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._

AFTER TWENTY YEARS.

The following tale of love and faithful waiting is told the New York World by its Canton, Ohio, correspondent: