*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40152 *** [Illustration: Cover] [Illustration: "O ma ole canoe, wat ’s matter wit’ you, an’ w’y was you be so slow?"] [Illustration: Title page] Phil-o-rum’s Canoe and Madeleine Vercheres Two Poems by William Henry Drummond Author of "The Habitant," etc. Illustrated by Frederick Simpson Coburn G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON The Knickerbocker Press 1898 COPYRIGHT, 1898 BY G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London The Knickerbocker Press, New York [Illustration: headpiece] PHIL-O-RUM’S CANOE. "O ma ole canoe, wat ’s matter wit’ you, an’ w’y was you be so slow? Don’t I work hard enough on de paddle, an’ still you don’t seem to go-- No win’ at all on de fronte side, an’ current she don’t be strong, Den w’y are you lak’ lazy feller, too sleepy for move along? "I ’member de tam, w’en you jomp de sam’ as deer wit’ de wolf behin’, An’ brochet on de top de water, you scare heem mos’ off hees min’: But fish don’t care for you now at all, only jus’ mebbe wink de eye, For he know it ’s easy git out de way, w’en you was a-passin’ by"---- I ’m spikin’ dis way, jus’ de oder day, w’en I ’m out wit’ de ole canoe Crossin’ de point w’ere I see, las’ fall, wan very beeg caribou, Wen somebody say, "Phil-o-rum, mon vieux, wat ’s matter wit’ you youse’f?" An’ who do you s’pose was talkin’? W’y de poor ole canoe shese’f. O yass, I ’m scare w’en I ’m sittin’ dere, an’ she ’s callin’ ma nam’ dat way. "Phil-o-rum Juneau, w’y you spik so moche, you ’re off on de head to-day: Can’t be you forget, ole feller, you an’ me we’re not too young, An’ if I ’m lookin’ so ole lak’ you, I t’ink I will close ma tongue. "You should feel ashame, for you ’re alway blame, w’en it is n’t ma fault at all, For I ’m tryin’ to do bes’ I can for you on summer-tam, spring, an’ fall. How offen you drown on de reever, if I ’m not lookin’ out for you W’en you ’re takin’ too moche on de w’isky, some night comin’ down de Soo. "De firse tam we go on de Wessoneau, no feller can beat us den For you ’re purty strong man wit’ de paddle, but dat ’s long ago, ma frien’, An’ win’ she can blow off de mountain, an’ tonder an’ rain may come, But camp see us bote on de evening--you know dat was true, Phil-o-rum. "An’ who ’s your horse, too, but your ole canoe, an’ w’en you feel cole an’ wet, Who was your house w’en I ’m upside down, an’ onder de roof you get, Wit’ rain ronnin’ down ma back, Baptême! till I ’m gettin’ de rheumateez, An’ I never say not’ing at all moi-meme, but let you do jus’ you please? "You t’ink it was right, kip me out all night on reever side down below, An’ even ’bon soir’ you was never say, but off on de camp you go, Leffin’ your poor ole canoe behin’, lyin’ dere on de groun’, Watchin’ de moon on de water, an’ de bat flyin’ all aroun’? "Oh, dat’s lonesome t’ing hear de grey owl sing up on de beeg pine tree! An’ many long night she kip me awake till sun on de Eas’ I see, An’ den you come down on de morning for start on some more voyage, An’ only t’ing decen’ you do all day, is carry me on portage. "Dat ’s way, Phil-o-rum, rheumateez she come, wit’ pain ronnin’ troo’ ma side, Wan leetle hole here, ’noder beeg wan dere, dat not’ing can never hide, Don’t do any good feex me up agen, no matter how moche you try, For w’en we come ole an’ our work she ’s done, bote man an’ canoe mus’ die." Wall, she talk dat way mebbe mos’ de day till we ’re passin’ some beaver dam, An’ wan de young beaver, he ’s mak’ hees tail come down on de water Flam! I never see de canoe so scare, she jomp nearly two, t’ree feet, I t’ink she was goin’ for ronne away, an’ she shut up de mout’ toute suite. It mak’ me feel queer, de strange t’ing I hear, an’ I ’m glad she don’t spik no more, But soon as we fin’ ourse’f arrive over dere on de ’noder shore I tak’ dat canoe lak’ de lady, an’ carry her off wit’ me, For I ’m sorry de way I ’m treat her, an’ she know more dan me, sapree! Yass, dat ’s smart canoe, an’ I know it ’s true, w’at she ’s spikin’ wit’ me dat day, I ’m not de young feller I use to be, w’en work she was only play, An’ I know I was comin’ closer on place w’ere I mus’ tak’ care, W’ere de mos’ worse current ’s de las’ wan too, de current of Dead Riviere. You can only steer, an’ if rock be near, wit’ wave dashin’ all aroun’, Better mak’ leetle prayer, for on Dead Riviere, some very smart man get drown; But if you be locky an’ watch youse’f, mebbe reever won’t seem so wide, An’ firse t’ing you know you ’ll ronne ashore, safe on de ’noder side. [Illustration: tailpiece] [Illustration: headpiece] MADELEINE VERCHERES. I’ve told you many a tale, my child, of the old heroic days, Of Indian wars and massacre, of villages ablaze With savage torch, from Ville Marie to the Mission of Trois Rivieres; But never have I told you yet of Madeleine Vercheres. Summer had come with its blossoms, and gaily the robin sang, And deep in the forest arches, the axe of the woodman