ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
223 
KWASIND. 
“ Lazy Kwasind ! ” said his mother 
“ In m_y work you never help me ! 
In the summer you are roaming 
Idly in the fields and forests.” 
“ Lazy Kwasind 1 ” said his father, 
“ In the hunt you never help me; 
Every bow you touch is broken. 
Snapped asunder every arrow; 
Yet come with me to the forest, 
You shall bring the hunting homeward.” 
Down a narrow pass they wandered. 
Where a brooklet led them onward, 
Where the trail of deer and bison 
Marked the soft mud on the margin. 
Till they found all further passage 
Shut against them, barred securely 
Ety the'trunks of trees uprooted, 
Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise 
And forbidding further passage. 
“ We must go back,” said the old man, 
“ O’er these logs we cannot clamber; 
Not a woodchuck could get through them, 
Not a squirrel clamber o’er them ! ” 
And straightway his pipe he lighted. 
And sat down to smoke and ponder. 
But before his pipe was finished, 
Lo ! the path was cleared before him; 
All the trunks had Kwasind lifted, 
To the right hand, to the left hand, 
Shot the pine trees swift as arrows, 
Hurled the cedars light as lances. 
HIAWATHA’S SAILING. 
Building the Birch Canoe. 
“ Give me of your bark, O birch tree ! 
r Of your yellow bark, O birch tree 1 
Growing by the rushing river. 
Tall and stately in the valley ! 
I a light canoe will build me, 
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing, 
'Thou shalt float upon the river, 
Like a yellow leaf in autumn. 
Like a 3'ellow water lily ! 
“ Lay aside j'our cloak, O birch tree ! 
Lay aside j’our white-skin wrapper, 
For the summer time is coming, 
And the sun is warm in heaven, 
And you need no white-skin wrapper ! ” 
Thus aloud cried Hiawatha 
In the solitary forest. 
And the tree with all its branches 
Rustled in the breeze of morning. 
Saying with a sigh of patience, 
“ Take my cloak, O Hiawatha ! ” 
With his knife the tree he girdled; 
Just beneath its lowest branches, 
Just above the roots he cut it, 
Till the sap came oozing outward ; 
Down the trunk, from top to bottom, 
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder, 
With a wooden wedge he raised it, 
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken. 
“ Give me of your boughs, O Cedar ! 
Of your strong and pliant branches, 
My canoe to make more steady. 
Make more strong and firm beneath me! ” 
, Through the summit of the Cedar 
Went a sound, a cry of horror, 
Went a murmur of resistance , 
But it whispered, bending downward, 
“ Take my boughs, O Hiawatha! ” 
Down he hewed the boughs of Cedar, 
Shaped them straightwaj' to a framework, 
Like two bows he formed and shaped them, 
Like two bended bows together. 
“ Give me of your roots, O Tamarack! 
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch tree! 
My canoe to bind together, 
So to bind the ends together 
That the water may not enter, 
That the river may not wet me! ” 
And the Larch, with all its fibres, 
Shivered in the air of morning, 
Touched his forehead with its tassels, 
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow, 
“ Take them all, O Hiawatha! ” 
From the earth he tore the fibres, 
Tore the tough roots of the Larch tree, 
Closely sewed the bark together. 
Bound it closely to the framework. 
“ Give me of your balm, O Fir tree! 
Of your balsam and your resin, 
So to close the seams together 
That the water may not enter, 
