SONG

THE "WAKAN WACEPEE," OR SACRED DANCE.81

Lo the lights in the "Teepee Wakán!"'tis the night of the Wakán-Wacépee.Round and round walks the chief of the clan,as he rattles the sacred Ta-shá-kay;81Long and loud on the Chân-che-ga81beat the drummers with magical drumsticks,And the notes of the Chô-tánka81greet,like the murmur of winds on the waters.By the friction of white-cedar woodfor the feast was a Virgin-fire20kindled.They that enter the firm brotherhoodfirst must fast and be cleansed by E-neé-pee;81And from foot-sole to crown of the headmust they paint with the favorite colors;For Unktéhee likes bands of blood-red,with the stripings of blue intermingled.In the hollow earth, dark and profound,Unktéhee and fiery Wakín-yanLong fought and the terrible soundof the battle was louder than thunder;The mountains were heaved and aroundwere scattered the hills and the boulders,And the vast solid plains of the groundrose and fell like the waves of the ocean.But the god of the waters prevailed.Wakín-yan escaped from the cavern,And long on the mountains he wailed,and his hatred endureth forever.When Unktéhee had finished the earth,and the beasts and the birds and the fishes,And men at his bidding came forthfrom the heart of the huge hollow mountains69A band chose the god from the hordes,and he said "Ye are sons of Unktéhee;Ye are lords of the beasts and the birds,and the fishes that swim in the waters.But hearken ye now to my words,—let them sound in your bosoms forever.Ye shall honor Unktéhee and hate Wakínyan,the Spirit of Thunder,For the power of Unktéhee is great,and he laughs at the darts of Wakínyan.Ye shall honor the Earth and the Sun,—for they are your father and mother.70Let your prayer to the Sun be—Wakán, Até: on-si-má-da oheé-neé[a]And remember the Táku Wakán,73all pervading in earth and in ether—Invisible ever to man,but he dwells in the midst of all matter;Yea, he dwells in the heart of the stone—in the hard granite heart of the boulder;Ye shall call him forever Tunkán—grandfather of all the Dakotas.Ye are men that I choose for my own;ye shall be as a strong band of brothers,Now I give you the magical boneand the magical pouch of the spirits. [b]And these are the laws ye shall heed:Ye shall honor the pouch and the giver.Ye shall walk as twin-brothers;in need, one shall forfeit his life for another.Listen not to the voice of the crow. [c]Hold as sacred the wife of a brother.Strike, and fear not the shaft of the foe,for the soul of the brave is immortal.Slay the warrior in battle,but spare the innocent babe and the mother.Remember a promise;—beware,—let the word of a warrior be sacred.When a stranger arrives at the tee—be he friend of the band or a foeman,Give him food; let your bounty be free;lay a robe for the guest by the lodge-fire;Let him go to his kindred in peace,if the peace-pipe he smoke in the teepee;And so shall your children increase,and your lodges shall laugh with abundance.And long shall ye live in the land,and the spirits of earth and the watersShall come to your aid, at command,with the power of invisible magic.And at last, when you journey afar—o'er the shining "Wanágee Ta-chán-ku,"70You shall walk as a red, shining star,18in the land of perpetual summer."[a] "Sacred Spirit, Father have pity on me always"[b] Riggs' Tahkoo Wakan, p. 90.[c] Slander.All the night in the teepee they sang,and they danced to the mighty Unktéhee,While the loud-braying Chán-che-ga rangand the shrill-piping flute and the rattle,Till Anpétuwee70rose in the east—from the couch of the blushing Han-nân-na.And then at the dance and the feastsang the song of Unktéhee in chorus:"Wa-dú-ta o-hna mi-ká-ge!Wa-dú-ta o-hná mi-ká-ge!Mini-yâta ité wakândè makù,Atè wakán—Tunkánsidán,Tunkânsidán pejihúta wakánMicâgè—he Wicâgè!Miniyáta ité wakándé makú.Taukánsidán ite, nápè dú-win-ta woo,Wahutôpa wan yúha, nápè dú-win-ta too."TRANSLATIONIn red swan-down he made it for me;In red swan-down he made it for me;He of the water—he of the mysterious face—Gave it to me;Sacred Father—Grandfather!Grandfather made me magical medicineThat is true!Being of mystery,—grown