ISABEL
Fare-thee-well:
On my soul the toll of bell
Trembles. Thou art calmly sleeping
While my weary heart is weeping:
I cannot listen to thy knell:
Fare-thee-well.
Sleep and rest:
Sorrow shall not pain thy breast,
Pangs and pains that pierce the mortal
Cannot enter at the portal
Of the Mansion of the Blest:
Sleep and rest.
Slumber sweet,
Heart that nevermore will beat
At the footsteps of thy lover;
All thy cares and fears are over.
In thy silent winding-sheet
Slumber sweet.
Fare-thee-well:
In the garden and the dell
Where thou lov'dst to stroll and meet me,
Nevermore thy kiss shall greet me,
Nevermore, O Isabel!
Fare-thee-well.
We shall meet—
Where the wings of angels beat:
When my toils and cares are over,
Thou shalt greet again thy lover—
Robed and crowned at Jesus' feet
We shall meet.
Watch and wait
At the narrow, golden gate;
Watch my coming,—wait my greeting,
For my years are few and fleeting
And my love shall not abate:
Watch and wait.
So farewell,
O my darling Isabel;
Till we meet in the supernal
Mansion and with love eternal
In the golden city dwell,
Fare-thee-well.
BYRON AND THE ANGEL
Poet:
"Why this fever—why this sighing?—
Why this restless longing—dying
For—a something—dreamy something,
Undefined, and yet defying
All the pride and power of manhood?
"O these years of sin and sorrow!
Smiling while the iron harrow
Of a keen and biting longing
Tears and quivers in the marrow
Of my being every moment—
Of my very inmost being.
"What to me the mad ambition
For men's praise and proud position—
Struggling, fighting to the summit
Of its vain and earthly mission,
To lie down on bed of ashes—
Bed of barren, bitter ashes?
"Cure this fever? I have tried it;
Smothered, drenched it and defied it
With a will of brass and iron;
Every smile and look denied it;
Yet it heeded not denying,
And it mocks at my defying
While my very soul is dying.
"Is there balm in Gilead?—tell me!
Nay—no balm to soothe and quell me?
Must I tremble in this fever?
Death, O lift thy hand and fell me;
Let me sink to rest forever
Where this burning cometh never.
"Sometimes when this restless madness
Softens down to mellow sadness,
I look back on sun-lit valleys
Where my boyish heart of gladness
Nestled without pain or longing—
Nestled softly in a vision
Full of love and hope's fruition,
Lulled by morning songs of spring-time.
"Then I ponder, and I wonder
Was some heart-chord snapped asunder
When the threads were soft and silken?
Did some fatal boyish blunder
Plant a canker in my bosom
That hath ever burned and rankled?
"O this thirsting, thirsting hanker!
O this burning, burning canker'
Driving Peace and Hope to shipwreck—
Without rudder, without anchor,
On the reef-rocks of Damnation!"
Invisible Angel:
"Jesus—Son of Virgin Mary;
Lift the burden from the weary:
Pity, Jesus, and anoint him
With the holy balm of Gilead."
Poet:
"Yea, Christ Jesus, pour thy blessings
On these terrible heart-pressings:
O I bless thee, unseen Angel;
Lead me—teach me, holy Spirit."
Angel:
"There is balm in Gilead!
There is balm in Gilead!
Peace awaits thee with caressings—
Sitting at the feet of Jesus—
At the right-hand of Jehovah—
At the blessed feet of Jesus;—Alleluia!"
CHRISTMAS EVE
I
From church and chapel and dome and tower,
Near—far and everywhere,
The merry bells chime loud and clear
Upon the frosty air.
All down the marble avenues
The lamp-lit casements glow,
And from an hundred palaces
Glad carols float and flow.
A thousand lamps from street to street
Blaze on the dusky air,
And light the way for happy feet
To carol, praise and prayer.
'Tis Christmas eve. In church and hall
The laden fir-trees bend;
Glad children throng the festival
And grandsires too attend.
Fur-wrapped and gemmed with pearls and gold,
Proud ladies rich and fair
As Egypt's splendid queen of old
In all her pomp are there.
And many a costly, golden gift
Hangs on each Christmas-tree,
While round and round the carols drift
In waves of melody.
II
In a dim and dingy attic,
Away from the pomp and glare,
A widow sits by a flickering lamp,
Bowed down by toil and care.
On her toil-worn hand her weary head,
At her feet a shoe half-bound,
On the bare, brown table a loaf of bread,
And hunger and want around.
By her side at the broken window,
With her rosy feet all bare,
Her little one carols a Christmas tune
To the chimes on the frosty air.
And the mother dreams of the by-gone years
And their merry Christmas-bells,
Till her cheeks are wet with womanly tears,
And a sob in her bosom swells.
[Illustration: AND THE MOTHER DREAMS OF THE BY GONE YEARS, AND THEIR MERRY CHRISTMAS BELLS]
The child looked up; her innocent ears
Had caught the smothered cry;
She saw the pale face wet with tears
She fain would pacify.
"Don't cry, mama," she softly said—
"Here's a Christmas gift for you,"
And on the mother's cheek a kiss
She printed warm and true.
"God bless my child!" the mother cried
And caught her to her breast—
"O Lord, whose Son was crucified,
Thy precious gift is best.
"If toil and trouble be my lot
While on life's sea I drift,
O Lord, my soul shall murmur not,
If Thou wilt spare Thy gift."
OUT OF THE DEPTHS
And the scribes and Pharisees brought unto him a woman taken in adultery, and when they had set her in the midst, they said unto him "Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act. Now Moses in the law commanded us that such be stoned; but what sayest thou?"—[St. John, Chap, viii; 3, 4, 5.
Reach thy hand to me, O Jesus;
Reach thy loving hand to me,
Or I sink, alas, and perish
In my sin and agony.
From the depths I cry, O Jesus,
Lifting up mine eyes to thee;
Save me from my sin and sorrow
With thy loving charity.
Pity, Jesus—blessed Savior;
I am weak, but thou art strong;
Fill my heart with prayer and praises,
Fill my soul with holy song.
Lift me up, O sacred Jesus—
Lift my bruised heart to thee;
Teach me to be pure and holy
As the holy angels be.
Scribes and Pharisees surround me:
Thou art writing in the sand:
Must I perish, Son of Mary?
Wilt thou give the stern command?
Am I saved?—for Jesus sayeth—
"Let the sinless cast a stone."
Lo the Scribes have all departed,
And the Pharisees are gone!
"Woman, where are thine accusers?"
(They have vanished one by one.)
"Hath no man condemned thee, woman?"
And she meekly answered—"None."
Then he spake His blessed answer—
Balm indeed for sinners sore—
"Neither then will I condemn thee:
Go thy way and sin no more."
FAME
Dust of the desert are thy walls
And temple-towers, O Babylon!
O'er crumbled halls the lizard crawls,
And serpents bask in blaze of sun.
In vain kings piled the Pyramids;
Their tombs were robbed by ruthless hands.
Who now shall sing their fame and deeds,
Or sift their ashes from the sands?
Deep in the drift of ages hoar
Lie nations lost and kings forgot;
Above their graves the oceans roar,
Or desert sands drift o'er the spot.
A thousand years are but a day
When reckoned on the wrinkled earth;
And who among the wise shall say
What cycle saw the primal birth
Of man, who lords on sea and land,
And builds his monuments to-day,
Like Syrian on the desert sand,
To crumble and be blown away.
Proud chiefs of pageant armies led
To fame and death their followers forth,
Ere Helen sinned and Hector bled,
Or Odin ruled the rugged North.
And poets sang immortal praise
To mortal heroes ere the fire
Of Homer blazed in Ilion lays,
Or Brage tuned the Northern lyre.
For fame men piled the Pyramids;
Their names have perished with their bones:
For fame men wrote their boasted deeds
On Babel bricks and Runic stones—
On Tyrian temples, gates of brass,
On Roman arch and Damask blades,
And perished like the desert grass
That springs to-day—to-morrow—fades.
And still for fame men delve and die
In Afric heat and Arctic cold;
For fame on flood and field they vie,
Or gather in the shining gold.
Time, like the ocean, onward rolls
Relentless, burying men and deeds;
The brightest names, the bravest souls,
Float but an hour like ocean weeds,
Then sink forever. In the slime—
Forgotten, lost forevermore,
Lies Fame from every age and clime;
Yet thousands clamor on the shore.
Immortal Fame!—O dust and death!
The centuries as they pass proclaim
That Fame is but a mortal breath,
That man must perish—name and fame.
The earth is but a grain of sand—
An atom in a shoreless sea;
A million worlds lie in God's hand—
Yea, myriad millions—what are we?
O mortal man of bone and blood!
Then is there nothing left but dust?
God made us; He is wise and good,
And we may humbly hope and trust.
WINONA.
When the meadow-lark trilled o'er the leas and the oriole piped in the maples,
From my hammock, all under the trees, by the sweet-scented field of red clover,
I harked to the hum of the bees, as they gathered the mead of the blossoms,
And caught from their low melodies the air of the song of Winona.
(In pronouncing Dakota words give "a" the sound of "ah,"—"e" the sound of "a,"—"i" the sound of "e" and "u" the sound of "oo." Sound "ee" as in English. The numerals refer to Notes in appendix.)
Two hundred white Winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer,
Since here on the oak-shaded shore of the dark-winding, swift Mississippi,
Where his foaming floods tumble and roar o'er the falls and the white-rolling rapids,
In the fair, fabled center of Earth, sat the Indian town of Ka-thá-ga. [[86]]
Far rolling away to the north, and the south, lay the emerald prairies,
All dotted with woodlands and lakes, and above them the blue bent of ether.
And here where the dark river breaks into spray and the roar of the Ha-Ha, [a/][[76]]
Where gathered the bison-skin tees[[F]] of the chief tawny tribe of Dakotas;
For here, in the blast and the breeze, flew the flag of the chief of Isantees, [a/][[86]]
Up-raised on the stem of a lance—the feathery flag of the eagle.
And here to the feast and the dance, from the prairies remote and the forests,
Oft gathered the out-lying bands, and honored the gods of the nation.
