“A song! a song!” de Orville cried, “The night is rife with glory. Let’s while a merry hour away In singing and in story.” “A song! a song!” as one they cry, “Life hath enough of sorrow; Sing while we may with hearts so gay, Care cometh with the morrow.” “Le Jeune! Le Jeune! lead on, lead on, The stars are laughing o’er us; Give us thy latest and thy best, And we will join the chorus.” Le Jeune had a poetic soul, And voice of wondrous sweetness; He reached men’s better, nobler part, And won them to completeness. And the groups about the camp-fires, A picturesque, gay throng, Heard many a quaint old story, Pun, laugh, and ringing song; And thus ’mid the wilds of nature Passed the joyous hours away. Light-hearted, merry Voyageurs, Ever gallant and gay, Beside the deep glowing embers, Passed the night in calm repose, And in the soft early dawning Refreshened they uprose; And with arquebuse and musketoon, Spear, trap, and fishing-line, They scattered o’er the marshlands And ’neath the haunts of pine. And from the Narrows and the shore, Marshlands and wide lagoons, There burst the crash of arquebuse And roar of musketoons. And all day long the sport went on; At eve they counted o’er A tempting hoard of luscious game, Right welcome to their store. CHAPTER IV. The Ojibways from a distance Marked the slaughter of their game, And their untamed fiery spirits With revenge were all aflame. And Mitwaos, their brave leader, Summoned his chiefs once more; Their souls were fiercely chafing, And their savage hearts were sore. And as bursts a pent-up torrent They pronounce for instant war Not one dissenting chieftain The unity to mar. The runners go swiftly forward The braves to summon now; And there’s hurried preparation, And sternness on each brow. The young and fearless warriors Meet in the cedar shade The tender Indian maiden, And farewells are quickly made. And the stern, unbending chieftain Clasps his true-hearted wife, And kisses his dear papooses, And girds him for the strife. Their dauntless leader, Mitwaos, Who to death will do his part, Seeks his wife, the Singing Redbird, And folds her to his heart. Ah! those heathen souls are tender For children, wife, or mother, Their nation, and a father’s love, For sister and for brother. To the south of the Indian Fields Their rendezvous is made, Where the vines and the cedars cluster, And deeper glooms the shade. Here gather fast the Ojibways, Just at the twilight’s close, To await the dawn’s pale glimmer To fall upon their foes.