in the water—He gave it to me!To the face of our Grandfather stretch out your hand;Holding a quadruped, stretch out your hand!Till high o'er the hills of the eastAnpétuwee walked on his journey,In secret they danced at the feast,and communed with the mighty Unktéhee.Then opened the door of the teeto the eyes of the day and the people,And the sons of Unktéhee, to be,were endowed with the sacred Ozúha82By the son of tall Wazí-kuté, Tamdóka,the chief of the Magi.And thus since the birth-day of man—since he sprang from the heart of the mountains,69Has the sacred "Wacépee Wakán"by the warlike Dakotas been honored,And the god-favored sons of the clanwork their will with the help of the spirits.'Twas sunrise; the spirits of misttrailed their white robes on dewy  savannas,And the flowers raised their heads to be kissedby the first golden beams of the morning.The breeze was abroad with the breathof the rose of the Isles of the Summer,And the humming-bird hummed on the heathfrom his home in the land of the rain-bow. [a]'Twas the morn of departure.Duluth stood alone by the roar of the Ha-ha;Tall and fair in the strength of his youthstood the blue-eyed and fair-bearded Frenchman.A rustle of robes on the grass broke his dreamas he mused by the waters,And, turning, he looked on the face of Winona,wild rose of the prairies,Half hid in her forest of hair,like the round, golden moon in the pine tops.Admiring he gazed—she was fairas his own blooming Flore in her orchards,With her golden locks loose on the air,like the gleam of the sun through the olives,Far away on the vine-covered shore,in the sun-favored land of his fathers."Lists the chief to the cataract's roarfor the mournful lament of the Spirit?" [b]Said Winona,—"The wail of the spritefor her babe and its father unfaithful,Is heard in the midst of the night,when the moon wanders dim in the heavens."[a] The Dakotas say the humming-bird comes from the "land of therain-bow."[b] See Legend of the Falls or Note 28—Appendix."Wild-Rose of the Prairies," he said,"DuLuth listens not to the Ha-ha,For the wail of the ghost of the dead,for her babe and its father unfaithful;But he lists to a voice in his heartthat is heard by the ear of no other,And to-day will the White Chief depart—he returns to the land of the sunrise.""Let Winona depart with the chief,—she will kindle the fire in his teepee;For long are the days of her grief,if she stay in the tee of Ta-té-psin,"She replied and her cheeks were aflamewith the bloom of the wild prairie lilies."Tanké, [a] is the White Chief to blame?"said DuLuth to the blushing Winona."The White Chief is blameless," she said,"but the heart of Winona will followWherever thy footsteps may lead,O blue-eyed brave Chief of the white men.For her mother sleeps long in the mound,and a step-mother rules in the teepee.And her father, once strong and renowned,is bent with the weight of his winters.No longer he handles the spear,—no longer his swift, humming arrowsOvertake the fleet feet of the deer,or the bear of the woods, or the bison;But he bends as he walks, and the windshakes his white hair and hinders his footsteps;And soon will he leave me behind,without brother or sister or kindred.The doe scents the wolf in the wind,and a wolf walks the path of Winona.Three times have the gifts for the bride25to the lodge of Ta-té-psin been carried.But the voice of Winona repliedthat she liked not the haughty Tamdóka.And thrice were the gifts sent away,but the tongue of the mother protested,And the were wolf52still follows his prey,abides but the death of my father."[a] My Sister."I pity Winona," he said,"but my path is a pathway of danger,And long is the trail for the maidto the far-away land of the sunrise;And few are the braves of my band,and the braves of Tamdóka are many;But soon I return to the land,and a cloud of my hunters will follow.When the cold winds of winter return,and toss the white robes of the prairies,The fire of the White Chief will burnin his lodge at the Meeting-of-Waters; [a]And when from the Sunrise againcomes the chief of the suns of the Morning,Many moons will his hunters remainin the land of the friendly Dakotas.The son of Chief Wazí-kutéguides the White Chief afar on his journey;Nor long on the Tonka Medé [b]—on the breast of the blue, bounding billows—Shall the bark of the Frenchman delay,but his pathway shall kindle behind him."