“I came of late to the white man’s gate,
And weary and faint was I,
Yet neither meat, nor water sweet,
Did the Indian’s wants supply.
“Again should he come to the white man’s home
My service let him pay,
Nor say, again to the fainting man,
You ‘Indian dog, away!’”
THE INDIAN AND THE BASKET.[7]
Among Rhode Island’s early sons,
Was one whose orchards fair,
By plenteous and well-flavored fruit,
Rewarded all his care.
For household use they stored the best,
And all the rest conveyed
To neighboring mill, were ground and press’d,
And into cider made.
The wandering Indian oft partook
The generous farmer’s cheer;
He liked his food, but better still
His cider fine and clear.
And as he quaff’d the pleasant draught,
The kitchen fire before,
He longed for some to carry home,
And asked for more and more.
The farmer saw a basket new
Beside the Indian bold,
And smiling said, “I’ll give to you
As much as that will hold.”
Both laughed, for how could liquid thing
Within a basket stay;
But yet the jest unanswering,
The Indian went his way,
When next from rest the farmer sprung,
So very cold the morn,
The icicles like diamonds hung
On every spray and thorn.