THE DREAMER.
BY MARY E. HEWITT.
Last night he kissed me,—kissed me in my dream!
He unto whom I with pure flame aspire,—
His eyes poured down on mine love's kindling beam,—
Through all my being ran the immortal fire,
I felt cold doubt within my breast expire,—
I felt his clasp, as gently he enwound me;
I felt his heart beat, as he closer bound me;
He kissed me! measure of my soul's desire;
He kissed my down-drooped eyelids,—kissed my brow;
Felt he no thrill, my well beloved one,
While passed the vision that enchains me now?
Ah, no! the ecstasy was mine alone;
And, while the memory on my spirit lies,
I fear, lest he should read my dream within my eyes.
C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Capt. S. Eastman. Chromolith of P. S. Duval Phil.
FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY
WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.
A LEGEND OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY.
BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.
CHAPTER I.
The glowing noonday's sun was resting over the rocks that lay and the waters that dashed in the region of St. Anthony's Falls. The long row of hills in the distance was tinged with gold, which mixed gaudily with their purple hues. The dark green of the trees that grew on the opposite shore interposed between the brightness of the hills beyond and the white glare of the foaming waters.
Above the Falls, large trees lay fixed in the river, notwithstanding the efforts the waves appeared to be making to remove every obstacle that lay in their way, which led to the edge of the precipice, where they threw themselves into the abyss below.
Large and small fragments of rocks dotted the water in every direction, and in the centre of the Falls lay a number of rocks reposing against each other, with rich, luxuriant shrubs and trees rising from among them.
Notwithstanding the noise of the falling waters, and the roaring of the boiling waves below, there was great beauty mingled with the grandeur of the scene. The width of the river at this point made the height of the Falls appear less than it really was. The association connected with the death of Wenona,[26] the injured, but loving wife, gave a romantic cast to the red man's thoughts, as he rested from the toils of the chase near this beautiful scene. He could identify the very spot where she raised her arms, while the notes of her death-song pealed above all other sounds, as her slight canoe bent towards her child's and her own grave. He marvelled that the boiling of the waters did not appal her, or that the voice of her husband did not rouse her from her fatal purpose.
But now there is no person near, to take from the solitary beauty of the scene. If the screaming of the loon were heard, it was immediately followed by the flapping of her wings, as she passed to the spirit lakes, over whose quiet surface she loved better to rest. The deer were all far distant;—the shade of the forest trees was more acceptable now than the rays of the summer's sun. Whatever might be the burden of the song of the waters, it was unheard, save by the spirits that are ever assembled in numbers around this hallowed spot.
When the intense heat had passed away, a fresh, invigorating wind was felt among the rocks and waves. Evening was unfolding her mantle, and her breath was playing over the bright flowers that even here enjoy their short season of life. The flitting clouds were gathering towards the horizon, constantly changing their hues, and resting in golden lines above the hills. Large fish, the bass, and the pike, moved at their ease in the restless waters, as if there were no fear of being bearded in this their stronghold. The beautiful red deer, too, has been tempted to come and be refreshed,—ever on their guard, though, as might be seen by the tossing of their heads when the winds rose and whispered over the earth.
Now they start and flee like lightning, for the light sound of woman's step is heard; and in the very spot where one of them rested, looking over the waves, stands a slight figure, bearing in her face and form the marks of youth, while her short and richly embroidered skirt, and the crimson okendokenda, that partly covered her arms and chest, showed her to belong to a family at least not unimportant among her people.
She stood still for some moments in a listening attitude, her face pale, and every feature fixed in intense thought. She carried a bundle of small size: this she seemed to think of value, for she grasped it as if her life depended on the preservation of what it contained.
Turning towards the course of the rocks by the river's edge, she surveyed their way; then, bending where she stood, she looked unappalled at the waters becoming dark by the shadows of evening.
There was but little current where she stood, for the position of the rocks prevented this, though quite near them the impetuous stream hurried on like one tired of existence, eager only to reach and be lost in the great ocean of forgetfulness.
There was evidently some great difficulty in her position, for her colour flushed and left her, and she pressed her hands across her bosom, without quelling its tumult: yet it was equally evident her object was self-preservation. Life was dear to the young and active blood that animated her veins. There was too much brightness in the depths of those dark eyes to be quenched by death. She looked all around her; and well might she have asked if the red man's heaven boasted a more beautiful picture than the one now before her.
The sound of voices has recalled her from her meditations. Loud, stern voices, speaking in tones of anger and disappointment. They were not yet very near, but she knew them well. The language was her own, but the lips that spoke it were threatening death to her. She recognised his voice—her husband's—he was the pursuer. And she smiled a bitter smile as she listened to the harsh sounds. Notwithstanding the perils that surrounded her, she was as calm as when she sat by her mother's door, in the far-off home of the Indians, who live by "Le Lac qui Parle." All her terror, all her restlessness was forgotten. She raised her arm to its greatest height, and elevating her lithe frame too, she threw her bundle as far as her strength enabled her; listening till the voices sounded nearer, and the steps could be distinguished in the dead leaves that lay in their path, she swayed her form to and fro, and sprung, laughing as she did so, from the rocks. Then swimming round them, disappeared, concealed by the overhanging precipices, as well as by the thick foliage that grew close to the water's edge.
