Wayside Weeds

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 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 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.

But the Iroquois Chief gave a horrible yell,
He threw up his arms and then backward he fell;