But the old Acadian woods and shores
Rich in beautiful legend store,
Were once the home of an older race,
Who wove their epics with untaught grace.
The Micmac sailed in his birch canoe
Over the Basin, calm and blue;
Speared the salmon, his heart's desire,
Danced and slept by his wigwam fire;
Far in the depths of the forest gray
Hunted the moose the livelong long day
While the mother sang to her Micmac child
Songs of the forest, weird and wild.
Over the tribe, with jealous eye,
Watched the Great Spirit from on high,
While on the crest of Blomidon
Glooskap, the God-man, dwelt alone.
No matter how far his feet might stray
From the favorite haunts of his tribe away,
Glooskap could hear the Indian's prayer
And send some message of comfort there.
Glooskap it was who taught the use
Of the bow and the spear, and sent the moose
Into the Indian hunter's hands;
Glooskap who strewed the shining sands.
Of the tide-swept beach of the stormy bay
With amethysts purple and agates gray,
And brought to each newly-wedded pair
The Great Spirit's benediction fair.
But the white man came, and with ruthless hand
Cleared the forest and sowed the land,
And drove from their haunts by the sunny shore
Micmac and moose, for evermore.
And Glooskap, saddened and sore distressed,
Took his way to the unknown West,
And the Micmac kindled his wigwam fire
Far from the grave of his child and his sire;
Where now, as he weaves his blanket gay,
And paddles his birch canoe away,
He dreams of the happy time for men
When Glooskap shall come to his tribe again.
~ Arthur Wentworth Eaton
Excerpt from Favorite Flies and Their Histories by
Mary Orvis Marbury, re-issued by