Indian Legends of Minnesota

by Unknown

A pine-girt lake, broad spread; a glimpse
Of clear-rimmed bay, encroaching lusk
Upon a lapse of rocky vale;
Beyond, a brunt-browed mountain, set
Abrupt against a weary waste
Of level, sparse-grown forest plain.
Vanguard of Order's birth on Earth's
Primeval stage, sphynx-like, the mount
From chaos burst upon a world
Of sea in space. It kept its head
To the sun; it pierced the dense of the mists;
It gathered forces, one by one,
Until the land by light was kissed.
The waters slunk away to Lake
Superior's bent, leaving a child
At play, on a plateau's breast, content.
Marking the march of time, the mount
Grew grim and gray, while ages stored
Their riches at its feet away:—
Ore-of-iron riches deep stowed
In vaults of rock, for creature king
Of future age to fit the key
Of genius in their ancient locks; Stowed wealth to bless a nation, whose
Motto: "Onward! Light!" befits it
For that mountain's home, which pierced through
Inchoate night; stowed signet seal,
With which to stamp that fair land's Queen
Of States, whose crested monogram,
With sheaves of wheat entwined, the North
Star scintillates.

Guarding the till
Of treasure, mountain, grim and gray,
Playing with wind and wave, child-lough
And lazy bay—Archaic group
Are they, whose quiet naught details
Of primal epochs; yet, as face
Of man with furrowed wrinkles marked
And seared, suggests his past life's course,
Their presence in itself reveals
The trace of annals which their calm
Conceals. So Mystery's seeds were sown.
Even the simple Indian folk,—
Naive indigene of primitive plain,—
Beheld with minds to quickened thought
Provoked, that single skyward height
Break stark upon the main and called
It "Wey-do-dosh-she-ma-de-nog."
Because, they said, it was the breast
Of Mother Earth, which there arose
To succor spirit souls in quest
Of joyous hunting-grounds, of which
Their wise men tell. And not to them
Alone has nature from this rare
Scene appealed to fancy; for, when Old Father Time, from out his horn
Of plenty, had poured the years full
Generations high upon the one
To which this legend runs, the white
Man came, bearing a waving stick,
His country's standard, into these
Proemial haunts. The lake, wine-stained,
He called "Vermilion," but the mount
Which broke upon his vision from
Under a chastened moon, he named,
"Jasper," after glories promised
To the kingdom of his own God.

---

The wild rice bent its fragile stalk
Beneath a crown of ripened grain;
The birch and oak and maple blazed
The Autumn's glory forth, and set aflame
With red and gold, the northland pines,
Perennial green. The light wind's voice
Was muffled in requiem, mournful, low,—
A parting song to Summer, sad, soft,
And measured slow. Timed to the chant
Of death, but tuned to death's sweet hope—
Joy-hope of sorrow born—fair birth,
A freer life of fuller scope!
The sinking sun set all ablush
The bosom of the lake. Upon the edge
Of twilight rode the specter moon—
Swift pinioned bird of noiseless flight—
And hung a halo far above
Mount Wey-do-dosh-she-ma-de-nog. Along the shard-strewn shore, a band
Of Chippeway braves had pitched their camp,
To celebrate, with rites of their
Medawe, the flooding season's
Tide of full-grown grain. In and out
Among the shadow-lengthened pines,
Their dusky forms moved, one by one,
To circle silently around
The council fire. And when the tribe
Were gathered all, the day was done;
Its splendor shifted to the Queen
Of Night, that, flushed with triumph, flung
Adown the path of sky, beyond
Mount Wey-do-dosh-she-ma-de-nog
A bridge of golden gleams, to lose
Themselves within the darkling depths
Of Lake Vermilion's lifeless bay.

Then Guteba, like Jacob's son,
The favored one of twelve, arose.
No warrior paint his tawny skin
Bedecked, nor eagle plume, nor claw
Of beast adorned his royal head—
Base custom that of vulgar herd.
He wore a girt of wampum, nor
Need had he of other raiment;
For form erect, and sinewy frame
And kindling eye, bespoke the garb
Of manhood.

