The happy sojourner in these regions will soon become accustomed to the Indian names, and, if the use of ‘fire-water’ is eschewed, words like Chamouchouan and Ashuapmouchouan will roll trippingly from the tongue.
And now for an Indian legend. Tonadalwa was an Indian maid beautiful to look upon, and desired by every young brave of her tribe. Her eyes were dark and lustrous, her form was lithe, supple and beautifully moulded, words from her lips were sweeter than honey, and her song was like unto that of the bird that soars joyously in the sky at the first flush of the rosy dawn.
Tonadalwa’s heart had never quickened its tender fluttering under the glances of her dusky wooers. One only, Po-kwa-ha, had any place in her affections. He had saved her from drowning, years before, and it filled her memory. In a canoe as light as a feather, that her lover had made for her, and with the stroke she had learned from him, she would take her way over the water, skimming the white-crested waves with a grace and speed beautiful to behold.
One day as the soft summer air played languidly in and out of the quivering tree branches, while the sun poised over the horizon and assumed its dying robe of crimson, Tonadalwa’s canoe glided out from the village shore and took its way down the great river. Taking only an occasional stroke to keep in mid-channel, the maiden floated on. The faint musical ripple of the gliding canoe and the gentle swish of the paddle made a fitting accompaniment for girlish fancies that lightly came and went on the wings of thought, and soon the soul of Tonadalwa was deep in communion with nature, and her paddle rested motionless over the water.
But a sound from the shore interrupts her reverie. She listens. Yes, it is her lover’s voice. He calls her, as he has done before. She waits to see if his canoe puts out, but it does not. Again his voice is heard, and, this time quickly immersing her paddle, she speeds for the shore. But it is a cruel ruse of a rejected suitor, for when too late she sees the hated brave dash out in his canoe, and the thing she has dimly dreaded from the evil glance of Ka-wis is about to happen. She screams and turns to flee. The dastard brave drops his paddle, springs to his feet, and, knowing that the maiden will escape in her light canoe, sends an arrow on its deadly errand of revenge. But Tonadalwa’s eye was quick and her action fleet, for she dropped prostrate ere the arrow sped where she had stood a moment before. Alas! she had lost her paddle in the quick movement, and as she drifted down, not daring to look up, she soon heard the roar of the dreaded fall below.
All too soon she realized her peril. A cry now reaches her ear. The cry rings true this time, her heart tells her, and, springing up, she looks to the bank, sees that Ka-wis has fled and that her brave Po-kwa-ha is running rapidly as he tries to overtake her. Ere he can draw near to take the plunge of desperation and love, the whirling eddies have caught the Indian maid in their grasp, the seething rapids toss her canoe from billow to billow, and Death seizes her in his cold embrace as the frail bark is dashed over the foaming cataract.
Po-kwa-ha sees the dreadful catastrophe, as for one brief moment the beloved form of Tonadalwa is outlined clearly against the evening sky; and then, with one last involuntary cry for help, she extends her arms to her lover—and she has gone.