LXXVII.
And, shining round, did for the ceiling show
The braided mat of many colors made,—
Veiled here and there, where, hanging in a row,
The beavers' hides their silvery coats displayed;
And here and there were antlers, from the brow
Of bounding buck, around the room arrayed;
And also, hung among the hunter's gear,
The dusky haunches of the moose and deer.
LXXVIII.
Hard-by the blazing hearth, raised from the ground
Three braided pallets stood, with furs bespread,
Where once red Waban, wife and child had found
The humble settle, and still humbler bed;
But now, alas! beneath the grassy mound,
Two of the three sate with the silent dead;[1]
The wampum girdle, that his spouse once wore,
Gleamed on her garb of furs the settle o'er.
LXXIX.
The room was warm, and plenteous the cheer
Which Waban then did to our Founder bring;
In trays the nocake,[2] and the joints of deer,
And in the gourd-shell water from the spring;
And, all the while, kept pouring in his ear
How he had pierced the wild duck on the wing;
And westward lately had the moose pursued
Afar, and struck him in Mooshausick's wood.
LXXX.
Slightly our Founder tasted of the fare,
For toil and chill much more than hunger prest;
This Waban noted, and with tender care,
The vacant pallet showed, and urged him rest;
