PHIL-O-RUM'S CANOE AND MADELEINE VERCHERS

Cover

"O ma ole canoe, wat 's matter wit' you, an' w'y was you be so slow?"

Title page

Phil-o-rum's
Canoe

and

Madeleine
Vercheres

Two Poems by

William
Henry
Drummond

Author of "The
Habitant," etc.

Illustrated by

Frederick
Simpson
Coburn

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1898

headpiece

PHIL-O-RUM'S CANOE.

"O ma ole canoe, wat 's matter wit' you,

an' w'y was you be so slow?

Don't I work hard enough on de paddle, an'

still you don't seem to go--

No win' at all on de fronte side, an' current

she don't be strong,

Den w'y are you lak' lazy feller, too sleepy for

move along?

 

"I 'member de tam, w'en you jomp de sam'

as deer wit' de wolf behin',

An' brochet on de top de water, you scare

heem mos' off hees min':

But fish don't care for you now at all, only jus'

mebbe wink de eye,

For he know it 's easy git out de way, w'en

you was a-passin' by"----

 

I 'm spikin' dis way, jus' de oder day, w'en I 'm

out wit' de ole canoe

Crossin' de point w'ere I see, las' fall, wan very

beeg caribou,

Wen somebody say, "Phil-o-rum, mon vieux,

wat 's matter wit' you youse'f?"

An' who do you s'pose was talkin'? W'y de

poor ole canoe shese'f.

 

O yass, I 'm scare w'en I 'm sittin' dere, an'

she 's callin' ma nam' dat way.

"Phil-o-rum Juneau, w'y you spik so moche,

you 're off on de head to-day:

Can't be you forget, ole feller, you an' me

we're not too young,

An' if I 'm lookin' so ole lak' you, I t'ink I

will close ma tongue.

 

"You should feel ashame, for you 're alway

blame, w'en it is n't ma fault at all,

For I 'm tryin' to do bes' I can for you on

summer-tam, spring, an' fall.

How offen you drown on de reever, if I 'm

not lookin' out for you

W'en you 're takin' too moche on de w'isky,

some night comin' down de Soo.

 

"De firse tam we go on de Wessoneau, no

feller can beat us den

For you 're purty strong man wit' de paddle,

but dat 's long ago, ma frien',

An' win' she can blow off de mountain, an'

tonder an' rain may come,

But camp see us bote on de evening--you

know dat was true, Phil-o-rum.

 

"An' who 's your horse, too, but your ole

canoe, an' w'en you feel cole an' wet,

Who was your house w'en I 'm upside down,

an' onder de roof you get,

Wit' rain ronnin' down ma back, Baptême! till

I 'm gettin' de rheumateez,

An' I never say not'ing at all moi-meme, but

let you do jus' you please?

 

"You t'ink it was right, kip me out all night

on reever side down below,

An' even 'bon soir' you was never say, but

off on de camp you go,

Leffin' your poor ole canoe behin', lyin' dere

on de groun',

Watchin' de moon on de water, an' de bat

flyin' all aroun'?

 

"Oh, dat's lonesome t'ing hear de grey owl

sing up on de beeg pine tree!

An' many long night she kip me awake till sun

on de Eas' I see,

An' den you come down on de morning for

start on some more voyage,

An' only t'ing decen' you do all day, is carry

me on portage.

 

"Dat 's way, Phil-o-rum, rheumateez she

come, wit' pain ronnin' troo' ma side,

Wan leetle hole here, 'noder beeg wan dere,

dat not'ing can never hide,

Don't do any good feex me up agen, no matter

how moche you try,

For w'en we come ole an' our work she 's

done, bote man an' canoe mus' die."

 

Wall, she talk dat way mebbe mos' de day till

we 're passin' some beaver dam,

An' wan de young beaver, he 's mak' hees tail

come down on de water Flam!

I never see de canoe so scare, she jomp nearly

two, t'ree feet,

I t'ink she was goin' for ronne away, an' she

shut up de mout' toute suite.

 

It mak' me feel queer, de strange t'ing I hear,

an' I 'm glad she don't spik no more,

But soon as we fin' ourse'f arrive over dere on

de 'noder shore

I tak' dat canoe lak' de lady, an' carry her off

wit' me,

For I 'm sorry de way I 'm treat her, an' she

know more dan me, sapree!

 

Yass, dat 's smart canoe, an' I know it 's true,

w'at she 's spikin' wit' me dat day,

I 'm not de young feller I use to be, w'en work

she was only play,

An' I know I was comin' closer on place w'ere

I mus' tak' care,

W'ere de mos' worse current 's de las' wan too,

de current of Dead Riviere.

 

You can only steer, an' if rock be near, wit'

wave dashin' all aroun',

Better mak' leetle prayer, for on Dead Riviere,

some very smart man get drown;

But if you be locky an' watch youse'f, mebbe

reever won't seem so wide,

An' firse t'ing you know you 'll ronne ashore,

safe on de 'noder side.

tailpiece

headpiece

MADELEINE VERCHERES.