On the islands and murmuring strands they danced to the god of the waters,
Unktéhee, [[69]] who dwelt in the caves, deep under the flood of the Ha-Ha; [a/][[76]]
And high o'er the eddies and waves hung their offerings of furs and tobacco,[[G]]
And here to the Master of life—Anpé-tu-wee, [[70]] god of the heavens,
Chief, warrior, and maiden, and wife, burned the sacred green sprigs of the cedar. [a/][[50]]
And here to the Searcher-of-hearts—fierce Tá-ku Skan-skán, [a/][[51]] the avenger,
Who dwells in the uppermost parts of the earth, and the blue, starry ether,
Ever watching, with all-seeing eyes, the deeds of the wives and the warriors,
As an osprey afar in the skies, sees the fish as they swim in the waters,
Oft spread they the bison-tongue feast, and singing preferred their petitions,
Till the Day-Spirit[a/][[70]] rose in the East—in the red, rosy robes of the morning,
To sail o'er the sea of the skies, to his lodge in the land of the shadows,
Where the black-winged tornadoes[[H]] arise, rushing loud from the mouths of their caverns.
And here with a shudder they heard, flying far from his tee in the mountains,
Wa-kín-yan,[a/][[32]] the huge Thunder-Bird, with the arrows of fire in his talons.
[Illustration: FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. FACSIMILE OF THE CUT IN CARVER'S TRAVELS, PUBLISHED AT LONDON, IN 1778, FROM A SURVEY AND SKETCH MADE BY CAPT. J. CARVER, NOV. 17, 1766. PERPENDICULAR FALL, 30 FEET; BREADTH NEAR 600 FEET.]
Two hundred white Winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer
Since here by the cataract's roar, in the moon of the red-blooming lilies,[[71]]
In the tee of Ta-té-psin[[I]] was born Winona—wild-rose of the prairies.
Like the summer sun peeping, at morn, o'er the hills was the face of Winona.
And here she grew up like a queen—a romping and lily-lipped laughter,
And danced on the undulant green, and played in the frolicsome waters,
Where the foaming tide tumbles and whirls o'er the murmuring rocks in the rapids;
And whiter than foam were the pearls that gleamed in the midst of her laughter.
Long and dark was her flowing hair flung like the robe of the night to the breezes;
And gay as the robin she sung, or the gold-breasted lark of the meadows.
Like the wings of the wind were her feet, and as sure as the feet of Ta-tó-ka[[J]]
And oft like an antelope fleet o'er the hills and the prairies she bounded,
Lightly laughing in sport as she ran, and looking back over her shoulder
At the fleet-footed maiden or man that vainly her flying feet followed.
The belle of the village was she, and the pride of the aged Ta-té-psin,
Like a sunbeam she lighted his tee, and gladdened the heart of her father.
In the golden-hued Wázu-pe-weé—the moon when the wild-rice is gathered;
When the leaves on the tall sugar-tree are as red as the breast of the robin,
And the red-oaks that border the lea are aflame with the fire of the sunset,
From the wide, waving fields of wild-rice—from the meadows of Psin-ta-wak-pá-dan,[[K]]
Where the geese and the mallards rejoice, and grow fat on the bountiful harvest,
Came the hunters with saddles of moose and the flesh of the bear and the bison,
And the women in birch-bark canoes well laden with rice from the meadows.
With the tall, dusky hunters, behold, came a marvelous man or a spirit,
White-faced and so wrinkled and old, and clad in the robe of the raven.
Unsteady his steps were and slow, and he walked with a staff in his right hand,
And white as the first-falling snow were the thin locks that lay on his shoulders.
Like rime-covered moss hung his beard, flowing down from his face to his girdle;
And wan was his aspect and weird, and often he chanted and mumbled
In a strange and mysterious tongue, as he bent o'er his book in devotion,
Or lifted his dim eyes and sung, in a low voice, the solemn "Te Deum,"
Or Latin, or Hebrew, or Greek—all the same were his words to the warriors,—
All the same to the maids and the meek, wide-wondering-eyed, hazel-brown children.
Father René Menard [[L]]—it was he, long lost to his Jesuit brothers,
Sent forth by an holy decree to carry the Cross to the heathen.
In his old age abandoned to die, in the swamps, by his timid companions,
He prayed to the Virgin on high, and she led him forth from the forest;
For angels she sent him as men—in the forms of the tawny Dakotas,
And they led his feet from the fen, from the slough of despond and the desert,
Half dead in a dismal morass, as they followed the red-deer they found him,
In the midst of the mire and the grass, and mumbling "Te Deum laudamus."
"Unktómee[[72]]—Ho!" muttered the braves, for they deemed him the black Spider-Spirit
That dwells in the drearisome caves, and walks on the marshes at midnight,
With a flickering torch in his hand, to decoy to his den the unwary.
His tongue could they not understand, but his torn hands all shriveled with famine
He stretched to the hunters and said: "He feedeth his chosen with manna;
And ye are the angels of God sent to save me from death in the desert."
His famished and woe-begone face, and his tones touched the hearts of the hunters;
They fed the poor father apace, and they led him away to Ka-thá-ga.
There little by little he learned the tongue of the tawny Dakotas;
And the heart of the good father yearned to lead them away from their idols—
Their giants[a/][[16]] and dread Thunder-birds—their worship of stones[[73]] and the devil.
"Wakán-de!"[[M]] they answered his words, for he read from his book in the Latin,
Lest the Nazarene's holy commands by his tongue should be marred in translation;
And oft with his beads in his hands, or the cross and the crucified Jesus,
He knelt by himself on the sands, and his dim eyes uplifted to heaven.
But the braves bade him look to the East—to the silvery lodge of Han-nán-na;[[N]]
And to dance with the chiefs at the feast—at the feast of the Giant Heyó-ka.[a/][[16]]
They frowned when the good father spurned the flesh of the dog in the kettle,
And laughed when his fingers were burned in the hot, boiling pot of the giant.
"The Black-robe" they called the poor priest, from the hue of his robe and his girdle;
And never a game or a feast but the father must grace with his presence.
His prayer-book the hunters revered,—they deemed it a marvelous spirit;
It spoke and the white father heard,—it interpreted visions and omens.
And often they bade him to pray this marvelous spirit to answer,
And tell where the sly Chippewa might be ambushed and slain in his forest.
For Menard was the first in the land, proclaiming, like John in the desert,
"The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand; repent ye, and turn from your idols."
The first of the brave brotherhood that, threading the fens and the forest,
Stood afar by the turbulent flood at the falls of the Father of Waters.
[Illustration: FATHER RENE MENARD]
In the lodge of the Stranger[[O]] he sat, awaiting the crown of a martyr;
His sad face compassion begat in the heart of the dark-eyed Winona.
Oft she came to the teepee and spoke; she brought him the tongue of the bison,
Sweet nuts from the hazel and oak, and flesh of the fawn and the mallard.
Soft hánpa[[P]] she made for his feet and leggins of velvety fawn-skin,
A blanket of beaver complete, and a hood of the hide of the otter.
And oft at his feet on the mat, deftly braiding the flags and the rushes,
Till the sun sought his teepee she sat, enchanted with what he related
Of the white-wingèd ships on the sea and the teepees far over the ocean,
Of the love and the sweet charity of the Christ and the beautiful Virgin.
She listened like one in a trance when he spoke of the brave, bearded Frenchmen,
From the green, sun-lit valleys of France to the wild Hochelága[[Q]] transplanted,
Oft trailing the deserts of snow in the heart of the dense Huron forests,
Or steering the dauntless canoe through the waves of the fresh-water ocean.
"Yea, stronger and braver are they," said the aged Menard to Winona,
"Than the head-chief, tall Wazi-kuté,[[74]] but their words are as soft as a maiden's,
Their eyes are the eyes of the swan, but their hearts are the hearts of the eagles;
And the terrible Mása Wakán[[R]] ever walks by their side like a spirit;
Like a Thunder-bird, roaring in wrath, flinging fire from his terrible talons,
He sends to their enemies death in the flash of the fatal Wakándee."[[S]]
The Autumn was past and the snow lay drifted and deep on the prairies;
From his teepee of ice came the foe—came the storm-breathing god of the winter.
Then roared in the groves, on the plains, on the ice-covered lakes and the river,
The blasts of the fierce hurricanes blown abroad from the breast of Wazíya. [a/][[3]]
The bear cuddled down in his den, and the elk fled away to the forest;
The pheasant and gray prairie-hen made their beds in the heart of the snow-drift;
The bison herds huddled and stood in the hollows and under the hill-sides,
Or rooted the snow for their food in the lee of the bluffs and the timber;
And the mad winds that howled from the north, from the ice-covered seas of Wazíya,
Chased the gray wolf and silver-fox forth to their dens in the hills of the forest.
Poor Father Menard—he was ill; in his breast burned the fire of a fever;
All in vain was the magical skill of Wicásta Wakán [a/][[61]] with his rattle;
Into soft, child-like slumber he fell, and awoke in the land of the blessèd—
To the holy applause of "Well-done!" and the harps in the hands of the angels.
Long he carried the cross and he won the coveted crown of a martyr.
In the land of the heathen he died, meekly following the voice of his Master,
One mourner alone by his side—Ta-té-psin's compassionate daughter.
She wailed the dead father with tears, and his bones by her kindred she buried.
Then winter followed winter. The years sprinkled frost on the head of her father;
And three weary winters she dreamed of the fearless and fair, bearded Frenchmen;
At midnight their swift paddles gleamed on the breast of the broad Mississippi,
And the eyes of the brave strangers beamed on the maid in the midst of her slumber.
She lacked not admirers; the light of the lover oft burned in her teepee—
At her couch in the midst of the night,—but she never extinguished the flambeau.
The son of Chief Wazi-kuté—a fearless and eagle-plumed warrior—
Long sighed for Winona, and he was the pride of the band of Isántees.
Three times, in the night at her bed, had the brave held the torch of the lover, [[75]]
And thrice had she covered her head and rejected the handsome Tamdóka. [[T]]
'Twas Summer. The merry-voiced birds trilled and warbled in woodland and meadow;
And abroad on the prairies the herds cropped the grass in the land of the lilies,—
And sweet was the odor of rose wide-wafted from hillside and heather;
In the leaf-shaded lap of repose lay the bright, blue-eyed babes of the summer;
And low was the murmur of brooks, and low was the laugh of the Ha-Ha; [a/][[76]]
And asleep in the eddies and nooks lay the broods of magá [a/][[60]]and the mallard.
'Twas the moon of Wasúnpa. [a/][[71]] The band lay at rest in the tees at Ka-thá-ga,
And abroad o'er the beautiful land walked the spirits of Peace and of Plenty—
Twin sisters, with bountiful hand wide scattering wild-rice and the lilies.