Hardly was she out of sight when her place was again occupied. A large, fierce-looking Sioux stood where she had been standing. He looked round as if the object of his search might be hid among the rocks and bushes. The waters laughed just as she had, as he complained of fatigue and disappointment. He looked like a fiend who had forced himself where but a moment ago some gentle spirit had been resting. The passions in their prime worked in his haughty face. Stripes of different-coloured paint lay across his cheeks and around his eyes. His broad chest and brawny arms were uncovered—he raised his hand, and moving it in a half circle, as he turned towards his companions, "I have looked for her until I am tired," he said; "perhaps she has killed herself; if she is living, my vengeance shall yet reach her,—I will tear her heart from her breast."
Then turning, wearied and angered beyond endurance, he strode back towards his home. His giant figure rose far above his companions. His eye flashed like the lion's deprived of his prey. Well might they call him the Fiery Man.
CHAPTER II.
We must go back two days before this incident occurred. In a large wigwam were two persons. The one, a young, pale woman, seated on a mat. The white lips and the black shadows beneath the eyes, told of watchings and despair. No tear moistened the colourless eyelids, no sigh relieved the overburdened heart. Still as death itself, the young mother gazed on the unconscious cause of her agony.
There it lay, peaceful and calm, against her throbbing heart. There it lay, as it was wont, when seated on the high rocks by the Mississippi, it heard the sweet tones of a mother's voice. There it lay, never to hear even them again.
Absorbed in her grief, the mother knew not that there was another in the wigwam. She was recalling, as she gazed on the crushed flower thus rudely torn from her love, the many and strange changes of the past year. She had once looked forward to the future, as the young always do. She loved and was promised to the one she loved.
Fiery Man came from afar, with his powerful, athletic frame, and his deep and piercing eyes, and his voice so low and solemn. He stopped at her father's village, returning from a successful expedition against the Sacs; and he was full of proud boastings. He said he was "a great warrior, and hunter too, for his lodge was always full of game; that he had taken more scalps than any brave of his band; that when he held his enemies, they were like children in his large hand."
In an evil hour his eye fell upon White Moon. He loved her because she was the opposite of himself. He fancied the gentle and submissive way in which she received the directions of her parents. When he saw her eyes droop and her cheek mantle when the warriors danced—when he watched her and marked that she only looked at one—when he inquired, and learned that to that one was she destined, then did he mark her for his own; he was as cool and determined as if he had been aiming his arrow at the frightened grouse; as sure of his prey as if the bird lay already bleeding at his feet.
He went to her mother, and showed her the rich crimson cloth he had received from the traders on his way.
Other presents he laid before her, very valuable then; for traders were just coming in the country, and articles for use or adorning were rare among the Sioux.
The mother told him her child was promised,—that White Moon loved the noble young warrior she was to marry, and she could not break her daughter's heart.
The father came in, and Fiery Man showed him his new gun,—they were scarce then, and were deemed wakun (supernatural). Fiery Man enlarged upon its merits, and he pressed on the foolish old man the advantages of securing him as a friend, by giving him his daughter in marriage.
White Moon's mother interfered, saying, "her daughter was a good girl, and deserved to be happy. She was not like the other girls, always running away to look among the rocks in the water for young beavers; but she was steady and industrious, and should make herself happy by marrying the man she loved."
Fiery Man stamped, and his eyes were bloodshot with rage. He showed the parents his medicine-bag; he would make them know what it was to refuse a medicine-man; he would charm them; he would dry up the red rivers of life; he would make their steps feeble.
Already would White Moon have trembled, had she been present.
Fiery Man saw his advantage, and continued: he was the friend of Chat-o-tee-dah, the forest god, and he could go where no other Indian could, protected by this powerful friend. He was strong and brave, and it was well for the woman who married him, and for her family too.
The old man had kept his eyes fixed on the gun. Fiery Man told him to follow him; he did so, but could hardly keep pace with the strides of the tall warrior. Fiery Man led him towards the lowlands, where, among the trees, the woodcock were in numbers. They seated themselves on a mound, the work of their more enlightened ancestors; they were quiet at first, only listening to the passing of the birds through the low trees.
Fiery Man pointed the gun, and fired; the birds fell to the ground. The old man laughed, and Fiery Man showed him the powder and shot.
He took the gun and explained to his companion the mode of preparing it to fire. "Ha!" said he, "you cannot shoot as well as I; but try and bring down one." The old man pointed, and fired; his aim was sure: again a bird fell before his astonished gaze.
"It is yours," said Fiery Man, "and the girl is mine. We will go back and tell her mother what we have agreed upon."
Again he led the way, and the old man followed him back to the wigwam. There they found mother and daughter. There were tears upon the cheek of the latter; she was soon to know how vainly they were shed. She turned away from the gaze of her tall lover, and hid her face against her mother's bosom.
"Tell her," said Fiery Man to White Moon's father; but the old man knew of the bitter dregs he would stir up in the fountain of life before him: he could not find words to tell the young maiden her doom.
Fiery Man could not brook the delay. He laid his brawny hand on the young head that had not yet been lifted from its refuge-place. "She is mine," he said to the mother; "I have bought her. That wakun gun is her father's, that red cloth is yours. White Moon must go with me to my lodge: she must give me warriors like myself for sons. She will be obedient and happy, because her husband is powerful, and feared."
White Moon raised her head and looked in his face; for hope? as well might she have asked it in the glancing of the tomahawk of a Chippeway.
That dark, stern face was softened, it is true: but it was from the contemplation of her attractive features; pride was changed to satisfaction: but it was because he knew that the graceful figure which clung to her mother for protection would soon lean only on him. She sighed and turned away her face; she trembled and sank upon the mat with weakness; no hope—all her bright visions changed: darkness and gloom had come where day had presided in all her brightness.
A short time saw Fiery Man lead to his wigwam his sad young wife, wearied to death with her long journey. Could love have consoled her, she had been happy: for she was as dear as life to the heart of the passionate, overbearing man. As he led her into the wigwam, he pointed to its present occupant. He said she was his sister, but the first glance did the same. There was the tall, gaunt figure; the fierce, flashing eye; the passionate, commanding countenance; but far more repelling in her than in him. White Moon read her own fate; she was to endure hatred as well as love. She could see no shelter from the storm that was settling over her head.
CHAPTER III.
The sister of Fiery Man stood unnoticed, we have said, in the lodge where White Moon sat with her dead child. On her back she carried a large bundle of wood. As she threw it to the ground, the noise roused White Moon from her dreams. She rose from her mat, clasping the child yet more closely to her breast. Giving one look towards her sister, in which was concentrated all the passion and all the harshness of which she was capable, she left the lodge. The crimson flush soon died away from her face, and she was calm and pale as before.
Assisted by several of the women, she proceeded to place her child upon its last resting-place. It was at some distance from the lodge, yet in sight. She returned, and carried to the place of burial the cradle and some little trinkets belonging to the child, and hung them in reach of the infant's hand, on the scaffolding.
All day she sat on the ground near it. She wept there, as only a mother can weep, for her first and only child. She refused the food the women offered her; she had not eaten since its death.
Even when night came, she was still there, through its long watches giving vent to her violent grief. The breaking of the morn found her sleeping for a short interval on the ground; on awakening, she remembered there were duties that still claimed her care. Her new buffalo-skin lodge was still unfinished, and she had promised her husband she would be in it on her return. The one they were living in was her sister's; it was an old one, torn, and admitting the rain, so that it was not comfortable. Some of the women had assisted her in making it, and she had still to finish and set it up before the evening.
On the day of the child's death she had been obliged to leave her work, to go out at some little distance to cut wood. She did not, as usual, take her child with her: it was asleep in its carved board cradle, and she left it in charge of a girl, the child of one of her friends. Fiery Man's sister had gone out, telling White Moon she should be away all day. So great was her dread of this proud woman—so fearful was she that she would revenge on her child the hatred she felt towards herself—that otherwise she would not have left the infant at home.
The anticipations of White Moon at her first interview with her husband's sister were all realized. This woman possessed all the bad qualities of Fiery Man, without any of his redeeming ones.
She had been married, and was a widow. Both of her children were dead: there was no avenue by which kindness could find its way to her heart. She disliked White Moon, because she had so won her brother's love. But there needed to assign no reason, for she disliked all who were better off than she.
It is not only in civilized life that the dread passion of envy has full sway: the human heart, the same by nature, varies only by association and circumstance.
Had it not been for the unhappy disposition of Fiery Man's sister, White Moon had been happy. She could not but be proud of her husband, and of his affection for her: it was not in the nature of a Sioux woman to see unmoved the many trophies of his skill and bravery. But the curse of envy was about her; and when White Moon smiled over her boy, and Fiery Man exulted in the pride and affection of a Sioux father for his son, his sister could not rejoice with them—she envied and hated them.
Fiery Man exacted the most implicit obedience from his wife, and from all around him. He would not have brooked the slightest contradiction from her; but she did not attempt it.
In most cases an Indian wife is little more than a serving-woman to her husband. To this White Moon was accustomed from observation, and from her short experience. She trembled at her husband's voice, though against her it had never been raised in anger. But the violent passions, the abusive language, the frequent blows—these, coming from one who ought to have no power over her, made her often wish for death. Yet so great was the likeness of brother and sister, that she bowed to the tyranny of the one, from having done so to the other. Her spirit, too, was broken. She could easily submit, but not forget. When she left her child in the wigwam it was quietly sleeping; when she returned it still slept. She had been a long time away, and yet the rest of the infant appeared to have been unbroken.