rang; Again in the waving meadows, the sun-browned farmers met And out on the green St. Lawrence, the fisherman spread his net. And so through the pleasant season, till the days of October came When children wrought with their parents, and even the old and lame With tottering frames and footsteps, their feeble labors lent At the gathering of the harvest le bon Dieu himself had sent. For news there was none of battle, from the forts on the Richelieu To the gates of the ancient city, where the flag of King Louis flew; All peaceful the skies hung over the seigneurie of Vercheres, Like the calm that so often cometh ere the hurricane rends the air. And never a thought of danger had the Seigneur, sailing away To join the soldiers of Carignan, where down at Quebec they lay, But smiled on his little daughter, the maiden Madeleine, And a necklet of jewels promised her, when home he should come again. And ever the days passed swiftly, and careless the workmen grew, For the months they seemed a hundred since the last war-bugle blew. Ah, little they dreamt on their pillows the farmers of Vercheres, That the wolves of the southern forest had scented the harvest fair. Like ravens they quickly gather, like tigers they watch their prey. Poor people! with hearts so happy, they sang as they toiled away! Till the murderous eyeballs glistened, and the tomahawk leaped out And the banks of the green St. Lawrence echoed the savage shout. [Illustration: Like tigers they watch their prey.] "O mother of Christ, have pity!" shrieked the women in despair; "This is no time for praying," cried the young Madeleine Vercheres; "Aux armes! aux armes! les Iroquois! quick to your arms and guns, Fight for your God and country, and the lives of the innocent ones." And she sped like a deer of the mountain, when beagles press close behind, And the feet that would follow after must be swift as the prairie wind. Alas! for the men and women and little ones that day, For the road it was long and weary, and the fort it was far away. But the fawn had outstripped the hunters, and the palisades drew near, And soon from the inner gateway the war-bugle rang out clear, Gallant and clear it sounded, with never a note of despair-- ’T was a soldier of France’s challenge, from the young Madeleine Vercheres! "And this is my little garrison, my brothers Louis and Paul? With soldiers two, and a cripple? may the Virgin pray for us all! But we ’ve powder and guns in plenty, and we ’ll fight to the latest breath, And if need be, for God and country, die a brave soldier’s death. "Load all the carabines quickly, and whenever you sight the foe Fire from the upper turret and loopholes down below, Keep up the fire, brave soldiers, though the fight may be fierce and long, And they ’ll think our little garrison is more than a hundred strong." So spake the maiden Madeleine, and she roused the Norman blood That seemed for a moment sleeping, and sent it like a flood Through every heart around her, and they fought the red Iroquois As fought in the old-time battles the soldiers of Carignan. And they say the black clouds gathered, and a tempest swept the sky, And the roar of the thunder mingled with the forest tiger’s cry, But still the garrison fought on, while the lightning’s jagged spear Tore a hole in the night’s dark curtain, and showed them a foeman near. And the sun rose up in the morning, and the color of blood was he, Gazing down from the heavens on the little company "Behold, my friends," cried the maiden, "’t is a warning lest we forget, Though the night saw us do our duty, our work is not finished yet." And six days followed each other, and feeble her limbs became Yet the maid never sought her pillow, and the flash of the carabine’s flame Illumined the powder-smoked faces, aye, even when hope seemed gone, And she only smiled on her comrades, and told them to fight, fight on. And she blew a blast on the bugle, and lo! from the forest black. Merrily, merrily ringing, an answer came pealing back. Oh, pleasant and sweet it sounded, borne on the morning air, For it heralded fifty soldiers, with gallant De la Monnière. [Illustration: "Saluted the brave young captain."] And when he beheld the maiden, the soldier of Carignan, And looked on the little garrison that fought the red Iroquois And held their own in the battle, for six long weary days, He stood for a moment speechless, and marvelled at woman’s ways. Then he beckoned the men behind him, and steadily they advance And with carabines uplifted the veterans of France Saluted the brave young Captain so timidly standing there, And they fired a volley in honor of Madeleine Vercheres. And this, my dear, is the story of the maiden Madeleine. God grant that we in Canada may never see again Such cruel wars and massacre, in waking or in dream, As our fathers and mothers saw, my child, in the days of the old régime! [Illustration: tailpiece] *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40152 ***