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50
THE WHITE STONE CANOE.
No one listened to their clamour,
None applauded at their boasting.
Slowly each canoe was filling,
Sinking lower, sinking surely,
Unless hidden hands of Spirits
Smoothed its pathway through the waters.
Guardian Spirits these, who follow
Each of us from days of childhood,
Ready always with assistance,
Anxious always to befriend us.
But their power to help is measured
By the love we bear our fellows,
By the kindness of our actions,
And our sympathy for sorrow.
On this passage to the Island
There were some canoes of White Stone
Bearing only little children—
Happy, smiling little children—
And the waters never harmed them,