She missed the girl who had promised to remain with the child. She had brought a heavy burden of wood to her lodge, and she sat down by the child to rest, and to watch its awakening.
Its unusual paleness alarmed her; she held her own breath that she might distinguish the breathing of the child, but in vain. She placed her hand before its parted lips; the warm breath of infancy did not play upon it.
She thought it strange; but death did not present itself to her mind. Going to the door of the lodge, she looked around, and saw her sister gazing, with fixed attention, towards the wigwam. This alarmed her, and she returned to her child; again she listened for its breath: she pressed its small and clammy hand. Then did the real truth flash across her. She took in her arms the infant and rushed with it into the open air.
As she stood outside calling for help, the Indians collected around her. Her sister, calm and unconcerned, approached with them and looked on.
The Indian doctors were there, and White Moon, under their direction, carried her child back to the lodge. She placed it on a buffalo-robe, which was folded on the floor. Red Head, the great medicine-man, seated himself near it. He held the sacred rattle, shaking it, and chaunting in a loud voice. He shouted to the women to stand off, for near him, on the ground, he had laid his pipe and medicine-bag.
White Moon alternately wept and hoped; she knew Red Head was a powerful medicine-man: but still her baby showed no signs of life. Despairing, at last, and frantic with grief, she broke in upon his incantations. She raised her child, and placed its little face against her breast. She knew this test would be decisive.
There was no motion, on its part, to receive the offered sustenance. She raised her despairing eyes, and they met the cold glances of her sister. Then she told Red Head there was no hope. She asked to be left alone with her dead; she wept until the power of weeping was gone: and then, until the time was come to place it in its cradle grave, she held it to her heart. She did not dare reflect on the passionate grief of the father, when he should return, and ask of her his son.
She could not rouse herself to say, what she believed to be the case, that his sister had destroyed it. There was no mark,—no apparent cause for its sudden death.
On returning to the wigwam, after the burial of the child, she found her sister there, more than usually bent upon an altercation. She endeavoured to avoid it by employing herself in silence. She eat for the first time since her child's death, and then applied herself to the task of finishing her lodge. Her bereaved condition might have excited the pity of her companion; but there was no sympathy in that breast. For a time, White Moon would not reply to her taunts. This the more enraged the other, who at length charged the heart-broken mother with the murder of her child!
White Moon heard her in stupified horror and amazement. That a mother could destroy her infant,—no such sentiment could reach her understanding or her heart. Yet again and again did her sister repeat the charge, dwelling upon the impossibility of the child's dying without a cause. No one, she said, had been with the infant during her absence; the young girl, who had promised to take care of it, having gone off soon after White Moon left. She then insisted, that as White Moon had been forced to marry her brother, she had thus resented upon him her wrong. She had killed his child, forgetting it was her own.
The despairing woman was roused by a sense of the injustice done her. She saw, too, her position,—the danger in which she stood. She felt, in anticipation, the reproaches, the hot anger of her husband.
She was roused even to madness. Her many wrongs stood up in witness against the woman who, in her deep sorrow, thus goaded her. Her slight frame expanded; the gentle and obedient wife, the submissive woman, had become a murderer; her knife lay in the heart of her husband's sister,—the strong had bowed before the weak!
The act was so instantaneous, that White Moon stood alone to behold the consequences of her passion. It was during the hottest part of the day, and their lodge stood apart from the rest. Most of the men were on the hunt with Fiery Man; the women, some sleeping away the sultry hours, others off at their different employments.
The hoarse groans of the dying woman were not heard outside the lodge, so that White Moon was not detected. On one of the mats lay the embroidered dress of a young warrior that Fiery Man's sister had just finished. She immediately determined upon making her escape, and taking these clothes with her as a disguise. She made them into a bundle before the eyes of the dying woman, and resolved upon flying from her husband's resentment.
How often she had called for death, yet how closely she now clung to life. The violent excitement through which she had passed had brought again the colour to her cheek. Brightness had succeeded to the expression of languor in her eyes. There was no tie to keep her in her husband's home. She now only thought of him as the avenger of his sister's blood.
She left the lodge without even a glance towards the cause of her misery and her sin. She turned from the places which would now know her no more.
CHAPTER IV.
Fiery Man and the large party of hunters came in sight of their home on the evening of the same day. They had brought a large number of buffalo, and were glad to reach the vicinity of their village, where their wives and other women came forward to relieve them of their burden. Merry work it was to them on this occasion, until they learned some of the hunters were missing.
Fiery Man looked to see his wife and child among them, and was disappointed and irritated at not seeing them; but he remembered White Moon was always backward in joining these noisy parties, and thus he accounted for her absence.
