finds in our canoe no room.Off we go! The lake before usStretches far and stretches fair;Forest scents are wafted o’er us;Forest voices fill the air.Paddling past the pebbly beachesWhere the ancient cedar grows;Toiling in the open reachesWhen the stiff nor’wester blows.Winding down the silent riverWhere the scarlet maples blaze,And the pallid aspens quiverThrough the warm September days;Past the oily eddies sweepingWhere the hidden boulder lies;Down the rapid gaily leapingWhere the spray about us flies.Poling through the gravelly shallows,Floating ’neath the alder’s shade,Where the moose at noon-tide wallows,And the beaver plies his trade;Shoving through the rustling sedges,Battling with the autumn gale;Lifting over rocky ledges,Sweating on the portage trail —On we go, with steadfast faces,Till at last with gladdened eyes,We behold the secret placesWhere the Maskinongé lies.Shall we find him in the rushes?Where the waterlilies grow?Where the roaring torrent gushes?In the foam-flecked pool below?Fierce and cunning, bold and cruel,Is the Maskinongé grim,Who shall dare him to a duel?Who shall fight and conquer him?* * * *Proudly with his spoil returning,We with shouts the victor greet;By the camp-fire brightly burning,He shall have the warmest seat.Is he hungry? Pile the platter;Thirsty? Join the gay carouse;Weary with his toil? What matter?Heap his bed with balsam boughs.Fill his pipe with rare Virginian,Cheer him till the echoes ring,Monarch of his new dominion,Maskinongewagaming.1904.