An-pé-tu-wee[a/][[70]] walked in the west—to his lodge in the far-away mountains,
And the war-eagle flew to her nest in the oak on the Isle of the Spirit.[[U]]
And now at the end of the day, by the shore of the Beautiful Island,[[V]]
A score of fair maidens and gay made joy in the midst of the waters.
Half-robed in their dark, flowing hair, and limbed like the fair Aphroditè,
They played in the waters, and there they dived and they swam like the beavers,
Loud-laughing like loons on the lake when the moon is a round shield of silver,
And the songs of the whippowils wake on the shore in the midst of the maples.
But hark!—on the river a song,—strange voices commingled in chorus;
On the current a boat swept along with DuLuth and his hardy companions;
To the stroke of their paddles they sung, and this the refrain that they chanted:
"Dans mon chemin j'ai rencontré
Deux cavaliers bien montés.
Lon, lon, laridon daine,
Lon, lon, laridon da."
"Deux cavaliers bien montés;
L'un à cheval, et l'autre à pied.
Lon, lon, laridon daine,
Lon, lon, laridon da."[[W]]
[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF DULUTH AT KATHAGA]
Like the red, dappled deer in the glade alarmed by the footsteps of hunters,
Discovered, disordered, dismayed, the nude nymphs fled forth from the waters,
And scampered away to the shade, and peered from the screen of the lindens.
A bold and adventuresome man was DuLuth, and a dauntless in danger,
And straight to Kathága he ran, and boldly advanced to the warriors,
Now gathering, a cloud on the strand, and gazing amazed on the strangers;
And straightway he offered his hand unto Wázi-kuté, the Itáncan.[[X]]
To the Lodge of the Stranger were led DuLuth and his hardy companions;
Robes of beaver and bison were spread, and the Peace-pipe[a/][[23]] was smoked with the Frenchman.
There was dancing and feasting at night, and joy at the presents he lavished.
All the maidens were wild with delight with the flaming red robes and the ribbons,
With the beads and the trinkets untold, and the fair, bearded face of the giver;
And glad were they all to behold the friends from the Land of the Sunrise.
But one stood apart from the rest—the queenly and silent Winona,
Intently regarding the guest—hardly heeding the robes and the ribbons,
Whom the White Chief beholding admired, and straightway he spread on her shoulders
A lily-red robe and attired with necklet and ribbons the maiden.
The red lilies bloomed in her face, and her glad eyes gave thanks to the giver,
And forth from her teepee apace she brought him the robe and the missal
Of the father—poor René Menard; and related the tale of the "Black Robe."
She spoke of the sacred regard he inspired in the hearts of Dakotas;
That she buried his bones with her kin, in the mound by the Cave of the Council;
That she treasured and wrapt in the skin of the red-deer his robe and his prayer book—
"Till his brothers should come from the East—from the land of the far Hochelága,
To smoke with the braves at the feast, on the shores of the Loud-laughing Waters. [a/][[16]]
For the 'Black Robe' spake much of his youth and his friends in the Land of the Sunrise;
It was then as a dream; now in truth I behold them, and not in a vision."
But more spake her blushes, I ween, and her eyes full of language unspoken,
As she turned with the grace of a queen and carried her gifts to the teepee.
Far away from his beautiful France—from his home in the city of Lyons,
A noble youth full of romance, with a Norman heart big with adventure,
In the new world a wanderer, by chance DuLuth sought the wild Huron forests.
But afar by the vale of the Rhone, the winding and musical river,
And the vine-covered hills of the Saône, the heart of the wanderer lingered,—
'Mid the vineyards and mulberry trees, and the fair fields of corn and of clover
That rippled and waved in the breeze, while the honey-bees hummed in the blossoms.
For there, where th' impetuous Rhone, leaping down from the Switzerland mountains,
And the silver-lipped, soft-flowing Saône, meeting, kiss and commingle together,
Down winding by vineyards and leas, by the orchards of fig-trees and olives,
To the island-gemmed, sapphire-blue seas of the glorious Greeks and the Romans;
Aye, there, on the vine-covered shore,'mid the mulberry-trees and the olives,
Dwelt his blue-eyed and beautiful Flore, with her hair like a wheat-field at harvest,
All rippled and tossed by the breeze, and her cheeks like the glow of the morning,
Far away o'er the emerald seas, as the sun lifts his brow from the billows,
Or the red-clover fields when the bees, singing sip the sweet cups of the blossoms.
Wherever he wandered—alone in the heart of the wild Huron forests,
Or cruising the rivers unknown to the land of the Crees or Dakotas—
His heart lingered still on the Rhone,'mid the mulberry trees and the vineyards,
Fast-fettered and bound by the zone that girdled the robes of his darling.
Till the red Harvest Moon[a/][[71]] he remained in the vale of the swift Mississippi.
The esteem of the warriors he gained, and the love of the dark-eyed Winona.
He joined in the sports and the chase; with the hunters he followed the bison,
And swift were his feet in the race when the red elk they ran on the prairies.
At the Game of the Plum-stones[[77]] he played, and he won from the skillfulest players;
A feast to Wa'tánka[[78]] he made, and he danced at the feast of Heyôka.[a/][[16]]
With the flash and the roar of his gun he astonished the fearless Dakotas;
They called it the "Máza Wakán"—the mighty, mysterious metal.
"'Tis a brother," they said, "of the fire in the talons of dreadful Wakinyan,'[a/][[32]]
When he flaps his huge wings in his ire, and shoots his red shafts at Unktéhee."[a/][[69]]
The Itáncan,[a/][[74]] tall Wází-kuté, appointed a day for the races.
From the red stake that stood by his tee, on the southerly side of the Ha-ha,
O'er the crest of the hills and the dunes and the billowy breadth of the prairie,
To a stake at the Lake of the Loons[[79]]—a league and return—was the distance.
They gathered from near and afar, to the races and dancing and feasting;
Five hundred tall warriors were there from Kapóza[a/][[6]] and far-off Keóza;[a/][[8]]
Remnica[[Y]] too, furnished a share of the legions that thronged to the races,
And a bountiful feast was prepared by the diligent hands of the women,
And gaily the multitudes fared in the generous tees of Kathága.
The chief of the mystical clan appointed a feast to Unktéhee—
The mystic "Wacípee Wakán"[[Z]]—at the end of the day and the races.
A band of sworn brothers are they, and the secrets of each one are sacred,
And death to the lips that betray is the doom of the swarthy avengers,
And the son of tall Wází-kuté was the chief of the mystical order.
THE FOOT RACES.
On an arm of an oak hangs the prize for the swiftest and strongest of runners—
A blanket as red as the skies, when the flames sweep the plains in October.
And beside it a strong, polished bow, and a quiver of iron-tipped arrows,
Which Kapóza's tall chief will bestow on the fleet-footed second that follows.
A score of swift runners are there from the several bands of the nation,
And now for the race they prepare, and among them fleet-footed Tamdóka.
With the oil of the buck and the bear their sinewy limbs are annointed,
For fleet are the feet of the deer and strong are the limbs of the bruin.
Hark!—the shouts and the braying of drums, and the Babel of tongues and confusion!
From his teepee the tall chieftain comes, and DuLuth brings a prize for the runners—
A keen hunting-knife from the Seine, horn-handled and mounted with silver.
The runners are ranged on the plain, and the Chief waves a flag as a signal,
And away like the gray wolves they fly—like the wolves on the trail of the red-deer;
O'er the hills and the prairie they vie, and strain their strong limbs to the utmost,
While high on the hills hangs a cloud of warriors and maidens and mothers,
To see the swift-runners, and loud are the cheers and the shouts of the warriors.
Now swift from the lake they return o'er the emerald hills of the prairies;
Like grey-hounds they pant and they yearn, and the leader of all is Tamdóka.
At his heels flies Hu-pá-hu,[[AA]] the fleet—the pride of the band of Kaóza,—
A warrior with eagle-winged feet, but his prize is the bow and the quiver.
Tamdóka first reaches the post, and his are the knife and the blanket,
By the mighty acclaim of the host and award of the chief and the judges.
Then proud was the tall warrior's stride, and haughty his look and demeanor;
He boasted aloud in his pride, and he scoffed at the rest of the runners.
"Behold me, for I am a man![[AB]] my feet are as swift as the West-wind.
With the coons and the beavers I ran; but where is the elk or the cabri?80
Come!—where is the hunter will dare match his feet with the feet of Tamdóka?
Let him think of Taté[[AC]] and beware, ere he stake his last robe on the trial."
"Ohó! Ho! Hó-héca!"[[AD]] they jeered, for they liked not the boast of the boaster;
But to match him no warrior appeared, for his feet wore the wings of the west-wind.
Then forth from the side of the chief stepped DuLuth and he looked on the boaster;
"The words of a warrior are brief,—I will run with the brave," said the Frenchman;
"But the feet of Tamdóka are tired; abide till the cool of the sunset."
All the hunters and maidens admired, for strong were the limbs of the stranger.
"Hiwó Ho!"[[AE]] they shouted and loud rose the cheers of the multitude mingled;
And there in the midst of the crowd stood the glad-eyed and blushing Winona.
Now afar o'er the plains of the west walked the sun at the end of his journey,
And forth came the brave and the guest, at the tap of the drum, for the trial.
Like a forest of larches the hordes were gathered to witness the contest;
As loud as the drums were their words and they roared like the roar of the Ha-ha.
For some for Tamdóka contend, and some for the fair, bearded stranger,
And the betting runs high to the end, with the skins of the bison and beaver.
A wife of tall Wází-kuté—the mother of boastful Tamdóka—
Brought her handsomest robe from the tee with a vaunting and loud proclamation:
She would stake her last robe on her son who, she boasted, was fleet as the cabri,
And the tall, tawny chieftain looked on, approving the boast of the mother.
Then fleet as the feet of a fawn to her lodge ran the dark-eyed Winona,
She brought and she spread on the lawn, by the side of the robe of the boaster,
The lily-red mantel DuLuth, with his own hands, had laid on her shoulders.
"Tamdóka is swift, but forsooth, the tongue of his mother is swifter,"
She said, and her face was aflame with the red of the rose and the lily,
And loud was the roar of acclaim; but dark was the face of Tamdóka.
They strip for the race and prepare,—DuLuth in his breeches and leggins;
And the brown, curling locks of his hair down droop to his bare, brawny shoulders,
And his face wears a smile debonair, as he tightens his red sash around him;
But stripped to the moccasins bare, save the belt and the breech-clout of buckskin,
Stands the haughty Tamdóka aware that the eyes of the warriors admire him;
For his arms are the arms of a bear and his legs are the legs of a panther.
