and women were converted to Christianity, and showed by their lives the sincerity of their faith.

There was one vice to which they were almost universally addicted; and that was a passion for ardent spirits, which, in their expressive language, they called fire-water. An Indian who had once drank rum or whiskey seemed ever after to be possessed of a sort of madness; all his ordinary occupations appeared to have lost their former attraction, and every thing was sacrificed for the fatal poison. There were always wicked men among the whites to supply the Indian with intoxicating drinks; thus enriching themselves and stripping the poor red man of all he had. The use of ardent spirits has been one of the chief causes of the rapid extinction of the Indian race.

[This lesson and the next following are from the Song of Hiawatha, a poem founded upon an Indian tradition that a being of more than mortal powers was once sent among them to teach them the arts of peace.]

Ar the door on summer evenings

Sat the little Hiawatha ;

Heard the whispering of the pine trees

Sounds of music, words of wonder;
Saw the firefly swiftly glancing,
Flitting through the dusk of evening,
With the twinkle of its candle
Lighting up the brakes and bushes;
And he sang the song of children,
Sang the song Nokomis * taught him.
"Little flitting, white-fire insect,

Little dancing, white-fire creature,

* Nokomis is represented as the grandmother of Hiawatha, by whom he

is brought up.

""Tis the heaven of flowers you see there;
All the wild flowers of the forest,
All the lilies of the prairie,

When on earth they fade and perish,
Blossom in that heaven above us."
When he heard the owls at midnight

Hooting, laughing in the forest,
"What is that?" he cried in terror;
"What is that," he said, "Nokomis ? "
And the good Nokomis answered,
"That is but the owl and owlet,*
Talking in their native language,
Talking, scolding at each other."

*Owlet, the young of the owl.

"GIVE me of your bark, O Birch Tree!
Of your yellow bark, O Birch Tree!
Growing by the rushing river,
Tall and stately in the valley!
I a light canoe will build me,
That shall float upon the river
Like a yellow leaf in autumn,
Like a yellow water lily.

Lay aside your cloak, O Birch Tree!
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper;
For the summer time is coming,

And the sun is warm in heaven,
And need no white-skin wrapper."

you

Thus aloud cried Hiawatha

In the solitary forest,

When the birds were singing gayly,
In the moon of leaves were singing;
And the sun, from sleep awaking,
Started up, and said, "Behold me!"
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 straightway 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,

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,
That the river may not wet me!"

And the Fir Tree, tall and sombre,
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,
Rattled like a shore with pebbles,
Answered wailing, answered weeping,
66 Take my balm, O Hiawatha !”

And he took the tears of balsam,
Took the resin of the fir tree,

Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,
Made each crevice safe from water.

"Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!
I will make a necklace of them,
Make a girdle for my beauty,
And two stars to deck her bosom!

From a hollow tree the Hedgehog
With his sleepy eyes looked at him,
Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
Saying with a drowsy murmur,
Through the tangle of his whiskers,
"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"

From the ground the quills he gathered, All the little shining arrows,

Stained them red, and blue, and yellow,

With the juice of roots and berries;
Into his canoe he wrought them,
Round its waist a shining girdle,
Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
On its breast two stars resplendent.

Thus the Birch Canoe was builded

In the valley, by the river,

In the bosom of the forest;

And the forest's life was in it,