His tall figure was slightly clad, for the weather was warm—in his right hand he held a spear, and on its top was a scalp recently taken. He strode on without waiting to explain the occasion of this, only thinking of his wife and son. He did not miss his sister, though he might well have done so, for she was always ready with her strong arm to assist the hunters, and her loud voice to give directions to the women.
There was a great deal of confusion as they entered the village, for the absence of the three hunters had been accounted for, though not by Fiery Man, who had passed forward towards his lodge.
The hunters, enthusiastic with their success, (for the number of buffalo they had killed was unusually great,) were surprised by a party of Iroquois, and in the sudden terror three of the Sioux, who had laid down their arms, intending to sleep, were killed and scalped. These Iroquois had come from a great distance; their villages were in the western part of New York. They were then in the height of their power, and constantly performed exploits that astonished other Indian nations.
But that a small party should have travelled four hundred leagues, living by chance, surrounded by their enemies; that they should venture among so powerful a people with such an object, is indeed remarkable; that they should have been successful, is still more so.
They lost one of their party. Fiery Man pursued them, with some others, as they endeavoured to make their escape, and killed one, whose scalp adorned his spear.
The lamentations of the families whose relatives had been killed, their affectionate but melancholy reception of their dead bodies—for they had been wrapped in skins and brought home—the loud talking of those engaged in caring for the immense quantities of buffalo-meat and the valuable skins,—all these were unnoticed and indeed unheard by Fiery Man.
Even his stout heart quailed before the silent and gloomy appearance of his lodge. There was not even an evidence of habitation.
The lodge on which White Moon had been engaged lay heaped up near it; but there was no one there to welcome him.
He threw up the door and looked in; then started almost affrighted at what he saw. His sister lay dead—and the only creature near her was the small dog that had been always by her side during life. He could not mistake the horrible symptoms,—the fallen jaw, the dark-looking blood, the face calm and composed in its expression, as it never had been in life.
He turned again from the lodge to seek his wife and child,—the former with her timid and almost fearful salutation, the latter with his merry infant laugh, as he reached forth his hands to be taken close to his father's heart.
He looked around among the groups talking here and there. They were gazing at him, with doubt and consternation in every countenance; for who would dare tell him of all?—who would expose himself to the violence of his wrath?—who but feared to see that iron frame bowed with the tale of horror he must hear?
He hastened towards them, and shook Harpstinah roughly by the arm. "Where is my wife?—my child? Speak!" he said, as the woman, in her fright, seemed to have lost the power of speech.
An old man, who had not accompanied the hunting party, on account of his age, came forward. "There is your son," he said, pointing to the burial-ground. "Your wife left him asleep, and your sister—"
Harpstinah, having recovered herself, interrupted him: he had but a confused notion of the state of things. She told Fiery Man all the circumstances, even to her going to the lodge, drawn thither by the continual crying of the dog, and finding his sister there in her death-pangs. She had tried to make Harpstinah comprehend a message to her brother, but had expired with the effort. Previous to that she had told several persons that White Moon had killed her child, but no one believed it. The affectionate care of the mother was too well known; besides, the girl who had been left in charge of her, said the infant had awakened a short time after White Moon had left, and had then fallen asleep again.
White Moon had been seen as she hurried from the village, but no one had seen her return. Harpstinah had heard angry words passing between them, but did not know that anything more serious had occurred, until some time after, when she entered the lodge, as she had before described. All presumed it must have been the act of White Moon, as she had expressed previously her intention of remaining at home, in order to finish her lodge.
This was the substance of the intelligence, to which Fiery Man listened with an ashy countenance and a trembling frame. His wife, whom he had so loved—his boy, the noble, healthy child, whose growth he had watched day by day! As he bent forward to listen, large tears rested on his cheek. The women moved off affrighted at the spectacle, that tears, such as women shed, should be seen there.
There was one who still remained beside him. Fiery Man had not heard the charge brought against his wife of the murder of her child. So stricken was he, that he only heard and felt that they were gone. The Fawn still remained beside him: she had loved Fiery Man, and had hoped to be his wife. She waited to speak when he should arouse from the first stupor of his grief. He turned to go, he knew not where; he heard his name called, and saw the Fawn beside him. "Your sister said that White Moon had never loved you, and was now revenged; that you had torn her from all she had loved; that even her old mother had wept, and asked you to leave her with her, but in vain; and it was for this White Moon had killed your child, that you might have sorrow too."
Then came back the colour to the bronzed cheek of Fiery Man, and the flashing to his eye. Then did he stand erect, like one that had never known grief—then did love change to bitter hatred. The wife of his bosom was his worst enemy. There were no more tears, but loud threats of vengeance—no trembling, but firm purposes of revenge.
He went again to the lodge, to look at his sister's body. He left her, and stood by the grave of his child. He laid his hand upon the little body, and stood thus while he decided what to do. He shouted for the young men, and told them to go and hunt for his wife, and bring her back to him.
