The Caughnawaga Beadwork-Seller

KANAWAKI,— " By the Rapid,"—
Low the sunset 'midst thee lies ;
And from the wild Reservation
Evening's breeze begins to rise.
Faint the Konoronkwa chorus
Drifts across the currents strong ;
Spirit-like the parish steeple
Stands thine ancient walls among.

Kanawaki,— " By the Rapid,"—
How the sun amidst thee burns !
Village of the Praying Nation,
Thy dark child to thee returns.
All day through the palefaced city,
Silent, selling beaded wares,
I have wandered with my basket,
Lone, excepting for their stares.

They are white men ; we are Indians :
What a gulf their stares proclaim !
They are mounting ; we are dying :
All our heritage they claim.
We are dying, dwindling, dying !
Strait and smaller grows our bound :
They are mounting up to heaven,
And are pressing all around.

Thou art ours, — little remnant,
Ours from countless thousand years,
Part of the old Indian world :
Thy breath from far the Indian cheers.
Back to thee, O Kanawaki !
Let the rapids dash between
Indian homes and white men's manners,
Kanawaki and Lachine !

O, my dear ! O Knife-and-Arrows !
Thou art bronzed, thy limbs are lithe ;
How I laugh when through the crosse-game
Slipst thou like red elder-withe !
Thou art none of these palefaces !
When with thee I'll happy feel ;
For thou art the Indian warrior
From thy head unto thy heel !

Sweet the Konoronkvva chorus
Floats across the currents strong ;
Clear behold the parish steeple
Rise the ancient walls among !
Skim us deftly, noiseless paddle :
In my shawl my bosom burns !
Kanawaki, — " By the Rapid,"—
Thy own child to thee returns.