Wayside Weeds

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 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 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.”

Part II

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,