THE CAUGHNAWAGA BEADWORK SELLER.

Kanawâki — “By the Rapid,” —

Low the sunset midst thee lies;

And from the wild Reservation

Evening's breeze begins to rise.

Faint the Kônoronkwa chorus

Drifts across the current strong;

Spirit-like the parish steeple

Stands thy ancient walls among.

Kanawâki — “By the Rapid,” —

How the sun amidst thee burns!

Village of the Praying Nation,

Thy dark child to thee returns.

All day through the pale-face city,

Silent, selling beaded wares,

I have wandered with my basket,

Lone, excepting for their stares!

They are white men; we are Indians;

What a gulf their stares proclaim!

They are mounting; we are dying;

All our heritage they claim.

We are dying, dwindling, dying,

Strait and smaller grows our bound;

They are mounting up to heaven

And are pressing all around.

Thou art ours,— little remnant,

Ours through countless thousand years —

Part of the old Indian world,

Thy breath from far the Indian cheers.

Back to thee, O Kanawâki!

Let the rapids dash between

Indian homes and white men's manners —

Kanawâki and Lachine!

O my dear!— O Knife-and-Arrows!

Thou art bronzed, thy limbs are lithe;

How I laugh as through the crosse-game,

Slipst thou like red elder withe.

Thou art none of these pale-faces!

When with thee I'll happy feel,

For thou art the Mohawk warrior

From thy scalp-lock to thy heel.

Sweet the Kônoronkwa chorus

Floats across the current strong;

Clear behold the parish steeple

Rise the ancient walls among.

Speed us deftly, noiseless paddle:

In my shawl my bosom burns!

Kanawâki — “By the Rapid,” —

Thine own child to thee returns.