He goes on Sunday to the church, And reads the lessons there. To hear the parson pray and preach Few to that church repair. But reading in that village church Makes the G. O. M. rejoice, For he loves to hear his own sweet voice In Church or Parliament. But where'er he be he thinks of trees, How many fallen lie, And those who notice him may see A twinkle in his eye. Toiling, rejoicing, brandishing His axe, thus on he goes; Each morning sees some grand old tree, Each evening sees its close; Some branches felled, some trunk laid low-- And then he seeks repose. _Moonshine_, January 19, 1884. * * * * * Longfellow's _Song of Hiawatha_ certainly invites parody, and its easy metre is readily caught up by any one having an ordinarily good ear, and knack of versification. Consequently parodies of it abound; unfortunately they become somewhat wearisome in perusal from the monotonous diction, and some of the best only will be quoted at length. The following, written by Mr. J. W. Morris, appeared in the _Bath and Cheltenham Gazette_ shortly after the appearance of Longfellow's poem, and is interesting as giving an account of the feelings with which _Hiawatha_ was first received:-- HIAWATHA. (_A Parody._) Do you ask me what I think of This new song of _Hiawatha_, With its legends and traditions, And its frequent repetitions Of hard names which make the jaw ache, And of words most unpoetic? I should answer, I should tell you I esteem it wild and wayward, Slipslop metre, scanty sense, Honour paid to Mudjekewis, But no honour to the Muse. * * * * * "Honour to the Muddyminded!" Who now wears the belt of Wampum, He has stolen it from the Northmen, And he wears it, and shall wear; And hereafter, and for ever, Shall he hold ungrudged dominion Over all the winds that whistle; Call him no more Muddyminded, Call him Longfellow, the Yankee! * * * * * Forth upon a Pitchy Puddle, Gleaming with a fitful phosphor; In a bark of his own making, With a line of his own twisting, Forth to catch a fine new Poem All alone went Muddyminded. At the stern sat Muddyminded, For 'twas windy, and he knew He was heavy, and he trembled Lest he'd sink his grand canoe; Soon he came to where 'twas clearer, And the bottom he could see, So he looked, and saw the bottom, Saw the bottom of the sea. There he saw the song he wanted Lying _far beyond his reach_, Lying just within his vision, But beyond the reach of boat-hook. There it lay in all its armour, Fenced about with ugly words, Indian names and Indian notions, Painted too, with various colours, Earthy, very earthy, too.