One day you will remember me—
One day—one day!
You will at last remember me,
And say,
"I was so dear to her—so dear to her!"
Yeh-eh-eh-eh—;
You will remember me
One day!
Yeh-eh-eh-eh—!
When the young hero carried home his bride,
He rode a pacing pony at her side; Twelve others followed—costly loads they bore,
Rich robes and gifts—the Blackfoot maiden's dower.
On a lone war-path finding such a fate,
His triumph all the village celebrate;
Peace is declared between the tribes; and soon—
Before the waxing of another moon—
Guns, knives and blankets, prized past all belief,
Are sent as presents to the Blackfoot chief.
Such is the tale by Indian camp-fires told—
The old, old story that grows never old!
ELAINE GOODALE EASTMAN.
[A] I. e., who slew thy father.