It was fearful to see the paroxysms of his hot anger. He lay down on the grass near his child; he rested, but not with sleep. He sought his wife through the night, but in vain. He went into the thick forests; he remembered Chat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods, was his friend; he prayed to the god; he sacrificed to the wakeen-stone; but still he was unsuccessful.
He knew neither sleep nor rest until the evening of the next day, when he was forced to yield to his overtaxed condition. There did he stand, by the Laughing Waters, where she had stood. The White Moon was making her way, slowly and sadly, but clinging to life—full of grief, but fearing the avenger—living on the berries of the woods, and sleeping where the red deer and its young lie down to rest.
CHAPTER V.
A short time after the events we have noticed, a young and slight-looking Sioux warrior entered one of the villages of that nation. He was a stranger and alone. This was enough to insure him a hospitable reception. On approaching the lodges which were nearest him, he seemed to hesitate as to what course he should pursue as regards making himself known. In the mean time his appearance had attracted a good deal of attention.
His limbs were slight but well formed, his figure denoting agility rather than strength. His dress was new and handsomely ornamented; his leggins were of very fine deer-skin, dressed so as to be white and soft, and these, as well as his coat, were richly embroidered with porcupine quills. He had no blanket, nor were there any war-eagle feathers in his head; his pipe, made of an earthen material, was large and heavy. He was without arms of any kind: this was the most remarkable feature in his appearance.
He was pale, as if he had been ill, and there was at times an expression of wildness, almost amounting to ferocity, in his appearance. He advanced towards a lodge outside of which stood the family; they spoke to him at once, telling him to sit down and rest himself. One of the women seeing his mocassin was torn, untied it, saying she would mend it.
Before asking him his name or errand, they insisted upon his eating, knowing from his features and dress he was a Sioux.
His feet they found blistered and inflamed. The women of the lodge got some herbs, laid them in cold water, and applied them to the inflamed parts.
They gave him wild rice, in an earthen bowl of a kind manufactured by themselves, the art being now lost. They were then destitute of metallic vessels of any kind.
The young warrior, after he had eaten, proceeded to give an account of himself. He said he had come a great distance in search of an uncle who had suddenly disappeared from among them. He was a very important man among them, famous for his wisdom, and for knowing all the history of their people, the Mendewakantonwau Dacotas. He could always tell them the year when buffalo would be the most plentiful; he could direct them to the very spot where the largest herds could be found.
His people, he said, lived on the banks of the Minesota; the mouth of this river, his uncle said, lay immediately over the centre of the earth, and under the centre of the heavens: the Great Spirit had ordered this, that they might know they were his favourite people, superior to all other nations.
All these things his uncle had learned in dreams; and often he spoke of them to the young people, that they might be proud of their country, and might remember who was their Great Father and friend.
On one occasion he had assembled the young people, and told them of the bloody battles they had fought with the Sacs and Foxes and other nations. Some of the Dacota bands had been destroyed by them, but they had been saved because they were under the centre of the heavens, and the eye of the Great Spirit was always upon them. They knew more too than the other bands, and were in consequence much better off.
On that occasion he had talked nearly all night, and after that they all retired to rest. On awaking, the old warrior had disappeared, and since then had never been seen. Whether Unk-ta-he had drawn him into the deep, or Chat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods, had drawn him under the earth, or the Great Spirit had taken him, no one knew. He was no more among them.
The young man went on to say he had had a dream, in which he was told to array himself in new clothing, and to go in search of his uncle. He was forbidden to take arms or provisions of any kind; and in a short time he would have an interview with his uncle. This he had done in spite of the objections of his friends, who urged him at least to take his bow and arrows, but he had refused to do so, preferring to follow implicitly the directions he had received in his dream. He had been in the woods a long time, and was almost despairing, when one night he fell into a deep sleep, and his uncle stood before him; not old and wrinkled and time-worn, as he remembered him, but erect and firm. His voice was strong too, and he could have been heard a long way off, he spoke so loud and distinctly.
He said that the Sioux need not any more look for his return, for that in the far-off country where he lived, he had none of those weaknesses and pains to contend with, which are constantly among the aged on earth: he had wanted to try the bravery of his young nephew, to see whether or not he would have courage to do as he was told. He was glad he had done so, for now he would be a favourite of the gods, who delighted in courageous acts. He directed him as to what route he should take, telling him of everything that would happen to him on his way to the village, and charged him to say to them, that he should be furnished with a lance, bow, and arrows, and also have given to him a comrade, and be allowed to stay in the band. The Indians were overcome with admiration at the courage shown in these adventures, and they immediately presented him with the arms he required, and in every other way gratified his wishes.
He accepted these things proudly, as a right, rather than a favour; this bearing made him still more popular with his new friends. One of them came forward and told him he should have his oldest daughter—pointing to the well-pleased maiden—for a wife: the stranger said he had promised his uncle he would not marry until he had killed three Winnebagoes, and wore the feathers of honour he had thus earned.
