Thy well-framed wigwam—thy familiar fire,
And sleep so far amid this tempest dire.
“Now, brother, hear, what Waban has to say:
The night is cold, and fast the snows descend;
Still round thy sleep will howl the beasts of prey;—
Will not my brother to my wigwam wend?
It smokes well-sheltered and not far away;
There may my brother this drear season spend,
And shun the wrath of Chepian’s angry men,