“Thus on Earth‘s little ball to the birds you owe all, yet
your gratitude‘s small for the favours they‘ve done.
And their feathers you pill, and you eat them at will, yes,
you plunder and kill the bright birds one by one;
There’s a price on their head, and the Dodo is dead, and
the Moe. has fled from the face of the sun!”

And the birds sang round him, o′er him,
“Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”
Sang the Opechee, the Robin,
Sang the Bluebird, the Owaissa,
“Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”