I've told you many a tale, my child, of the

old heroic days,

Of Indian wars and massacre, of villages ablaze

With savage torch, from Ville Marie to the

Mission of Trois Rivieres;

But never have I told you yet of Madeleine Vercheres.

 

Summer had come with its blossoms, and gaily

the robin sang,

And deep in the forest arches, the axe of the

woodman rang;

Again in the waving meadows, the sun-browned

farmers met

And out on the green St. Lawrence, the fisherman

spread his net.

 

And so through the pleasant season, till the

days of October came

When children wrought with their parents, and

even the old and lame

With tottering frames and footsteps, their

feeble labors lent

At the gathering of the harvest le bon Dieu

himself had sent.

 

For news there was none of battle, from the

forts on the Richelieu

To the gates of the ancient city, where the flag

of King Louis flew;

All peaceful the skies hung over the seigneurie

of Vercheres,

Like the calm that so often cometh ere the

hurricane rends the air.

 

And never a thought of danger had the Seigneur,

sailing away

To join the soldiers of Carignan, where down

at Quebec they lay,

But smiled on his little daughter, the maiden

Madeleine,

And a necklet of jewels promised her, when

home he should come again.

 

And ever the days passed swiftly, and careless

the workmen grew,

For the months they seemed a hundred since

the last war-bugle blew.

Ah, little they dreamt on their pillows the

farmers of Vercheres,

That the wolves of the southern forest had

scented the harvest fair.

 

Like ravens they quickly gather, like tigers

they watch their prey.

Poor people! with hearts so happy, they sang

as they toiled away!

Till the murderous eyeballs glistened, and the

tomahawk leaped out

And the banks of the green St. Lawrence

echoed the savage shout.

Like tigers they watch their prey.

"O mother of Christ, have pity!" shrieked the

women in despair;

"This is no time for praying," cried the young

Madeleine Vercheres;

"Aux armes! aux armes! les Iroquois! quick

to your arms and guns,

Fight for your God and country, and the lives

of the innocent ones."

 

And she sped like a deer of the mountain, when

beagles press close behind,

And the feet that would follow after must be

swift as the prairie wind.

Alas! for the men and women and little ones

that day,

For the road it was long and weary, and the

fort it was far away.

 

But the fawn had outstripped the hunters, and

the palisades drew near,

And soon from the inner gateway the war-bugle

rang out clear,

Gallant and clear it sounded, with never a note

of despair--

'T was a soldier of France's challenge, from

the young Madeleine Vercheres!

 

"And this is my little garrison, my brothers

Louis and Paul?

With soldiers two, and a cripple? may the

Virgin pray for us all!

But we 've powder and guns in plenty, and

we 'll fight to the latest breath,

And if need be, for God and country, die a

brave soldier's death.

 

"Load all the carabines quickly, and whenever

you sight the foe

Fire from the upper turret and loopholes down below,

Keep up the fire, brave soldiers, though the

fight may be fierce and long,

And they 'll think our little garrison is more

than a hundred strong."

 

So spake the maiden Madeleine, and she roused

the Norman blood

That seemed for a moment sleeping, and sent

it like a flood

Through every heart around her, and they

fought the red Iroquois

As fought in the old-time battles the soldiers

of Carignan.

 

And they say the black clouds gathered, and a

tempest swept the sky,

And the roar of the thunder mingled with the

forest tiger's cry,

But still the garrison fought on, while the lightning's

jagged spear

Tore a hole in the night's dark curtain, and

showed them a foeman near.

 

And the sun rose up in the morning, and the

color of blood was he,

Gazing down from the heavens on the little

company

"Behold, my friends," cried the maiden,

"'t is a warning lest we forget,

Though the night saw us do our duty, our

work is not finished yet."

 

And six days followed each other, and feeble

her limbs became

Yet the maid never sought her pillow, and the

flash of the carabine's flame

Illumined the powder-smoked faces, aye, even

when hope seemed gone,

And she only smiled on her comrades, and told

them to fight, fight on.

 

And she blew a blast on the bugle, and lo!

from the forest black.

Merrily, merrily ringing, an answer came

pealing back.

Oh, pleasant and sweet it sounded, borne on

the morning air,

For it heralded fifty soldiers, with gallant De

la Monnière.

"Saluted the brave young captain."

And when he beheld the maiden, the soldier of

Carignan,

And looked on the little garrison that fought

the red Iroquois

And held their own in the battle, for six long

weary days,

He stood for a moment speechless, and marvelled

at woman's ways.

 

Then he beckoned the men behind him, and

steadily they advance

And with carabines uplifted the veterans of

France

Saluted the brave young Captain so timidly

standing there,

And they fired a volley in honor of Madeleine

Vercheres.

 

And this, my dear, is the story of the maiden

Madeleine.

God grant that we in Canada may never see

again

Such cruel wars and massacre, in waking or in

dream,

As our fathers and mothers saw, my child, in

the days of the old régime!

tailpiece