o’er the host unafraid. The paddles dip deep, as the warriors sleek drive onward to white, gleaming sand, They leap to the beach, with arrows in reach, advance to the uprising land. A yell of defiance is hurled at their heads, as the Iroquois rush to the fray, Then the keen, whizzing barbs rush swift through the air; they advance in battle array. But, see, there steps forth a warrior white,—’tis Champlain in casquet of steel, A sword by his side, in his hand a long gun, he sights as the Iroquois wheel. _Crash! bang!_ and the bullet is speeding along, it reaches the breast of a chief, One despairing wail and the lean body, frail, has gone to the Kingdom of Grief. Ahah! what is this, for the Iroquois turn, they have met with their masters at-last, The warriors fierce, who can slaughter and burn, now wince at the steel bullet’s blast. The Montagnais are yelping and dancing with glee, their enemies fear them at length, For many years past they have kept them in awe; now they wince at the arquebus’ strength. A wild mêlée now, and the green balsam bough, sways o’er the carnage of hate, And night shadows cover the rioting braves, the Iroquois meet with their fate. * * * * * See! the Hurons, Algonquins, are paddling away, and northward they turn with a will, As war songs and yelpings ascend to the sky, of torture the braves have their fill, Calm and quiet there sits that warrior white, who has won them the stirring lake fight, And the breeze sighs, “_Champlain!_” while the stirring refrain clarions forth like the wild eagle’s flight. _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!_ WHISKEY JACK (CANADIAN BLUE JAY) I was the first to see the redskin, I was the first to view Champlain; Flitting in the hemlock branches, I fly South, then North again; Up among the gray brown mountains, down amidst the soggy waste, I am ever on the lookout, never worry, never haste. Yes, I’m called old Whiskey Jack, gray and black, along my back, Beady eye and slender tail, I can spy out any trail. Old bull moose and caribou wink their eyes as I fly through, Yelling, crying, “Chank! chank! chank!”— Trappers call me “awful crank!” Away up where the brook trout gather, away off by the blue St. John; O’er broiling falls of foaming lather, where splashing jumps the muscallonge, Where otters mew and spruce grouse flutter, where brown bears dig the honey tree, That is where I spend the summer, where hunts the “sport” and half-breed Cree.