HOW THE ROBIN CAME.

Happy young friends, sit by me, Under May's blown apple-tree; Hear a story, strange and old, By the wild red Indians told, How the Robin came to me: Once a great chief left his son,— Well-beloved, his only one, When the boy was well-nigh grown, In the trial-lodge alone Left for tortures long and slow Youths like him must undergo, Who their pride of manhood test, Lacking water, food and rest, Seven days the fast he kept, Seven nights he never slept. Then the poor boy, wrung with pain, Weak from nature's overstrain, Faltering, moaned a low complaint; "Spare me, Father, for I faint!" But the chieftain, haughty-eyed, Hid his pity in his pride. "You shall be a hunter good, Knowing never lack of food; You shall be a warrior great, Wise as fox, and strong as bear; Many scalps your belt shall wear, If with patient heart you wait One day more!" the father said. When, next morn, the lodge he sought, And boiled samp and moose-meat brought For the boy, he found him dead. As with grief his grave they made, And his bow beside him laid, Pipe and knife, and wampum-braid— On the lodge-top overhead, Preening smooth its breast of red And the brown coat that it wore, Sat a bird, unknown before. And as if with human tongue, "Mourn me not," it said, or sung; "I, a bird, am still your son, Happier than if hunter fleet, Or a brave, before your feet Laying scalps in battle won. Friend of man, my song shall cheer Lodge and corn-land hovering near. To each wigwam I shall bring Tidings of the coming spring; Every child my voice shall know In the moon of melting snow, When the maple's red bud swells, And the wild flower lifts its bells. As their fond companion Men shall henceforth own your son, And my song shall testify That of human kin am I." Thus the Indian legion saith How, at first, the robin came With a sweeter life from death, Bird for boy, and still the same. If my young friends doubt that this Is the robin's genesis, Not in vain is still the myth If a truth be found therewith: Unto gentleness belong Gifts unknown to pride and wrong: Happier far than hate is praise— He who sings than he who slays. —J.G. Whittier in St. Nicholas.