The drum beats,—the chief waves the flag, and away on the course speed the runners,
And away leads the brave like a stag,—like a bound on his track flies the Frenchman;
And away haste the hunters once more to the hills, for a view to the lakeside,
And the dark-swarming hill-tops, they roar with the storm of loud voices commingled.
Far away o'er the prairie they fly, and still in the lead is Tamdóka,
But the feet of his rival are nigh, and slowly he gains on the hunter.
Now they turn on the post at the lake,—now they run full abreast on the home-stretch:
Side by side they contend for the stake for a long mile or more on the prairie
They strain like a stag and a hound, when the swift river gleams through the thicket,
And the horns of the riders resound, winding shrill through the depths of the forest.
But behold!—at full length on the ground falls the fleet-footed Frenchman abruptly,
And away with a whoop and a bound springs the eager, exulting Tamdóka
Long and loud on the hills is the shout of his swarthy admirers and backers,
"But the race is not won till it's out," said DuLuth, to himself as he gathered,
With a frown on his face, for the foot of the wily Tamdóka had tripped him.
Far ahead ran the brave on the route, and turning he boasted exultant.
Like spurs to the steed to DuLuth were the jeers and the taunts of the boaster;
Indignant was he and red wroth at the trick of the runner dishonest;
And away like a whirlwind he speeds—like a hurricane mad from the mountains;
He gains on Tamdóka,—he leads!—and behold, with the spring of a panther,
He leaps to the goal and succeeds, 'mid the roar of the mad acclamation.
Then glad as the robin in May was the voice of Winona exulting;
Tamdóka turned sullen away, and sulking he walked by the river;
He glowered as he went and the fire of revenge in his bosom was kindled:
Dark was his visage with ire and his eyes were the eyes of a panther.
THE WAKAN-WACEPEE, OR SACRED DANCE. [[81]]
Lo the lights in the "Teepee-Wákan!" 'tis the night of the Wákan Wacépee.
Round and round walks the chief of the clan, as he rattles the sacred Ta-shá-kay; [a/][[81]]
Long and loud on the Chán-che-ga [a/][[81]] beat the drummers with magical drumsticks,
And the notes of the Chô-tánka [a/][[81]] greet like the murmur of winds on the waters.
By the friction of white-cedar wood for the feast was a Virgin-fire [a/][[20]] kindled.
They that enter the firm brotherhood first must fast and be cleansed by E-neé-pee;[a/][[81]]
And from foot-sole to crown of the head must they paint with the favorite colors;
For Unktéhee likes bands of blood-red, with the stripings of blue intermingled.
In the hollow earth, dark and profound, Unktéhee and fiery Wakínyan
Long fought, and the terrible sound of the battle was louder than thunder;
The mountains were heaved and around were scattered the hills and the boulders,
And the vast solid plains of the ground rose and fell like the waves of the ocean.
But the god of the waters prevailed. Wakín-yan escaped from the cavern,
And long on the mountains he wailed, and his hatred endureth forever.
When Unktéhee had finished the earth, and the beasts and the birds and the fishes,
And men at his bidding came forth from the heart of the huge hollow mountains,[a/][[69]]
A band chose the god from the hordes, and he said: "Ye are the sons of Unktéhee:
Ye are lords of the beasts and the birds, and the fishes that swim in the waters.
But hearken ye now to my words,—let them sound in your bosoms forever:
Ye shall honor Unktéhee and hate Wakinyan, the Spirit of Thunder,
For the power of Unktéhee is great, and he laughs at the darts of Wakinyan.
Ye shall honor the Earth and the Sun,—for they are your father and mother; [a/][[70]]
Let your prayer to the Sun be:—Wakán Até; on-si-md-da oheé-neé."[[AF]]
And remember the Táku Wakán[a/][[73]] all-pervading in earth and in ether—
Invisible ever to man, but He dwells in the midst of all matter;
Yea, he dwells in the heart of the stone—in the hard granite heart of the boulder;
Ye shall call him forever Tunkán—grandfather of all the Dakotas.
Ye are men that I choose for my own; ye shall be as a strong band of brothers,
Now I give you the magical bone and the magical pouch of the spirits,[[AG]]
And these are the laws ye shall heed: Ye shall honor the pouch and the giver.
Ye shall walk as twin-brothers; in need, one shall forfeit his life for another.
Listen not to the voice of the crow.[[AH]] Hold as sacred the wife of a brother.
Strike, and fear not the shaft of the foe, for the soul of the brave is immortal.
Slay the warrior in battle, but spare the innocent babe and the mother.
Remember a promise,—beware,—let the word of a warrior be sacred
When a stranger arrives at the tee—be he friend of the band or a foeman,
Give him food; let your bounty be free; lay a robe for the guest by the lodge-fire;
Let him go to his kindred in peace, if the peace-pipe he smoke in the teepee;
And so shall your children increase, and your lodges shall laugh with abundance.
And long shall ye live in the land, and the spirits of earth and the waters
Shall come to your aid, at command, with the power of invisible magic.
And at last, when you journey afar—o'er the shining "Wanágee Ta-chán-ku,"[a/][[68]]
You shall walk as a red, shining star[a/][[8]] in the land of perpetual summer."
All the night in the teepee they sang, and they danced to the mighty Unktéhee,
While the loud-braying Chán-che-ga rang and the shrill-piping flute and the rattle,
Till Anpétuwee [a/][[70]] rose in the east—from the couch of the blushing Han-nân-na,
And thus at the dance and the feast sang the sons of Unktéhee in chorus:
"Wa-dú-ta o-hná mi-ká-ge!
Wa-dú-ta o-hná mi-ká-ge!
Mini-yâta ité wakândè makú,
Atè wakán—Tunkánsidân.
Tunkânsidân pejihúta wakán
Micâgè—he Wicâgè!
Miniyáta ité wakándè makú.
Taukánsidan ité, nápè dú-win-ta woo,
Wahutôpa wan yúha, nápè dú-win-ta woo."
TRANSLATION.
In red swan-down he made it for me;
In red swan-down he made it for me;
He of the water—he of the mysterious face—
Gave it to me;
Sacred Father—Grandfather!
Grandfather made me magical medicine.
That is true!
Being of mystery,—grown in the water—
He gave it to me!
To the face of our Grandfather stretch out your hand;
Holding a quadruped, stretch out your hand!
Till high o'er the hills of the east Anpétuwee walked on his journey,
In secret they danced at the feast, and communed with the mighty Unktéhee.
Then opened the door of the tee to the eyes of the wondering Dakotas,
And the sons of Unktéhee to be, were endowed with the sacred Ozúha[[82]]
By the son of tall Wazí-kuté, Tamdóka, the chief of the Magi.
And thus since the birth-day of man—since he sprang from the heart of the mountains,[a/][[69]]
Has the sacred "Wacépee Wakán" by the warlike Dakotas been honored,
And the god-favored sons of the clan work their will with the help of the spirits.
WINONA'S WARNING.
'Twas sunrise; the spirits of mist trailed their white robes on dewy savannas,
And the flowers raised their heads to be kissed by the first golden beams of the morning.
The breeze was abroad with the breath of the rose of the Isles of the Summer,
And the humming-bird hummed on the heath from his home in the land of the rainbow.[[AI]]
'Twas the morn of departure. DuLuth stood alone by the roar of the Ha-ha;
Tall and fair in the strength of his youth stood the blue-eyed and fair-bearded Frenchman.
A rustle of robes on the grass broke his dream as he mused by the waters,
And, turning, he looked on the face of Winona, wild-rose of the prairies,
Half hid in her dark, flowing hair, like the round, golden moon in the pine-tops.
Admiring he gazed—she was fair as his own blooming Flore in her orchards,
With her golden locks loose on the air, like the gleam of the sun through the olives,
Far away on the vine-covered shore, in the sun-favored land of his fathers.
"Lists the chief to the cataract's roar for the mournful lament of the Spirit?"[[AJ]]
Said Winona,—"The wail of the sprite for her babe and its father unfaithful,
Is heard in the midst of the night, when the moon wanders dim in the heavens."
"Wild-Rose of the Prairies," he said, "DuLuth listens not to the Ha-ha,
For the wail of the ghost of the dead for her babe and its father unfaithful;
But he lists to a voice in his heart that is heard by the ear of no other,
And to-day will the White Chief depart; he returns to the land of the sunrise."
"Let Winona depart with the chief,—she will kindle the fire in his teepee;
For long are the days of her grief, if she stay in the tee of Ta-té-psin,"
She replied, and her cheeks were aflame with the bloom of the wild prairie lilies.
"Tanke[[AK]], is the White Chief to blame?" said DuLuth to the blushing Winona.
"The White Chief is blameless," she said, "but the heart of Winona will follow
Wherever thy footsteps may lead, O blue-eyed, brave Chief of the white men.
For her mother sleeps long in the mound, and a step-mother rules in the teepee,
And her father, once strong and renowned, is bent with the weight of his winters.
No longer he handles the spear,—no longer his swift, humming arrows
Overtake the fleet feet of the deer, or the bear of the woods, or the bison;
But he bends as he walks, and the wind shakes his white hair and hinders his footsteps;
And soon will he leave me behind, without brother or sister or kindred.
The doe scents the wolf in the wind, and a wolf walks the path of Winona.
Three times have the gifts for the bride[a/][[55]] to the lodge of Ta-té-psin been carried,
But the voice of Winona replied that she liked not the haughty Tamdóka.
And thrice were the gifts sent away, but the tongue of the mother protested,
And the were-wolf[a/][[52]] still follows his prey, and abides but the death of my father."
"I pity Winona," he said, "but my path is a pathway of danger,
And long is the trail for the maid to the far-away land of the sunrise;
And few are the braves of my band, and the braves of Tamdóka are many;
But soon I return to the land, and a cloud of my hunters will follow.
When the cold winds of winter return and toss the white robes of the prairies,
The fire of the White Chief will burn in his lodge at the Meeting-of-Waters;[[AL]]
And when from the Sunrise again comes the chief of the sons of the Morning,
Many moons will his hunters remain in the land of the friendly Dakotas.
The son of Chief Wází-Kuté guides the White Chief afar on his journey;
Nor long on the Tânka Medé[[AM]]—on the breast of the blue, bounding billows—
Shall the bark of the Frenchman delay, but his pathway shall kindle behind him."
