"Karkapaha is a thief," said the White Crane.
"It is the father of my beautiful and beloved Tatoka that says it," answered the lover; "else would Karkapaha say it was the song of a bird that has flown over."
"My warriors say it."
"Your warriors are singing-birds; they are wrens; Karkapaha says they do not speak the truth.—Karkapaha has the heart of a tiger, and the strength of a bear; let the Braves try him. He has thrown away the woman's heart; he has become a man."
"Karkapaha is changed," said the chief thoughtfully, "but when, and how?"
"The Little Spirits of the Mountain have given him a new soul. Bid your Braves draw this bow; bid them poise this spear. Their eyes say they can do neither. Then is Karkapaha the strong man of his tribe;" and as he said this he flourished the ponderous spear over his head as a man would poise a reed, and drew the bow as a child would bend a willow twig.
"Karkapaha is the husband of Tatoka," said Mahtoree, springing to his feet, and he gave the beautiful maiden to her lover. The traditionary lore of the Mahas is full of the exploits, both in war and the chase, of Karkapaha, who was made a man by the Spirits of the Mountain.
[THE VALLEY OF THE BRIGHT OLD INHABITANTS.]
On the northern branch of the river of the Cherokees, the most numerous and powerful tribe of the south, there are two high mountains nearly covered with mossy rocks, and lofty cedars, and pines. These mountains, rugged and terrible to behold, are made yet more fearful to the mind of the red man of the forest, who sees the Great Being in the clouds, and hears him in the winds, and fancies a spirit in every thing that moves, by the horrid sights and awful sounds which proceed from them. Often, as the sun sinks behind those mountains, persons who have their eyes intently fixed upon them will see lofty forms whose heads stretch far into the sky, standing upon their summits, or oftener leaping from one mountain to the other clean across the wide valley which separates them. Those shapes we can see wear the shape of man, yet their actions do not seem to belong to a race of mortals, and we deem them spirits—giant spirits, which never had the sinews, and bones, and muscle, and flesh, of men. And often, in the midnight hour, the listener hears sounds proceeding from those mountains—the whispers of love, the loud tones of strife, or the merry ones of joy—laughing and weeping—wooing and strife—expressing all the various passions and emotions which find a place in the bosoms of mortals. With these mighty spirits no mortal hath had communication, for they never leave the mountain—and who shall dare approach their villages? No one has heard their story, no one knows their creator, nor when they were born, nor when they shall die, if death be appointed to them. They have lived in mystery: showing their forms as the trunk of a decayed, and branch-less tree shows itself from out a morning mist, and raising their voices but as a thunder-cloud in summer, they will depart as a spirit departs, noiselessly, and go no one knows whither.