Shot his shining quills, like arrows,
Saying, with a drowsy murmur,
Through the tangle of his whiskers,
"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"

From the ground the quills he gathered,
All the little shining arrows,

Stained them blue and red and yellow,

With the juice of roots and berries;
Into his canoe he wrought them,
Round its waist a shining girdle,
Round its bows a gleaming necklace,
On its breast two stars resplendent.

Thus the Birch Canoe was builded

In the valley, by the river,
In the bosom of the forest;
And the forest's life was in it,
All its mystery and its magic,
All the lightness of the birch tree,
All the toughness of the cedar,
All the larch's supple sinews;
And it floated on the river

Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,
Like a yellow water lily.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

LONGFELLOW

Do you know who wrote for us the beautiful story of Hiawatha? His name was Henry W. Longfellow, and he was born a hundred years ago.

Even when he was a little boy, he wished very much to become a poet. Now, a poet, my children, is one who loves all beautiful things and who tells his thoughts about them in the most beautiful, musical way. He tells these thoughts so beautifully

that we think of them often and remember them all our lives.

This is the mission of a poet; this is his work in the world, and this was what little Henry wanted to do. He loved birds and flowers and rocks and hills, and all these things, I think, helped to make him a poet. As he tramped through the woods and fields, beautiful thoughts would come into his mind.

How he loved to look at the sky and at the sea, and to watch the white sails flitting in and out of the harbor! For he was born and lived many years, you know, in the fair ocean city of Portland, Maine, and dearly did he love the beautiful home of his childhood.

"Often I think of the beautiful town,

That is seated by the sea.

Often in thought go up and down

The pleasant streets of that dear old town,

And my youth comes back to me."

But nearly all his life our dear poet lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts. This is a picture of his house, and here he wrote most of his poems. He could work hard in his study all day, but at night his castle was besieged and taken.

I am sure you have read "The Children's Hour,"

and perhaps you can repeat the poem. It was at twilight that the children came, you remember; the poet called it "between the dark and the daylight;" that is the beautiful way he had of saying things.

There were three doors to the study, and, of course, he could not guard them all at one time. So in the besiegers came like lawless little burglars. Quickly they overcame him and forced him to do their bidding. I think they wanted him to talk to them and perhaps to tell them a story.

In the picture, you see how eagerly they are listening. He is telling them that the great George Washington, the Father of his country, whom all Americans love and honor, once lived in that very house. "Where the writing desk is," so he tells them, "Washington's table used to stand.”

"Once, ah, once within these walls;
One whom memory oft recalls,
The Father of his country dwelt.
And yonder meadows, broad and damp,
The fires of the besieging camp
Encircled with a burning belt,
Up and down these echoing stairs,
Heavy with the weight of cares
Sounded his majestic tread."