Slow Smoke/The Miscreant, Angel
THE MISCREANT, ANGELTo L. S., Jr.
Angel Cadotte was mischievous, more roguishThan any chipmunk in a bin of oats.But when the daily storm of wrath would breakAfter a prank upon the priest or teacher,And justice—in the form of Michael Horse,The reservation policeman—sought to layA rod of birch across his quivering back,Angel would scurry to my side for refuge,And cling tenaciously upon my legsUntil the storm had passed—as any woodsman,Buffeted, beaten by tumultuous rains,Seeks out the shelter of a thick-boughed fir,And flattening himself against the trunk,Clings to the bark with fingers desperate.
Oh, it was good to be a friendly fir-treeShielding a wild young body from the storm;And good to feel the frenzied clutch of hands, The cannonading of a wild young heart.And if, in the fancy of a luckless wildling,You were the only fir-tree in the worldThat had a lee and overhanging boughs,What would you do? And did you ever seeA tree, offended by some childish prank,Fold up its branches? walk away in wrath?And leave a little boy without a shelterAgainst the beat of rain? Impossible!