The muse might appeal to the science of books To picture its ichthyological looks, Show what is its family likeness or odds, Compared to its cousins, the salmons and cods; Tell where it approximates, point where it fails, By counting its fins, or dissecting its scales; Or prove by plain reasons—such proofs can be had— ’Tis not “toothless salmon,” but rather lake shad; Here, too, might a fancy, to descant inclined, Contemplate the lore that pertains to its kind, And bring up tradition in fanciful strains, To prove its creation from feminine brains;[14] Or point out its habits, migrations, and changes— The mode of its capture, its cycles and ranges. But let me forbear—’tis the fault of a song, A tale, or a book, if too learned or long. Thus ends my discussion. More would you, I pray, Ask Mitchell, or Harlan, Lesieur, or De Kay. [July 21, 1824.] [13] French orthography for the Indian name of this fish. [14] A tale of such transformation may be seen, by reference to ALGIC RESEARCHES. A TALE OF THE NORTH, [1830.] [In 1785, Mr. Alexander Kay, a fur-trader from Montreal, was stabbed by an Indian at Sandy Lake, on the source of the Mississippi. By the kindness and medical skill of a friendly chief, who accompanied him to Michilimackinac, the wound was healed, but suppurated soon after, on his arrival at the Lake of Two Mountains, where he died.] I cannot tell of monarch wise, Or fame’s loud trumpet swell; But I can tell a simple tale, Which on a time befell. For long ago, for money’s sake, As well as with us now, Bold men would venture wood and lake, To fill the golden vow. And forth the voyager he went, With goods of richest dye; And bark that was a sight to see, Far through the northern sky. And lakes he past, and snows he trod, Where wolves and panthers cry, And nature’s poor, forsaken sons, The Indians, live and die. He trafficked for a few brief months, For skin of beaver black; And aye he thought with wealth supreme To hie him quickly back. But still the red man liked him not, For he had wilful ways; And ever, when the night returned, Would burn with passion’s blaze. The voyager was a drinking man, And a man of swelling pride, Whom fury stirr’d, and lust of rule, And high impatience tried. And when he had their wealth amassed, He loathed the Indian boor; And as with noise they vex’d his peace, He spurned him from his door. The Indian is a passive man, To all observant eyes; But he has pride, and entertains Revenge, that never dies. He has a soul that scorns to live Where slave or coward be; And all his goods are free to share, And wish—is to be free.