She was pale, and her hurried voice swelled with alarm as she questioned replying—
"Tamdóka thy guide?—I beheld thy death in his face at the races.
He covers his heart with a smile, but revenge never sleeps in his bosom;
His tongue—it is soft to beguile; but beware of the pur of the panther!
For death, like a shadow, will walk by thy side in the midst of the forest,
Or follow thy path like a hawk on the trail of a wounded Mastínca.[[AN]]
A son of Unktéhee is he,—the Chief of the crafty magicians;
They have plotted thy death; I can see thy trail—it is red in the forest;
Beware of Tamdóka,—beware. Slumber not like the grouse of the woodlands,
With head under wing, for the glare of the eyes that sleep not are upon thee."
"Winona, fear not," said DuLuth, "for I carry the fire of Wakínyan[[AO]]
And strong is the arm of my youth, and stout are the hearts of my warriors;
But Winona has spoken the truth, and the heart of the White Chief is thankful.
Hide this in thy bosom, dear maid,—'tis the crucified Christ of the white men.[[AP]]
Lift thy voice to his spirit in need, and his spirit will hear thee and answer;
For often he comes to my aid; he is stronger than all the Dakotas;
And the Spirits of evil, afraid, hide away when he looks from the heavens."
In her swelling, brown bosom she hid the crucified Jesus in silver;
"Niwástè,"[[AQ]] she sadly replied; in her low voice the rising tears trembled;
Her dewy eyes turned she aside, and she slowly returned to the teepees.
But still on the swift river's strand, admiring the graceful Winona,
As she gathered, with brown, dimpled hand, her hair from the wind, stood the Frenchman.
DULUTH'S DEPARTURE
To bid the brave White Chief adieu, on the shady shore gathered the warriors;
His glad boatmen manned the canoe, and the oars in their hands were impatient.
Spake the Chief of Isántees: "A feast will await the return of my brother.
In peace rose the sun in the East, in peace in the West he descended.
May the feet of my brother be swift till they bring him again to our teepees,
The red pipe he takes as a gift, may he smoke that red pipe many winters.
At my lodge-fire his pipe shall be lit, when the White Chief returns to Kathága;
On the robes of my tee shall he sit; he shall smoke with the chiefs of my people.
The brave love the brave, and his son sends the Chief as a guide for his brother,
By the way of the Wákpa Wakán[[AR]] to the Chief at the Lake of the Spirits.
As light as the foot-steps of dawn are the feet of the stealthy Tamdóka;
He fears not the Máza Wakán;[[AS]] he is sly as the fox of the forest.
When he dances the dance of red war howl the wolves by the broad Mini-ya-ta,[[AT]]
For they scent on the south-wind afar their feast on the bones of Ojibways."
Thrice the Chief puffed the red pipe of peace, ere it passed to the lips of the Frenchman.
Spake DuLuth: "May the Great Spirit bless with abundance the Chief and his people;
May their sons and their daughters increase, and the fire ever burn in their teepees."
Then he waved with a flag his adieu to the Chief and the warriors assembled;
And away shot Tamdóka's canoe to the strokes of ten sinewy hunters;
And a white path he clove up the blue, bubbling stream of the swift Mississippi;
And away on his foaming trail flew, like a sea-gull, the bark of the Frenchman.
[Illustration:TWO HUNDRED WHITE WINTERS AND MORE HAVE FLED FROM THE FACE OF THE SUMMER ...
* * * * *
AH, LITTLE HE DREAMED THEN, FORSOOTH, THAT A CITY WOULD STAND ON THAT HILL SIDE]
Then merrily rose the blithe song of the voyageurs homeward returning,
And thus, as they glided along, sang the bugle-voiced boatmen in chorus:
SONG.
Home again! home again! bend to the oar!
Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.
He rides on the river with his paddle in his hand,
And his boat is his shelter on the water and the land.
The clam has his shell and the water-turtle too,
But the brave boatman's shell is his birch-bark canoe.
So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar;
Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.
Home again! home again! bend to the oar!
Merry is the life of the gay voyageur,
His couch is as downy as a couch can be,
For he sleeps on the feathers of the green fir-tree.
He dines on the fat of the pemmican-sack,
And his eau de vie is the eau de lac.
So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar;
Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.
Home again! home again! bend to the oar!
Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.
The brave, jolly boatman,—he never is afraid
When he meets at the portage a red, forest maid,
A Huron, or a Cree, or a blooming Chippeway;
And he marks his trail with the bois brulés[[AU]]
So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar;
Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.
Home again! home again! bend to the oar!
Merry is the life of the gay voyageur.
In the reeds of the meadow the stag lifts his branchy head stately and listens,
And the bobolink, perched on the flag, her ear sidelong bends to the chorus.
From the brow of the Beautiful Isle,[[AV]] half hid in the midst of the maples,
The sad-faced Winona, the while, watched the boat growing less in the distance,
Till away in the bend of the stream, where it turned and was lost in the lindens,
She saw the last dip and the gleam of the oars ere they vanished forever.
Still afar on the waters the song, like bridal bells distantly chiming,
The stout, jolly boatmen prolong, beating time with the stroke of their paddles;
And Winona's ear, turned to the breeze, lists the air falling fainter and fainter,
Till it dies like the murmur of bees when the sun is aslant on the meadows.
Blow, breezes,—blow softly and sing in the dark, flowing hair of the maiden;
But never again shall you bring the voice that she loves to Winona.
THE CANOE RACE.
Now a light rustling wind from the South shakes his wings o'er the wide, wimpling waters:
Up the dark-winding river DuLuth follows fast in the wake of Tamdóka.
On the slopes of the emerald shores leafy woodlands and prairies alternate;
On the vine-tangled islands the flowers peep timidly out at the white men;
In the dark-winding eddy the loon sits warily watching and voiceless,
And the wild-goose, in reedy lagoon, stills the prattle and play of her children.
The does and their sleek, dappled fawns prick their ears and peer out from the thickets,
And the bison-calves play on the lawns, and gambol like colts in the clover.
Up the still-flowing Wákpa Wakán's winding path through the groves and the meadows,
Now DuLuth's brawny boatmen pursue the swift-gliding bark of Tamdóka;
And hardly the red braves out-do the stout, steady oars of the white men.
Now they bend to their oars in the race—the ten tawny braves of Tamdóka;
And hard on their heels in the chase ply the six stalwart oars of the Frenchmen.
In the stern of his boat sits DuLuth; in the stern of his boat sits Tamdóka,
And warily, cheerily, both urge the oars of their men to the utmost.
Far-stretching away to the eyes, winding blue in the midst of the meadows,
As a necklet of sapphires that lies unclaspt in the lap of a virgin,
Here asleep in the lap of the plain lies the reed-bordered, beautiful river.
Like two flying coursers that strain, on the track, neck and neck on the home-stretch,
With nostrils distended and mane froth-flecked, and the neck and the shoulders,
Each urged to his best by the cry and the whip and the rein of his rider,
Now they skim o'er the waters and fly, side by side, neck and neck, through the meadows,
The blue heron flaps from the reeds, and away wings her course up the river:
Straight and swift is her flight o'er the meads, but she hardly outstrips the canoemen.
See! the voyageurs bend to their oars till the blue veins swell out on their foreheads;
And the sweat from their brawny breasts pours; but in vain their Herculean labor;
For the oars of Tamdóka are ten, and but six are the oars of the Frenchman,
And the red warriors' burden of men is matched by the voyageurs' luggage.
Side by side, neck and neck, for a mile, still they strain their strong arms to the utmost,
Till rounding a willowy isle, now ahead creeps the boat of Tamdóka,
And the neighboring forests profound, and the far-stretching plain of the meadows
To the whoop of the victors resound, while the panting French rest on their paddles.
IN CAMP.
With sable wings wide o'er the land night sprinkles the dew of the heavens;
And hard by the dark river's strand, in the midst of a tall, somber forest,
Two camp fires are lighted and beam on the trunks and the arms of the pine trees.
In the fitful light darkle and gleam the swarthy-hued faces around them.
And one is the camp of DuLuth, and the other the camp of Tamdóka.
But few are the jests and uncouth of the voyageurs over their supper,
While moody and silent the braves round their fire in a circle sit crouching;
And low is the whisper of leaves and the sough of the wind in the branches;
And low is the long-winding howl of the lone wolf afar in the forest;
But shrill is the hoot of the owl, like a bugle-blast blown in the pine-tops,
And the half-startled voyageurs scowl at the sudden and saucy intruder.
Like the eyes of the wolves are the eyes of the watchful and silent Dakotas;
Like the face of the moon in the skies, when the clouds chase each other across it,
Is Tamdóka's dark face in the light of the flickering flames of the camp-fire.
They have plotted red murder by night, and securely contemplate their victims.
But wary and armed to the teeth are the resolute Frenchmen, and ready,
If need be, to grapple with death, and to die hand to hand in the forest.
Yet skilled in the arts and the wiles of the cunning and crafty Algonkins[[AW]]
They cover their hearts with their smiles, and hide their suspicions of evil.
Round their low, smouldering fire, feigning sleep, lie the watchful and wily Dakotas;
But DuLuth and his voyageurs heap their fire that shall blaze till the morning,
Ere they lay themselves snugly to rest, with their guns by their sides on the blankets,
As if there were none to molest but the gray, skulking wolves of the forest.
'Tis midnight. The rising moon gleams, weird and still, o'er the dusky horizon;
Through the hushed, somber forest she beams, and fitfully gloams on the meadows;
And a dim, glimmering pathway she paves, at times, on the dark stretch of river.
The winds are asleep in the caves—in the heart of the far-away mountains;
And here on the meadows and there, the lazy mists gather and hover;
And the lights of the Fen-Spirits[a/][[72]] flare and dance on the low-lying marshes,
As still as the footsteps of death by the bed of the babe and its mother;
And hushed are the pines, and beneath lie the weary-limbed boatmen in slumber.
Walk softly,—walk softly, O Moon, through the gray, broken clouds in thy pathway,
For the earth lies asleep and the boon of repose is bestowed on the weary.
Toiling hands have forgotten their care; e'en the brooks have forgotten to murmur;
But hark!—there's a sound on the air!—'tis the light-rustling robes of the Spirits,
Like the breath of the night in the leaves, or the murmur of reeds on the river,
In the cool of the mid-summer eyes, when the blaze of the day has descended.