He continued to grow in their favour, and was preparing to accompany some of their braves on a war-party, when, one morning, a party of Sioux approached the village. One of the men was much taller and larger than all the rest, his eagle feathers towering above their heads. The hospitable people pressed forward to welcome them: and when they were rested, and had eaten and smoked, the chief missed their stranger friend. He was not to be seen; when they found he did not return to them, they told his strange story to Fiery Man and his band.
The wretched man knew it was his wife who had thus baffled him. He went on his way, but some evil spirit stood between him and the accomplishment of his purpose. She was not to be given to his vengeance or his love. There was happiness yet in store for White Moon.
CHAPTER VI.
Chat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods and forests, holds a high rank among the Sioux; by some he is considered even greater than the Thunder-Bird. Were it not for the great number of Thunder-Birds, that race would long since have been extinct; so many battles have they had, and so powerful is the god whose home is in the dark woods, whose guardians and servants are every bird that rests itself in the branches of the trees, whose notes welcome the coming of the day.
Chat-o-tee-dah passes by the shrubbery of the lowlands, and makes his home on the largest tree on the highest eminence of the forest; his dwelling is in the root of the tree. He is not confined to this part of it, but comes out when occasion may require.
Is he hungry? he takes his seat upon the branch of the tree, and, by his power of attraction, he is soon surrounded by the winged messengers of the forest, ready to do his bidding. While he is thus holding his court, the limb of the tree on which he is seated becomes smooth as glass.
Chat-o-tee-dah and the Thunder-Bird, as I have said, are enemies: and many hard battles have been fought between them, the god of the woods being generally the victor.
This is to be ascribed, in a great measure, to the attachment and vigilance of his body-guard, the birds of the forest.
At the slightest commotion in the heavens, whose stormy portents indicate the coming of the Thunder-Bird, Chat-o-tee-dah is roused from his sleep, or whatever occupation may engage him at the time, by his servants; he has thus ample time to make his arrangements.
While the clouds roll swiftly and angrily towards the habitation of the water god, and streaked lightning plays in vivid flashes on the earth, Chat-o-tee-dah is coolly making his preparations for the work of death, assured, by his very calmness, of victory. The little birds, hid in the dark branches of the trees, are faithful sentinels, momentarily making their report, while the god of the woods keeps safely hid in the root of the tree, his stronghold in time of danger.
The Thunder-Bird resorts to cunning. He takes the form of a large bird, but his disguise is always penetrated by the smallest forest-bird; they know him, and, like faithful servants, keep near their lord. Again and again the thunder rolls, and the lightning plays about the branches of the tree. The waters swell and rise up to anger the Thunder-Bird, and to tempt him to do battle, but he has too many quarrels to resent against the forest gods, and the day of his vengeance is come. It is not often that he has courage to tempt the forest god to battle, for he knows his power; but now he will show him his own strength, when he is roused.
There is a stillness of the elements, and now again the deafening sound is heard, and the lightning pierces the home of the forest god; but Chat-o-tee-dah is safe, for there is a communication with the roots of the tree and the waters, and he passes through it safely, hearing the while the noise of the elements, while he descends to the great waters below.
Again the earth shakes, for the Thunder-Bird has cast forth his lightning, and pierced the root of the tree; but he is again defeated by the cunning of the god, who has found a refuge in the dominions of Unk-ta-he.
But at last the forest god is angry, and he has determined to come forth from his watery retreat, and beard the Thunder-Bird with his own weapons. He hurls back at him the lightning;—in an instant the daring invader is dead at his feet.
The battles of their gods are unending themes of adventure among the Sioux. Conversing upon them, the hours are whiled away from evening until midnight, and often from midnight to morn. The intellect must have occupation. How many a noble mind has thus gone to waste!
We may judge, from the importance attached to these fanciful stories, how hard must be the work of the Indian missionary. What a system of error to uproot! We may also look into our own hearts:—which is the greater absurdity, the worship of Chat-o-tee-dah or mammon?—the bowing down to the glorious works of the hand of God, or devotions paid to the gilded idol of this world?
Fiery Man no more boasted of his intercourse with the gods; they seemed to have forgotten they were his friends.
He had sought far and near for his wife. At times his heart was full of revenge: that she should have destroyed his son was the bitterest reflection of all. His sister's blood seemed still to be flowing before him; vengeance was called for on her who had made his lodge dark for ever. Then a different mood would affect him. She would stand before him, obedient, docile, and timid, with her soft, fearful voice, so different from the loud tones of his sister's. He could remember her so distinctly, as she held up her child for him to see, as he left the lodge to go with the hunting party. Her long, braided hair, falling about her shoulders, as her infant's cheek lay pressed against hers. For the first time he thought she looked sad at parting with him, and he had treasured the thought. He knew then she never raised her hand against her child. He would have crushed his evil-minded sister for the suggestion, had she stood before him in life. He would sit buried in thought, the storms of passion breaking away from his heart; but this did not last, and woe to the man who came before him in his fierce mood.
