The English people were horrified to learn of the treatment which the mutinous crew had administered to Henry Hudson and sent out two vessels, the next Spring, in the hope of learning something of the fate of this brave navigator. Yet nothing was ever seen or heard of the unfortunate discoverer, who perished amidst the fogs and the ice of that bleak, northern ocean. Hudson was brave, resourceful, and resolute. He has been accused of cruelty to the Indians, and of want of high principle in causing their general intoxication when sailing upon the great river which was to be named after him. Yet you must remember that he had a mutinous body of men under his command, and could not easily restrain them from returning insult for injury, when their redskinned friends shot arrows at them. The death of the nine Indians killed at the head of Manhattan Island may be said to have been caused in a war of self-defense. As for the charge of heartlessness in getting the redskins intoxicated, you must also remember, that, like his men, he was suspicious and alarmed, and therefore was determined to learn the honesty or treachery of the Indians by any means whatsoever. In England, they grieved deeply for the death of such a gallant countryman, and in the new world he has perpetual monuments to his memory, for here a great bay, a city, and a mighty river, all bear the name of this brave yet unfortunate navigator. THE WIND FROM THE NORTHLAND The wind blew from the northland, as the frozen bergs went by, And it sobbed a song through the grizzly murk, to the bobbing siren’s cry. It sang of men of daring, and it whined of maids of the mist, Who burnish the shields of their men-at-arms, where the ice with the sunset’s kissed. Ah! it told of Leif the Lucky, with his sword and his Vikings bold, Who hounded the bear to his cavern in the land where the penguins scold. We heard the clang of their axes; we were jarred with the crash of their swords, As the blaring bugles shrilled their notes in thin, transparent words. And the wind sang of brave Hudson, and it sobbed for his starving son, As, adrift in a boat, they were chilled by the glut of that night without a sun. And the blast sobbed out its tale of death, of Baffin, Franklin, and Kane, Of Marvin, de Long, and Parry; of the days of sorrow and pain. Yet, the blinding sea-mew caroled with joy, as it whined by the loitering fleet, Which cruised where the cod and the haddock shoal, at the rock-ribbed island’s feet. And it shouted and roared a pæan, to the heroes who’d carried a flag, A bit of a piece of red, white, and blue, to the spot where the ice-drifts sag, As it southward flew, it grew and it grew, ’til it roared out a rollicking psalm, To Peary, MacMillan, Borup; brave travelers, silent and calm. Southward it sang its slogan, where the tossing palm groves sway,