Low-crouching and shadowy forms, as still as the gray morning's footsteps,
Creep sly as the serpent that charms, on her nest in the meadow, the plover;
In the shadows of pine-trunks they creep, but their panther-eyes gleam in the fire-light,
As they peer on the white-men asleep, in the glow of the fire, on their blankets.
Lo in each swarthy right-hand a knife; in the left-hand, the bow and the arrows!
Brave Frenchmen, awake to the strife!—or you sleep in the forest forever.
Nay, nearer and nearer they glide, like ghosts on the field of their battles,
Till close on the sleepers, they bide but the signal of death from Tamdóka.
Still the sleepers sleep on. Not a breath stirs the leaves of the awe-stricken forest;
The hushed air is heavy with death; like the footsteps of death are the moments.
"Arise!"—At the word, with a bound, to their feet spring the vigilant Frenchmen;
And the depths of the forest resound to the crack and the roar of their rifles;
And seven writhing forms on the ground clutch the earth. From the pine-tops the screech-owl
Screams and flaps his wide wings in affright, and plunges away through the shadows;
And swift on the wings of the night flee the dim, phantom-forms through the darkness.
Like cabris[[80]] when white wolves pursue, fled the four yet remaining Dakotas;
Through forest and fen-land they flew, and wild terror howled on their footsteps.
And one was Tamdóka. DuLuth through the night sent his voice like a trumpet:
"Ye are Sons of Unktéhee, forsooth! Return to your mothers, ye cowards!"
His shrill voice they heard as they fled, but only the echoes made answer.
At the feet of the brave Frenchmen, dead, lay seven swarthy Sons of whitehead;
And there, in the midst of the slain, they found, as it gleamed in the fire-light,
The horn-handled knife from the Seine, where it fell from the hand of Tamdóka.
[Illustration:NEARER AND NEARER THEY GLIDE LIKE GHOSTS ON THE FIELDS OF THEIR BATTLES. TILL CLOSE ON THE SLEEPERS, THEY BIDE FOR THE SIGNAL OF DEATH FROM TAMDOKA]
In the gray of the morn, ere the sun peeped over the dewy horizon,
Their journey again was begun, and they toiled up the swift, winding river;
And many a shallow they passed on their way to the Lake of the Spirits;[[AX]]
But dauntless they reached it at last, and found Akee-pá-kee-tin's[[AY]] village,
On an isle in the midst of the lake; and a day in his teepees they tarried.
Of the deed in the wilderness spake, to the brave Chief, the frank-hearted Frenchman.
A generous man was the Chief, and a friend of the fearless explorer;
And dark was his visage with grief at the treacherous act of the warriors.
"Brave Wází-kuté is a man, and his heart is as clear as the sunlight;
But the head of a treacherous clan and a snake-in-the-grass, is Tamdóka,"
Said the chief; and he promised DuLuth, on the word of a friend and a warrior,
To carry the pipe and the truth to his cousin, the chief at Kathága;
For thrice at the Tânka Medé he smoked in the lodge of the Frenchman;
And thrice had he carried away the bountiful gifts of the trader.
When the chief could no longer prevail on the white men to rest in his teepees,
He guided their feet on the trail to the lakes of the winding Rice-River.[[AZ]]
Now on speeds the light bark canoe, through the lakes to the broad Gitchee Seebee;[[BA]]
And up the great river they row,—up the Big Sandy Lake and Savanna;
And down through the meadows they go to the river of blue Gitchee-Gumee.[[BB]]
Still onward they speed to the Dalles—to the roar of the white-rolling rapids,
Where the dark river tumbles and falls down the ragged ravine of the mountains.
And singing his wild jubilee to the low-moaning pines and the cedars,
Rushes on to the unsalted sea o'er the ledges upheaved by volcanoes.
Their luggage the voyageurs bore down the long, winding path of the portage,[[BC]]
While they mingled their song with the roar of the turbid and turbulent waters.
Down-wimpling and murmuring there 'twixt two dewy hills winds a streamlet,
Like a long, flaxen ringlet of hair on the breast of a maid in her slumber.
All safe at the foot of the trail, where they left it, they found their felucca,
And soon to the wind spread the sail, and glided at ease through the waters,—
Through the meadows and lakelets and forth, round the point stretching south like a finger,
From the pine-plumed hills on the north, sloping down to the bay and the lake-side
And behold, at the foot of the hill, a cluster of Chippewa wigwams,
And the busy wives plying with skill their nets in the emerald waters.
Two hundred white winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer
Since DuLuth on that wild, somber shore, in the unbroken forest primeval,
From the midst of the spruce and the pines, saw the smoke of the wigwams up-curling,
Like the fumes from the temples and shrines of the Druids of old in their forests.
Ah, little he dreamed then, forsooth, that a city would stand on that hill-side,
And bear the proud name of DuLuth, the untiring and dauntless explorer,—
A refuge for ships from the storms, and for men from the bee-hives of Europe,
Out-stretching her long, iron arms o'er an empire of Saxons and Normans.
The swift west-wind sang in the sails, and on flew the boat like a sea-gull,
By the green, templed hills and the dales, and the dark, rugged rocks of the North Shore;
For the course of the brave Frenchman lay to his fort at the Gáh-mah-na-ték-wáhk,[[83]]
By the shore of the grand Thunder Bay, where the gray rocks loom up into mountains;
Where the Stone Giant sleeps on the Cape, and the god of the storms makes the thunder,[a/][[83]]
And the Makinak[a/][[83]] lifts his huge shape from the breast of the blue-rolling waters.
And thence to the south-westward led his course to the Holy Ghost Mission,[[84]]
Where the Black Robes, the brave shepherds, fed their wild sheep on the isle Wauga-bá-mè,[a/][[84]]
In the enchanting Cha-quám-e-gon Bay defended by all the Apostles,[[BD]]
And thence, by the Ké-we-naw, lay his course to the Mission Sainte Marie,[[BE]]
Now the waves clap their myriad hands, and streams the white hair of the surges;
DuLuth at the steady helm stands, and he hums as he bounds o'er the billows:
O sweet is the carol of bird,
And sweet is the murmur of streams,
But sweeter the voice that I heard—
In the night—in the midst of my dreams.
WINONA AND TA-TE-PSIN.
'Tis the moon of the sere, falling leaves. From the heads of the maples the west-wind
Plucks the red-and-gold plumage and grieves on the meads for the rose and the lily;
Their brown leaves the moaning oaks strew, and the breezes that roam on the prairies,
Low-whistling and wanton pursue the down of the silk-weed and thistle.
All sere are the prairies and brown in the glimmer and haze of the Autumn;
From the far northern marshes flock down, by thousands, the geese and the mallards.
From the meadows and wide-prairied plains, for their long southward journey preparing.
In croaking flocks gather the cranes, and choose with loud clamor their leaders.
The breath of the evening is cold, and lurid along the horizon
The flames of the prairies are rolled, on the somber skies flashing their torches.
At noontide a shimmer of gold through the haze pours the sun from his pathway.
The wild-rice is gathered and ripe, on the moors, lie the scarlet po-pan-ka,[[BF]]
Michábo[[85]] is smoking his pipe,—'tis the soft, dreamy Indian Summer,
When the god of the South[a/][[3]] as he flies from Wazíya, the god of the Winter,
For a time turns his beautiful eyes, and backward looks over his shoulder.
It is noon. From his path in the skies the red sun looks down on Kathága.
Asleep in the valley it lies, for the swift hunters follow the bison.
Ta-té-psin, the aged brave, bends as he walks by the side of Winona;
Her arm to his left hand she lends, and he feels with his staff for the pathway;
On his slow, feeble footsteps attends his gray dog, the watchful Wicháka; [[BG]]
For blind in his years is the chief of a fever that followed the Summer,
And the days of Ta-té-psin are brief. Once more by the dark-rolling river
Sits the Chief in the warm, dreamy haze of the beautiful Summer in Autumn;
And the faithful dog lovingly lays his head at the feet of his master.
On a dead, withered branch sits a crow, down-peering askance at the old man;
On the marge of the river below romp the nut-brown and merry-voiced children,
And the dark waters silently flow, broad and deep, to the plunge of the Ha-ha.
By his side sat Winona. He laid his thin, shriveled hand on her tresses,
"Winona my daughter," he said, "no longer thy father beholds thee;
But he feels the long locks of thy hair, and the days that are gone are remembered,
When Sisóka [[BH]] sat faithful and fair in the lodge of swift footed Ta-té-psin.
The white years have broken my spear; from my bow they have taken the bow-string;
But once on the trail of the deer, like a gray wolf from sunrise till sunset,
By woodland and meadow and mere, ran the feet of Ta-té-psin untiring.
But dim are the days that are gone, and darkly around me they wander,
Like the pale, misty face of the moon when she walks through the storm of the winter;
And sadly they speak in my ear. I have looked on the graves of my kindred.
The Land of the Spirits is near. Death walks by my side like a shadow.
Now open thine ear to my voice, and thy heart to the wish of thy father,
And long will Winona rejoice that she heeded the words of Ta-té-psin.
The cold, cruel winter is near, and famine will sit in the teepee.
What hunter will bring me the deer, or the flesh of the bear or the bison?
For my kinsmen before me have gone; they hunt in the land of the shadows.
In my old age forsaken, alone, must I die in my teepee of hunger?
Winona, Tamdóka can make my empty lodge laugh with abundance;
For thine aged and blind father's sake, to the son of the Chief speak the promise.
For gladly again to my tee will the bridal gifts come for my daughter.
A fleet-footed hunter is he, and the good spirits feather his arrows;
And the cold, cruel winter will be a feast-time instead of a famine."
"My father," she said, and her voice was filial and full of compassion,
"Would the heart of Ta-té-psin rejoice at the death of Winona, his daughter?
The crafty Tamdóka I hate. Must I die in his teepee of sorrow?
For I love the White Chief and I wait his return to the land of Dakotas.
When the cold winds of winter return, and toss the white robes of the prairies,
The fire of the White Chief will burn in his lodge at the Meeting-of-Waters.
Winona's heart followed his feet far away to the land of the Morning,
And she hears in her slumber his sweet, kindly voice call the name of thy daughter.
My father, abide, I entreat, the return of the brave to Katáhga.
The wild-rice is gathered, the meat of the bison is stored in the teepee;
Till the Coon-Moon[a/][[71]] enough and to spare; and if then the white warrior return not,
Winona will follow the bear and the coon to their dens in the forest.
She is strong; she can handle the spear; she can bend the stout bow of the hunter;
And swift on the trail of the deer will she run o'er the snow on her snow-shoes.
