Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 1

by James Athearn Jones

One was a Ricara boy,
And one was a Ricara girl,
And one was a Ricara dog.
My brother hears.
The boy and the girl were lovers,
And the dog loved both,
They loved each other more
Than the soul of an Indian loves his home;
The lodge of his wife and babes,
Or the graves,
The mossy graves,
The green and grass-covered graves,
Of his fathers mouldered and gone;
They loved each other more
Than the warrior loves the shout of his foe,
Or the festival of scalps,
Or the hunter to see the wing,
Of a plover beating the air.

Their fathers were friends;
They dwelt together in one cabin;
They hunted the woods together;
They warred together,
Raising the self-same shout of onset,
Waking the self-same song of triumph:
Their mothers were sisters;
They dwelt together in one cabin;
Together they wrought in the field of maize;
Each bent her back to the bison's flesh,
Load and load alike;
And they went to the wild wood together,
To bring home the food for the fire;
Kind were these sisters to each other;
There was always a clear sky[42] in their cabins:—
My brother hears.

One Ricara father said to his friend,
While these babes yet swung
In their baskets of bark
From the bough of the oak,
Listen!
I have a young eagle in my eyrie,
Thou hast a young dove in thy nest,
Let us mate them.
Though now they be but squabs,
There will be but twice eight chills of the lake;
And twice eight fails of the maple leaf;
And twice eight bursts of the earth from frosts;
The corn will ripen bat twice eight times,
Tall, sweet corn;
The rose will bloom but twice eight times,
Beautiful rose!
The vine will give but twice eight times
Its rich black clusters,
Sweet ripe clusters,
Grapes of the land of the Ricaras,
Ere thy squab shall be an eagle,
Ere my little dove shall wear
The feathers and plumes of a full-grown bird.
Let us pledge them now
To each other,
That when thy son has become a man,
And painted his face as a brave man paints,
Red on the cheek,
Red on the brow,
And wears but the single lock[43],
That is graced with the plumes of the Warrior-bird,
And has stolen thy bow for the field of strife,
And run away with thy spear,
And thou findest thy sheaf of arrows gone,
And nearest his shout as he follows the steps
Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge,
And my little dove,
My beautiful dove,
Sings in the grove, in the hour of eve,
All alone, soft songs.
Maiden's songs of the restless hour,
When the full heart sings, it knows not why:
My son shall build himself a lodge,
And thy daughter shall light his fires.

Then said his friend,
'Tis well;
Nor hast thou a forked tongue:
My son is pledged to thee,
And to thy little daughter.
When he has become a warrior-man,
And painted his face with the ochre of wrath,
Red on the cheek,
Red on the brow,
And wears but a scalp-lock,
Decked with the plumes of the warrior-bird,
And has stolen my bow for the field of strife,
And run away with my spear,
And I find my sheaf of arrows gone,
And hear his shout as he follows the step
Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge,
And thy dove
Sings in the grove in the hour of eve,
All alone, soft songs,
Maiden songs, songs of the unquiet hour,
Songs that gush out of the swelling soul,
As the river breaks over its banks:
My son shall build himself a cabin,
And thy daughter shall light his fires.

When these two Ricara babes were grown,
To know the meaning of words,
And to read the language of eyes,
And to guess by the throbs of the heart,
It was said to them,
To the girl, he will build thee a lodge,
And bring thee a good fat deer of the glade;
To the boy, she will light thy fires, and be
The partner of thy lot.
And knowing this they loved:
No more were they seen apart,
They went together to pluck the grape,
To look for the berry which grew on the moor,
To fright the birds from the maize;
They hunted together the lonely copse,
To search for the bittern's eggs,
And they wandered together to pluck from the waste
The first blue flower of the budding moon;
And, when the village children were come,
Where the rope of grass,
Or the twisted thong of bison-hide,
Hung from the bough,
To swing in childish sport,
These two did always swing each other,
And if by chance they found themselves apart,
Then tears bedew'd their little cheeks,
And the gobs of grief came thick and fast,
Till they found each other's arms again,
And so they grew:—
My brother hears.

