Christmas day, 1635, was a bright day overhead, and the sun shone brilliantly upon the snow, but it was a dark day in the annals of New France. For in a chamber of the old fort at Quebec, breathless and cold, lay the hardy frame of the great explorer, the man of the sea, the wilderness, the palace, and the wigwam. The grave, the valiant Champlain was dead at the age of sixty-eight. His labors for his beloved New France were over and he had ceased to watch over the destinies of his struggling people. He was buried with a simple ceremony, which was attended by Jesuits, officers, soldiers, traders, Indian braves, and the few settlers of the quaint, little town. A tomb was erected to his honor and his remains thus rested near the scenes of his explorations, his adventures, and his dreams of empire for his beloved country. THE SONG OF CHAMPLAIN _This is the song which the loon sang,_ _Sang as he swam on the glimmering lake,_ _Sang to the splash and thud of the waves,_ _As the hills reëchoed his wild, laughing call,_ _This is the song of Champlain!_ * * * * * The day was bright, and the sun was warm, as I rocked on the waters I love, And the scent of the hemlocks blew fresh from the shore, and the coo of the gray, mourning dove. Afar down the lake came the voice of my mate, as he heard my laughing refrain, And we laughed at each other, like sister and brother, then dove, and laughed once again. But see, down the lake comes a strange, thrilling sight, ’tis a sight fit for gods to behold, A swarm of red warriors in birch bark canoes, their prows threading silver and gold. Algonquins and Hurons, Montagnais as well, bedaubed with yellow and red, While the plumes of the heron and eaglet wave forth, like flags from each clean-shaven head. In front of them all sits a warrior white, with breastplate and greaves of hard steel; As the paddles flash keenly, he gazes serenely, and smiles as the warriors wheel. They wheel into line with yells and with cries, as another wild party draws near, From the southward they come, while the weird, moaning drum booms forth a death-slogan clear. “The dread Iroquois! The bad Iroquois!” reëchoes from stem and from stern, While loud, yelping cries ascend to the skies, as Algonquins and fierce Hurons turn. They turn and they wheel, form in battle array; but the Iroquois dart to the shore, Where they rush to the forest to cut down the trees, and hasten as never before. Night comes; as the smothering blackness creeps on, there are dances and songs on the lake, While on shore the deep drum makes a low, whining hum, e’en as branches and war-bonnets shake. Day breaks at last, and the shrill trumpet’s blast—wakes the stillness in forest and glade, ’Tis the dawning of death, for the grim specter’s breath has blown