A HAZY, dreamy afternoon of golden Autumn-tide,

My bark was drifting idly down, - my arm had failed to guide;

Quinobequin's fair current, flowing calm and still as night,

Reflected back the purple hills, all bathed in mellow light.

The shady woods, on either side, stretched to the river's brink;

A fringe of drooping foliage in ripples seemed to sink;

The waving branches gently kissed the surface of the stream,

Glancing back their red and gold with many a silvery gleam.

As I floated musing, dreaming, idly 'neath the leafy trees,

Slowly through the water gliding, with a gentle noonday breeze,

I thought I saw an Indian chieftain, armed with bow and quiver,

Standing in a birch canoe that lightly rested on the river.

His eye was keen, his brow was high, he was of lofty mien.

He frowned at first, as if in me a ruthless foe were seen;

But a look of pensive sadness chased the angry frown away,