Let the step-mother sit in the tee, and kindle the fire for my father;
And the cold, cruel winter shall be a feast-time instead of a famine."
"The White Chief will never return," half angrily muttered Ta-té-psin;
"His camp-fire will nevermore burn in the land of the warriors he slaughtered.
I grieve, for my daughter has said that she loves the false friend of her kindred;
For the hands of the White Chief are red with the blood of the trustful Dakotas."
Then warmly Winona replied, "Tamdóka himself is the traitor,
And the brave-hearted stranger had died by his treacherous hand in the forest,
But thy daughter's voice bade him beware of the sly death that followed his footsteps.
The words of Tamdóka are fair, but his heart is the den of the serpents.
When the braves told their tale like a bird sang the heart of Winona rejoicing,
But gladlier still had she heard of the death of the crafty Tamdóka.
The Chief will return; he is bold, and he carries the fire of Wakínyan:
To our people the truth will be told, and Tamdóka will hide like a coward."
His thin locks the aged brave shook; to himself half inaudibly muttered;
To Winona no answer he spoke,—only moaned he "Micúnksee! Micúnksee![[BI]]
In my old age forsaken and blind! Yun-hé-hé! Micúnksee! Micúnksee!"[[BJ]]
And Wicháka, the pitying dog, whined as he looked on the face of his master.
FAMINE.
Wazíya came down from the North—from the land of perpetual winter.
From his frost-covered beard issued forth the sharp-biting, shrill-whistling North-wind;
At the touch of his breath the wide earth turned to stone, and the lakes and the rivers:
From his nostrils the white vapors rose, and they covered the sky like a blanket.
Like the down of Magá[[BK]] fell the snows, tossed and whirled into heaps by the North-wind.
Then the blinding storms roared on the plains, like the simoons on sandy Sahara;
From the fangs of the fierce hurricanes fled the elk and the deer and the bison.
Ever colder and colder it grew, till the frozen ground cracked and split open;
And harder and harder it blew, till the hillocks were bare as the boulders.
To the southward the buffalos fled, and the white rabbits hid in their burrows;
On the bare sacred mounds of the dead howled the gaunt, hungry wolves in the night-time,
The strong hunters crouched in their tees; by the lodge-fires the little ones shivered;
And the Magic-Men[[BL]] danced to appease, in their teepee, the wrath of Wazíya;
But famine and fatal disease, like phantoms, crept into the village.
The Hard Moon[[BM]] was past, but the moon when the coons make their trails in the forest[[BN]]
Grew colder and colder. The coon, or the bear, ventured not from his cover;
For the cold, cruel Arctic simoon swept the earth like the breath of a furnace.
In the tee of Ta-té-psin the store of wild-rice and dried meat was exhausted;
And Famine crept in at the door, and sat crouching and gaunt by the lodge-fire.
But now with the saddle of deer and the gifts came the crafty Tamdóka;
And he said, "Lo I bring you good cheer, for I love the blind Chief and his daughter.
Take the gifts of Tamdóka, for dear to his heart is the dark-eyed Winona."
The aged Chief opened his ears; in his heart he already consented:
But the moans of his child and her tears touched the age-softened heart of the father,
And he said, "I am burdened with years,—I am bent by the snows of my winters;
Ta-té-psin will die in his tee; let him pass to the Land of the Spirits;
But Winona is young; she is free and her own heart shall choose her a husband."
The dark warrior strode from the tee; low-muttering and grim he departed;
"Let him die in his lodge," muttered he, "but Winona shall kindle my lodge-fire."
Then forth went Winona. The bow of Ta-té-psin she took and his arrows,
And afar o'er the deep, drifted snow through the forest she sped on her snow shoes.
Over meadow and ice-covered mere, through the thickets of red-oak and hazel,
She followed the tracks of the deer, but like phantoms they fled from her vision.
From sunrise to sunset she sped; half famished she camped in the thicket;
In the cold snow she made her lone bed; on the buds of the birch[[BO]] made her supper.
To the dim moon the gray owl preferred, from the tree-top, his shrill lamentation,
And around her at midnight she heard the dread famine-cries of the gray wolves.
In the gloam of the morning again on the trail of the red-deer she followed—
All day long through the thickets in vain, for the gray wolves were chasing the roebucks;
And the cold, hungry winds from the plain chased the wolves and the deer and Winona.
In the twilight of sundown she sat in the forest, all weak and despairing;
Ta-té-psin's bow lay at her feet, and his otter-skin quiver of arrows
"He promised,—he promised," she said,—half-dreamily uttered and mournful,—
"And why comes he not? Is he dead? Was he slain by the crafty Tamdóka?
Must Winona, alas, make her choice—make her choice between death and Tamdóka?
She will die, but her soul will rejoice in the far Summer-land of the spirits.
Hark! I hear his low, musical voice! he is coming! My White Chief is coming!
Ah, no, I am half in a dream!—'twas the memory of days long departed;
But the birds of the green Summer seem to be singing above in the branches."
Then forth from her bosom she drew the crucified Jesus in silver.
In her dark hair the cold north-wind blew, as meekly she bent o'er the image.
"O Christ of the Whiteman," she prayed, "lead the feet of my brave to Kathága;
Send a good spirit down to my aid, or the friend of the White Chief will perish."
Then a smile on her wan features played, and she lifted her pale face and chanted
"E-ye-he-ktá! E-ye-he-ktá!
Hé-kta-cè; é-ye-ce-quón.
Mí-Wamdee-ská, he-he-ktá,
He-kta-cè, é-ye-ce-quón,
Mí-Wamdee-ská."
[TRANSLATON]
He will come; he will come;
He will come, for he promised.
My White Eagle, he will come;
He will come, for he promised——
My White Eagle.
Thus sadly she chanted, and lo—allured by her sorrowful accents—
From the dark covert crept a red roe and wonderingly gazed on Winona.
Then swift caught the huntress her bow; from her trembling hand hummed the keen arrow.
Up-leaped the red roebuck and fled, but the white snow was sprinkled with scarlet,
And he fell in the oak thicket dead. On the trail ran the eager Winona.
Half-famished the raw flesh she ate. To the hungry maid sweet was her supper
Then swift through the night ran her feet, and she trailed the sleek roebuck behind her;
And the guide of her steps was a star—the cold-glinting star of Wazíya[[BP]]—
Over meadow and hilltop afar, on the way to the lodge of her father.
But hark! on the keen frosty air wind the shrill hunger-howls of the gray-wolves!
And nearer,—still nearer!—the blood of the deer have they scented and follow;
Through the thicket, the meadow, the wood, dash the pack on the trail of Winona.
Swift she speeds with her burden, but swift on her track fly the minions of famine;
Now they yell on the view from the drift, in the reeds at the marge of the meadow;
Red gleam their wild, ravenous eyes, for they see on the hill-side their supper;
The dark forest echoes their cries, but her heart is the heart of a warrior.
From its sheath snatched Winona her knife, and a leg from the roebuck she severed;
With the carcass she ran for her life,—to a low-branching oak ran the maiden;
Round the deer's neck her head-strap[[BQ]] was tied; swiftly she sprang to the arms of the oak-tree;
Quick her burden she drew to her side, and higher she clomb on the branches,
While the maddened wolves battled and bled, dealing death o'er the leg to each other;
Their keen fangs devouring the dead,—yea, devouring the flesh of the living,
They raved and they gnashed and they growled, like the fiends in the regions infernal;
The wide night re-echoing howled, and the hoarse North-wind laughed o'er the slaughter.
But their ravenous maws unappeased by the blood and the flesh of their fellows,
To the cold wind their muzzles they raised, and the trail to the oak-tree they followed.
Round and round it they howled for the prey, madly leaping and snarling and snapping;
But the brave maiden's keen arrows slay, till the dead number more than the living.
All the long, dreary night-time, at bay, in the oak sat the shivering Winona;
But the sun gleamed at last, and away skulked the gray cowards[[BR]] down through the forest.
Then down dropped the deer and the maid. Ere the sun reached the midst of his journey,
Her red, welcome burden she laid at the feet of her famishing father.
Wazíya's wild wrath was appeased, and homeward he turned to his teepee,[a/][[3]]
O'er the plains and the forest-land breezed from the Islands of Summer the South-wind.
From their dens came the coon and the bear; o'er the snow through the woodlands they wandered;
On her snow-shoes with stout bow and spear on their trails ran the huntress Winona.
The coon to his den in the tree, and the bear to his burrow she followed;
A brave, skillful hunter was she, and Ta-té-psin's lodge laughed with abundance.
[Illustration]
DEATH OF TA-TE-PSIN.
The long winter wanes. On the wings of the spring come the geese and the mallards;
On the bare oak the red-robin sings, and the crocus peeps up on the prairies,
And the bobolink pipes, but he brings of the blue-eyed, brave White Chief no tidings.
With the waning of winter, alas, waned the life of the aged Ta-té-psin;
Ere the wild pansies peeped from the grass, to the Land of the Spirits he journeyed;
Like a babe in its slumber he passed, or the snow from the hill-tops of April;
And the dark-eyed Winona, at last, stood alone by the graves of her kindred.
When their myriad mouths opened the trees to the sweet dew of heaven and the raindrops,
And the April showers fell on the leas, on his mound fell the tears of Winona.
Round her drooping form gathered the years and the spirits unseen of her kindred,
As low, in the midst of her tears, at the grave of her father she chanted
E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah-ké-yày!
E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah-ké-yày!
E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah-ké-yày!
Ma-kàh kin háy-chay-dan táy-han wan-kày.
Tú-way ne ktáy snee e-yáy-chen e-wáh chày.
E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah-ké-yày!
E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah-ké-yày!
Ma-kàh kin háy-chay-dan táy-han wan-kày.
[TRANSLATION].
Sore is my sorrow!
Sore is my sorrow!
Sore is my sorrow!
The earth alone lasts.
I speak as one dying;
Sore is my sorrow!
Sore is my sorrow!
The earth alone lasts.
Still hope, like a star in the night gleaming oft through the broken clouds somber,
Cheered the heart of Winona, and bright on her dreams beamed the face of the Frenchman.
As the thought of a loved one and lost, sad and sweet were her thoughts of the White Chief;
In the moon's mellow light, like a ghost, walked Winona alone by the Ha-Ha,
Ever wrapped in a dream. Far away—to the land of the sunrise—she wandered;
On the blue-rolling Tánka-Medé[[BS]] in the midst of her dreams, she beheld him—
In his white-winged canoe, like a bird, to the land of Dakotas returning,
And often in fancy she heard the dip of his oars on the river.
