How its huge white wings fold up at a signal from the tyee captain! And then your father comes board, and stands in mute attention to the ceremonies of seamen’s marriage law. And you, in innocence, give heed to word or sign until you are bound in law to the fortunes and freaks of a roving sailor-boy.
When Tyee John turns away, hiding his tears in his heart, while yours run down your cheeks, we see him reach his canoe, and you hanging over the sides of the ship to catch a last glance of his eye.
Farewell to Oneatta.
And then the white wings are spread again, and soon he grows so small that his paddle seems but a dark feather in his hand, and your old home recedes, and you have caught the last glimpse you ever will, of the mountain sinking in the sea, and you, alone,—no, not alone, for your sailor-boy is with you, now drying the tears from your dusky cheeks.
Oneatta, we leave you, with a prayer that your life may not be as rough as the seas that drove the “big canoe” into Quina bay. Whether your hopes have blossomed into fruition, or have been blasted, we know not, nor if you still live to be loved or loathed. We only know that your silver-haired sire sits on the stony cliff, overlooking the mouth of the harbor, and watches passing sails, or hastens to meet those that anchor, and repeat the old question over and over, Me-si-ka, is-cum, ni-ka-hi-ak-close, ten-as-cluchman, Oneatta? (Have you brought back my beautiful daughter, Oneatta?)
When Cupid comes with pale-faced warrior to the dusky maiden now, they repeat the warning tale, with Ni-ka-cum-tux Oneatta. (I remember Oneatta.)