The maiden grew up beautiful,
Tall as the chin of a lofty man,
Bright as the star that shines,
To guide the Indian hunter through
The pathless wilds to his home.
Her hair was like the grape-clustered vine;
Her neck was the neck of the swan;
Her eyes were the eyes of the dove;
Her hand was as small as the red oak's leaf;
Her foot was the length of the lark's spread wing;
Her step was the step of the antelope's child;
Her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,
Of the rill's most gentle song:
Oh, how beautiful was the Ricara girl!
How worthy to be the wife of the man,
And to light-the fires of a Brave!
How fit-to be the mother
Of stout warriors and expert hunters!

And how grew the Ricara boy?—
Does my brother listen?
He does, it is well.—
He grew to be fair to the eye,
Like a tree that hath smooth bark,
But is rotten or hollow at core;
A vine that cumbers the earth
With the weight of leaves and flowers,
But never brings forth fruit:
He did not become a man:
He painted not as a warrior paints,
Red on the cheek,
Red on the brow,
Nor wore the gallant scalp-lock,
Black with the plumes of the warrior-bird,
Nor stole his father's bow,
Nor ran away with his spear,
Nor took down the barbed sheaf,
Nor raised his shout as he followed the step
Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge.
He better loved to sit by the fire,
While the women were spinning the mulberry-bark(2)
Or to lie at his length by the stream,
To watch the nimble salmon's sport,
Or, placed by the leafy perch of the bird,
To snare the poor simple thing;
He better loved to rove with girls
In search of early flowers.

The Ricara father said to the maid,
"Listen to me, my dove,
When I gave thee away,
I deem'd that I gave
My child to one who would gain renown,
By the deeds which had given his sires renown,
To a boy who would snatch, ere his limbs were grown,
The heaviest bow of the strongest man,
And hie to the strife with a painted face,
And a shout that should ring in the lonely glades,
Like a spirit's among the hills;
I did not deem I had given my dove
To a youth with the heart of a doe;
A gatherer-in of flowers,
A snarer of simple birds,
A weeder with women of maize[44],
A man with the cheek of a girl—
Dost thou listen?

"Now, since thy lover is weak in heart,
A woman in mind and soul,
Nor boasts, nor wishes to boast,
Of deeds in battle done,
Nor sings, nor wishes to sing,
Of men by his arm laid low,
Nor tells how he bore the flames, his foes
Did kindle around his fettered limbs;
And, since he finds more joy in flowers,
And had rather work in the maize-clad field,
Than wend to the glorious strife
With the warriors of his tribe,
I will not keep my faith.—
My daughter hears.—
I bid thee see the youth once more,
And then behold his face no more.
Tell him, the child of the Red Wing weds
With none but the fierce and bold,
Tell him, the man, whose fires she lights,
Must be strong of soul, and stout of arm,
Able to send a shaft to the heart
Of him who would quench that fire,
Able to bend a warrior's bow,
Able to poise a warrior's spear,
Able to bear, without a groan,
The torments devised by hungry foes,
The pincers rending his flesh,
The hot stones searing his eye-balls.—
Dost thou hear?"

Then down the daughter's beauteous cheeks
Ran drops like the plenteous summer rain.
"I hear, my father,
Yet, hard thy words weigh on my heart;
Thou gav'st me to him, while we lay,
Unknowing the pledge, in our willow cage(3),
When first we opened our eyes on the world,
And saw the bright and twinkling stars,
And the dazzling sun, and the moon alive(4),
And the fields bespread with blooming flowers,
And we breath'd the balmy winds of spring;
The old men said, to one another,
'Dost thou know, brother,
Thar, when his years are the years of a man,
And his deeds are the deeds of the good and true,
The son of the Yellow Pine
Shall marry the Red Wing's daughter?'
And the women took up the tale,
And the boys and girls, when met to play,
Told in our ears the pleasing words,
That I was to be his wife.