On the dark waters glimmered the moon, but she saw not the boat of the Frenchman.
On the somber night bugled the loon, but she heard not the song of the boatmen.
The moon waxed and waned, but the star of her hope never waned to the setting;
Through her tears she beheld it afar, like a torch on the eastern horizon.
"He will come,—he is coming," she said; "he will come, for my White Eagle promised,"
And low to the bare earth the maid bent her ear for the sound of his footsteps,
"He is gone, but his voice in my ear still remains like the voice of the robin;
He is far, but his footsteps I hear; he is coming; my White Chief is coming!"
But the moon waxed and waned. Nevermore will the eyes of Winona behold him.
Far away on the dark, rugged shore of the blue Gitchee Gúmee he lingers.
No tidings the rising sun brings; no tidings the star of the evening;
But morning and evening she sings, like a turtle-dove widowed and waiting:
Aké u, aké u, aké u;
Ma cántè maséeca.
Aké u, aké u, aké u;
Ma cántè maséca.
Come again, come again, come again;
For my heart is sad.
Come again, come again, come again;
For my heart is sad.
DEATH OF WINONA.
Down the broad Ha-Ha Wák-pa[[BT]] the band took their way to the Games at Keóza[a/][[8]]
While the swift-footed hunters by land ran the shores for the elk and the bison.
Like magás[[BU]] ride the birchen canoes on the breast of the dark, winding river,
By the willow-fringed island they cruise, by the grassy hills green to their summits;
By the lofty bluffs hooded with oaks that darken the deep with their shadows;
And bright in the sun gleam the strokes of the oars in the hands of the women.
With the band went Winona. The oar plied the maid with the skill of a hunter.
They tarried a time on the shore of Remníca—the Lake of the Mountains.[[BV]]
There the fleet hunters followed the deer, and the thorny pahin[[BW]] for the women
From the tees rose the smoke of good cheer, curling blue through the tops of the maples,
Near the foot of a cliff that arose, like the battle-scarred walls of a castle,
Up-towering, in rugged repose, to a dizzy height over the waters.
But the man-wolf still followed his prey, and the step-mother ruled in the teepee;
Her will must Winona obey, by the custom and law of Dakotas.
The gifts to the teepee were brought—the blankets and beads of the White men,
And Winona, the orphaned, was bought by the crafty, relentless Tamdóka.
In the Spring-time of life, in the flush of the gladsome mid-May days of Summer,
When the bobolink sang and the thrush, and the red robin chirped in the branches,
To the tent of the brave must she go; she must kindle the fire in his teepee;
She must sit in the lodge of her foe, as a slave at the feet of her master.
Alas for her waiting! the wings of the East-wind have brought her no tidings;
On the meadow the meadow-lark sings, but sad is her song to Winona,
For the glad warbler's melody brings but the memory of voices departed.
The Day-Spirit walked in the west to his lodge in the land of the shadows;
His shining face gleamed on the crest of the oak-hooded hills and the mountains,
And the meadow-lark hied to her nest, and the mottled owl peeped from her cover.
But hark! from the teepees a cry! Hear the shouts of the hurrying warriors!
Are the feet of the enemy nigh,—of the crafty and cruel Ojibways?
Nay; look!—on the dizzy cliff high—on the brink of the cliff stands Winona!
Her sad face up-turned to the sky. Hark! I hear the wild wail of her death-song:
"My Father's Spirit, look down, look down—
From your hunting grounds in the shining skies;
Behold, for the light of my heart is gone;
The light is gone and Winona dies.
I looked to the East, but I saw no star;
The face of my White Chief was turned away.
I harked for his footsteps in vain; afar
His bark sailed over the Sunrise-sea.
Long have I watched till my heart is cold;
In my breast it is heavy and cold as a stone.
No more shall Winona his face behold,
And the robin that sang in her heart is gone.
Shall I sit at the feet of the treacherous brave?
On his hateful couch shall Winona lie?
Shall she kindle his fire like a coward slave?
No!—a warrior's daughter can bravely die.
My Father's Spirit, look down, look down—
From your hunting-grounds in the shining skies;
Behold, for the light in my heart is gone;
The light is gone and Winona dies."
[Illustration: DOWN WHIRLING AND FLUTTERING SHE FELL, AND HEADLONG PLUNGED INTO THE WATERS.]
Swift the strong hunters climbed as she sang, and the foremost of all was Tamdóka;
From crag to crag upward he sprang; like a panther he leaped to the summit.
Too late!—on the brave as he crept turned the maid in her scorn and defiance;
Then swift from the dizzy height leaped. Like a brant arrow-pierced in mid-heaven.
Down whirling and fluttering she fell, and headlong plunged into the waters.
Forever she sank mid the wail, and the wild lamentation of women.
Her lone spirit evermore dwells in the depths of the Lake of the Mountains,
And the lofty cliff evermore tells to the years as they pass her sad story.[[BX]]
In the silence of sorrow the night o'er the earth spread her wide, sable pinions;
And the stars[a/][[18]] hid their faces; and light on the lake fell the tears of the spirits.
As her sad sisters watched on the shore for her spirit to rise from the waters,
They heard the swift dip of an oar, and a boat they beheld like a shadow,
Gliding down through the night in the gray, gloaming mists on the face of the waters.
'Twas the bark of DuLuth on his way from the Falls to the Games at Keóza.
FOOTNOTES
Tee—teepee, the Dakota name for tent or wigwam
See Hennepin's Description of Louisiana, by Shea, pp. 243 and 256. Parkman's Discovery, p. 246—and Carver's Travels, p. 67.
The Dakotas, like the ancient Romans and Greeks, think the home of the winds is in the caverns of the mountains, and their great Thunder-bird resembles in many respects the Jupiter of the Romans and the Zeus of the Greeks. The resemblance of the Dakota mythology to that of the older Greeks and Romans is striking.
Tate—wind,—psin—wild-rice—wild-rice wind.
mountain antelope.
Little Rice River. It bears the name of Rice Creek to-day and empties into the Mississippi from the east, a few miles above Minneapolis.
See the account of Father Menard, his mission and disappearance in the wilderness. Neill's Hist. Minnesota, pp 104-107, inc.
It is wonderful!
The morning.
A lodge set apart for guests of the village.
Moccasins.
The Ottawa name for the region of the St. Lawrence River.
"Mysterious metal"—or metal having a spirit in it. This is the common name applied by the Dakotas to all firearms.
Lightning.
Tah-mdo-kah, literally, the buck-deer.
The Dakotas say that for many years in olden times war-eagles made their nests in oak trees on Spirit-island—Wanagi-wita, just below the Falls till frightened away by the advent of white men.
The Dakotas called Nicollet Island Wi-ta Waste—the Beautiful Island.
A part of one of the favorite songs of the French voyageurs.
Head-chief
Pronounced Ray-mne-chah—The village of the Mountains, situate where Red Wing now stands.
Sacred Dance—The Medicine-dance—See description infra.
The wings.
A favorite boast of the Dakota braves.
The wind.
About equivalent to Oho!—Aha!—fudge!
Hurra there!
"Sacred Spirit! Father! have pity on me always."
Riggs' Takoo Wakan, p. 90.
Slander.
The Dakotas say the humming-bird comes from the "Land of the rain-bow."
See Legend of the Falls, or Note 28—Appendix.
My Sister.
Mendota—properly Mdo-te—meaning the out-let of a lake or river into another, commonly applied to the region about Fort Snelling.
Tanka-Mede—Great Lake, i.e. Lake Superior. The Dakotas seem to have had no other name for it. They generally referred to it as Mini-ya-ta—There at the water.
The rabbit. The Dakotas called the Crees "Mastincapi"—Rabbits.
i.e. fire-arms which the Dakotas compare to the roar of the wings of the Thunder-bird and the fierey arrows he shoots.
DuLuth was a devout Catholic.
Nee-wah-shtay—Thou art good.
Spirit-River, now called Rum River.
Fire-arm—spirit-metal.
Lake Superior—at that time the home of the Ojibways (Chippewas).
"Burnt woods"—half-breeds.
Wita Waste—"Beautiful Island"; the Dakota name for Nicollet Island.
Ojibways.
Mille Lacs
See Hennepin's account of "Aqui-pa-que-tin," and his village. Shea's Hennepin, 225.
Now called "Mud River"—it empties into the Mississippi at Aitkin.
Gitchee See-bee—Big River—is the Ojibway name for the Mississippi, which is a corruption of Gitchee Seebee—as Michigan is a corruption of Gitchee Gumee—Great Lake, the Ojibway name of Lake Superior.
The Ojibways called the St. Louis River Gitchee-Gumee See-bee—Great-lake River, i.e. the river of the Great Lake (Lake Superior).
The route of DuLuth above described—from the mouth of the Wild-Rice (Mud) River, to Lake Superior—was for centuries, and still is, the Indians' canoe-route. I have walked over the old portage from the foot of the Dalles to the St. Louis above—trod by the feet of half-breeds and voyageurs for more than two centuries, and by the Indians for perhaps a thousand years.
The Apostle Islands.
At the Sault Ste. Marie.
Cranberries.
Wee-chah kah—literally "Faithful".
The Robin—the name of Winona's Mother.
My Daughter; My Daughter.
Alas, O My Daughter,—My Daughter!
Wild-goose
Medicine-men.
January.
February.
The pheasant feeds on birch-buds in winter. Indians eat them when very hungry.
Wazíya's Star is the North-star.
A strap used in carrying burdens.
Wolves sometimes attack people at night, but rarely, if ever, in the day time. If they have followed a hunter all night, and "treed" him, they will skulk away as soon as the sun rises.
Lake Superior,—The Gitchee Gumee of the Chippewas.
The Dakota name for the Mississippi, see note 76 in Appendix.
Wild Geese.
Lake Pepin, by Hennepin called Lake of Tears—Called by the Dakotas Remnee-chah-Mday—Lake of the Mountains.
Pah-hin—the porcupine—the quills of which are greatly prized for ornamental work.
The Dakotas say that the spirit of Winona forever haunts the lake. They say that it was many, many winters ago when Winona leaped from the rock,—that the rock was then perpendicular to the water's edge and she leaped into the lake, but now the rock has partly crumbled down and the waters have also receded, so that they do not now reach, the foot of the perpendicular rock as of old.