He died in battle; but the Indians said he gave his life away, for he met his enemy as if he were in a dream, and shouted no cry as he was wont. They brought his body back and buried it by the side of his son: and even death did not break the spell of awe connected with him, for the women were afraid to sit and plait grass near his grave. Harpstinah moved her lodge from where it stood, saying, she must live farther off from the graves, that she might not hear Fiery Man in the night calling for vengeance on his wife, who had deserted him, and murdered his child.
No one could tell the fate of White Moon. Her parents died soon after her disappearance. But the Black Eagle, who some years after visited the Sioux who live among the thousand isles at the head of Rum River, said, that when he arrived there, White Moon's old lover took him to his lodge, and that his wife helped him off with his snow-shoes, and made him broth, for he was nearly perished with cold and hunger, having been at one time covered with snow for several days and nights, as his only chance of life.
When he told them he had come for some of the stone that lay on the shores of that river, to make knives, the war-chief asked him what band he belonged to, and that while he was answering, the woman ceased her employment, listening intently to him. That the war-chief asked him what had become of that tall chief called the Fiery Man; and that while he was telling of his death, and of his strange condition before it, the woman laughed, and said that after all Chat-o-tee-dah had not been as true a friend as the warrior thought, for a weak woman had escaped from his fiercest anger; and that when he asked her if she had ever known Fiery Man, her husband was angry, and told her to hush, saying, women always talked too much, and that it was time she had done his leggins, which he wanted to wear in the morning, when he met the wise men of their band in council; that when she returned to her work, as she was told, that he was reminded of the quiet obedience with which White Moon ever listened to the commands of her husband, that tall warrior, Fiery Man, who had gone to that country where thousands of warriors assemble and shout through the heavens their song, as they celebrate the medicine feast.
[26] The story of Wenona is given in "Dacota, or Legends of the Sioux," in almost the words of the Sioux themselves. It has been often told by travellers, and there is no doubt but it actually occurred. [N. B. This tradition, as given in a letter from Miss Bremer to myself, during her visit to the Falls of St. Anthony, will be found at the end of this story.—J. S. H.]
NOTE.
A Tradition of the Falls of St. Anthony.—There is a little island, just below the Falls, surrounded by their spray, with picturesque rocks and dark cedars, looking lonely and romantic, more attractive than the Falls, through its peculiar looks, and its story, connected with the Falls and with the people which still hovers around them, on the territory of Minesota, raising tents of one night soon to depart, kindling fires soon to be quenched. It is called the Spirit Island, and its tale is that of many an Indian woman,—is in fact the poetic truth of woman's fate among the red men. It tells:
There was once a hunter of the tribe of the Dacotas (or Sioux) living near the Falls of St. Anthony. He had but one wife, and loved her and was loved by her so well, that the union and the happiness of the hunter and his wife, Ampota Sampa, was talked of among the tribe as wonderful. They had two children, and lived lonely and happy for several years. But as he became known as a great hunter, and grew rich, several families came and raised their tipis (lodges) near that of the happy pair. And words and whispers came to the young man that he ought to have more wives, so that he might enjoy more happiness. He listened to the tempters, and soon made a choice among the daughters of his new friends. But when he had to tell his first wife thereof, his heart smote him, and, to make the news less painful to her, he began by telling her that he had bethought himself that she had too many household cares, and that she wanted somebody to help her in them, and so he would bring her that help in the form of a young girl, who was to be his second wife.
Ampota Sampa answered "No!" She had not too many cares. She was happy to have them for him and his children. She prayed and besought him, by their former love and happy life, by every tender tie, by the love of their little ones, not to bring a new love, a new wife, to the lodge. He said nothing. But this same night he brought home to the lodge his new wife.
Early next morning a death-song was heard on the waters of the Mississippi, and a canoe was seen gliding swiftly down the rapids, above the Falls of St. Anthony, and in the canoe was sitting a young woman with two little children folded to her bosom. It was Ampota Sampa; and in her song she told the cause of her despair, of her death, of her departure for the spirit-land. So she sat, singing her death-song, swiftly borne onward by the rapids to the edge of the rocks. Her husband, her friends, heard her and saw her, but too late. In a few moments the canoe was at the top of the Falls; there it paused a second, and then, borne on by the rush of the waters, down it dashed, and the roaring waves covered the victims with their white foam.
Their bodies were never seen again; but tradition says that on misty mornings, the spirit of the Indian wife, with the children folded to her bosom, is seen gliding in the canoe through the rising spray about the Spirit Island, and that the sound of her death-song is heard moaning in the wind and in the roar of the Falls of St. Anthony. Such is the legend of the Indian wife.—Fredrika Bremer.