Thus he addressed them:
"From yonder window, framed in sky,
Swings Ko-go-gau-pa-gon. The God of Life has placed it there.
Down-hanging from the happy land,
Where spirits go, it forms a bridge,
O'er which all ransomed souls must cross.

In fineness built, of beam of moon,
It sinks and rolls, my children. But
The light of foot and brave of heart
Fear not. And one thing mark: before
An Indian may touch sole upon Those gleaming strands of gold, he first
Must navigate the bay, within
Whose darkly deep and treacherous bounds
The water, shamming, seems to sleep,
But only lies, like cunning fox,
To snare unwary passers-by
And hold them from their homeward way.

"The story is not new. It is
Told with every year, as I do tell
It now, when comes Medawe time;
When all the earth was young in youth
The mighty Water reigned thereon
And breath of life was not. Then, here,
Upon the wind was heard a voice
In thunder tones, which said unto
The Water, 'Kitchie Gumme, I
Am Gezha Manitou—of Life
The Master Spirit. Lo! I bid
Thy waves recede. Here, leading up
Past Wey-do-dosh-she-ma-de-nog
Unto the Soul's Hereafter, I
Have established Ke-wa-ku-na.
Thy waters overleap my path
So that my children cannot pass.
Thou'st gone too far. Retreat to serve
Within the spacious metes which I
Have set for thee.' Because the waves
Would not, Gezha Manitou hurled
Them back upon each other, till
They sank deeper and deeper and
Deeper into perpetual sea.
Time does not count backward beyond That struggle, but the water's voice
Has ever since been dumb where it
Took place; his arms have there refused
The birch canoe to cradle, or
The fish to succor. There, also
He called the Matchie Manitou,
The evil ones, to do his will.
They slew the buffalo, until
The rocks turned red with blood. They stole
The souls of them who sought to pass
The water grave; and man grew sad
And heavy-hearted. Then the voice
Of Gezha Manitou again
Was heard in words of speech to say:
'When winter snows, and springtime showers,
And summer suns have rounded out
The moon of ripened grain, light fires
To mark the places where your dead
Await my messengers to guide
Them home. Of meat to eat provide
Them none; but shape their arrows strong
And true. My buffalo will herd
Upon the water, and, along
The shores, thy garnered stores of grass
And grain must yield them food. Their horns
Will golden glimmer on the night
To make them easy prey for home
Bound souls, and they shall not be harmed
By Matchie Manitou. All clothed
In serpent skin and sharpened tooth
And poisoned tongue, my guides will come.
Then, let the living wary be
And go not near the tombs after The haze of dusk turns dark of night;
For swift my heralds will approach
Those ghostly haunts with sure demand
For every soul that's found therein,
Be it in body dead or quick.'

"The month, the day, the hour is here,
My children, when the dead may cross
To Ke-wa-ku-na less the fear
Of harm, and we have come to say
The last farewell. Wacumic's tomb,
Among the rest, awaits the torch.
In council, he was the Wise Man;
In war, the Brave Chief, and at home
The Best Loved,—his forefathers famed
For deeds of valor, virtue, and
Wisdom far back as memory takes
The trail. His name, interpreted
'The waters ceased and earth began,'
Denotes the time to which his line
Of lineage runs. His spirit craves
The promised land of happy hunt,
And chase, and sweetly flowing streams.
Our numbers are few, but our hearts
Are strong. We are weak from the loss
Of many battles, far from home;
Our horizon is shadowed by the Sioux;
Their echoing songs ring the woodlands
Through. Is it wise for us to light
The zenith of our skies, e'en tho'
It be with flame of sacred fire?
Wacumic was my father; you
My children are. I have finished." Against the circle's center stake
The chieftain placed his wing-trimmed stick—
Most curious crozier, which gave
Unto the thought of him, whose palm
It touched a brilliant speaking tongue;
Resumed his honored place the tribe
Among.