[a] Mendota, properlyMdó-tè—meaning the outlet of lake or river intoanother,commonly applied to the region about Fort Snelling.[b] Tonka Mede—Great Lake, i.e. Lake Superior. The Dakotas seem to havehad no other name for it. They generally referred to it asMini-ya-ta—There at the water.She was pale, and her hurried voice swelledwith alarm as she questioned replying"Tamdóka thy guide?—I beheld thy death in his face at the races!He covers his heart with a smile,but revenge never sleeps in his bosom;His tongue—it is soft to beguile;but beware of the pur of the panther!For death, like a shadow,will walk by thy side in the midst of the forest,Or follow thy path like a hawkon the trail of a wounded Mastinca. [a]A son of Unktéhee is he,—the Chief of the crafty magicians;They have plotted thy death; I foresee,and thy trail, it is red in the forest;Beware of Tamdóka,—beware.Slumber not like the grouse of the woodlands,With head under wing,for the glare of the eyes that sleep not are upon thee."[a] The rabbit. The Dakotas called the Crees "Mastincapi"—Rabbits."Winona, fear not," said Duluth,"for I carry the fire of Wakínyan, [a]And strong is the arm of my youth,and stout are the hearts of my warriors;But Winona has spoken the truth,and the heart of the White Chief is thankful.Hide this in thy bosom, dear maid,—'tis the crucified Christ of the white men. [b]Lift thy voice to his spirit in need,and his spirit will hear thee and answer;For often he comes to my aid;he is stronger than all the Dakotas;And the Spirits of evil, afraid,hide away when he looks from the heavens."In her swelling brown bosomshe hid the crucified Jesus in silver;"Niwástè," [c] she sadly replied;in her low voice the rising tears trembled;Her dewy eyes turned she aside,and she slowly returned to the teepees.But still on the swift river's strand,admiring the graceful Winona,As she gathered, with brown, dimpled hand,her hair from the wind, stood the Frenchman.[a] i.e. a fire arm which the Dakotas compare to the roar of the wings ofthe Thunder-bird and the fiery arrows he shoots.[b] Duluth was a devout Catholic.[c] Nee-wahshtay—Thou art good.To bid the brave White Chief adieu,on the shady shore gathered the warriors;His glad boatmen manned the canoe,and the oars in their hands were impatient.Spake the Chief of Isántees,—"A feast will await the return of my brotherIn peace rose the sun in the East,in peace in the West he descended.May the feet of my brother be swift,till they bring him again to our teepees;The red pipe he takes as a gift,may he smoke that red pipe many winters.At my lodge-fire his pipe shall be lit,when the White Chief returns to Kathága;On the robes of my tee shall he sit,he shall smoke with the chiefs of my people.The brave love the brave;and his son sends the Chief as a guide for his brother,By the way of the Wákpa Wakán [a]to the Chief at the Lake of the Spirits.[a] Spirit River, now calledRumRiver.As light as the foot-steps of dawnare the feet of the stealthy Tamdóka,And he fears not the Máza Wakán; [a]he is sly as the fox of the forest.When he dances the dance of red warall the hungry wolves howl by the Big Sea, [b]For they scent on the south-windafar their feast on the bones of Ojibways."Thrice the Chief puffed the red pipe of peace,ere it passed to the lips of the Frenchman.Spake DuLuth,—"May the Great Spiritbless with abundance the Chief and his people;May their sons and their daughters increase,and the fire ever burn in their teepees."Then he waved with a flag his adieuto the Chief and the warriors assembled;And away shot Tamdóka's canoeto the strokes of ten sinewy hunters;And a white path he clove up the blue,bubbling stream of the swift Mississippi;And away on his foaming trail flew,like a Sea-Gull the bark of the Frenchman.Then merrily rose the blithe songof thevoyageurshomeward returning,And thus, as they glided along,sang the bugle-voiced boatmen in chorus:

Home again! home again! bend to the oar!Merry is the life of the gayvoyageurHe rides on the river with his paddle in his hand,And his boat is his shelter on the water and the land.The clam in his shell and the water turtle too,And the brave boatman's shell is his birch bark canoe.So pull away, boatmen, bend to the oar;Merry is the life of the gayvoyageur.Home again! home again! bend to the oar!Merry is the life of the gayvoyageur.His couch is as downy as a couch can be,For he sleeps on the feathers of the green fir-tree.He dines on the fat of the pemmican-sack,And hiseau de vieis theeau de lac.So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar;Merry is the life of the gayvoyageur.Home again! home again! bend to the oar!Merry is the life of the gayvoyageur.The brave, jolly boatman,—he never is afraidWhen he meets at the portage a red, forest maid,A Huron, or a Cree, or a blooming Chippeway;And he marks his trail with thebois brulès.So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar;Merry is the life of the gayvoyageur.Home again! home again! bend to the oar!Merry is the life of the gayvoyageur.[a] Fire arm—spirit metal.

[b] Lake Superior—at that time the home of the Ojibways. (Chippewas)In the reeds of the meadow the staglifts his branchy head stately and listens,And the bobolink, perched on the flag,her ear sidelong bends to the chorus.From the brow of the Beautiful Isle, [a]half hid in the midst of the maples,The sad-faced Winona, the while,watched the boat growing less in the distance.Till away in the bend of the stream,where it turned and was lost in the lindens,She saw the last dip and the gleamof the oars ere they vanished forever.Still afar on the waters the song,like bridal bells distantly chiming,The stout, jolly boatmen prolong,beating time with the stroke of their paddles;And Winona's ear, turned to the breeze,lists the air falling fainter and fainterTill it dies like the murmur of beeswhen the sun is aslant on the meadows.Blow, breezes,—blow softlyand sing in the dark, flowing hair of the maiden;But never again shall you bringthe voice that she loves to Winona.[a] Wista Waste—Nicollet Island.Now a light, rustling wind from the Southshakes his wings o'er the wide, wimpling waters;Up the dark winding riverDuLuth follows fast in the wake of Tamdóka.On the slopes of the emerald shoresleafy woodlands and prairies alternate;On the vine-tangled islandsthe flowers peep timidly out at the white men;In the dark-winding eddy the loon sits warily,watching and voiceless,And the wild goose, in reedy lagoon,stills the prattle and play of her children.The does and their sleek, dappled fawnsprick their ears and peer out from the thickets,And the bison-calves play on the lawns,and gambol like colts in the clover.Up the still flowing Wákpa Wakán's winding paththrough the groves and the meadows.Now DuLuth's brawny boatmenpursue the swift gliding bark of Tamdóka;And hardly the red braves out-dothe stout, steady oars of the white men.Now they bend to their oars in the race—the ten tawny braves of Tamdóka;And hard on their heels in the chaseply the six stalwart oars of the Frenchmen.In the stern of his boat sits DuLuth,in the stern of his boat stands Tamdóka;And warily, cheerily,both urge the oars of their men to the utmost.Far-stretching away to the eyes,winding blue in the midst of the meadows,As a necklet of sapphiresthat lies unclaspt in the lap of a virgin,Here asleep in the lap of the plainlies the reed-bordered, beautiful river.Like two flying coursers that strain,on the track, neck and neck, on the home-stretch,With nostrils distended, and mane froth-flecked,and the neck and the shoulders,Each urged to his best by the cryand the whip and the rein of his rider,Now they skim o'er the waters and fly,side by side, neck and neck, through the meadows.The blue heron flaps from the reeds,and away wings her course up the river;Straight and swift is her flight o'er the meads,but she hardly outstrips the canoemen.See! thevoyageursbend to their oarstill the blue veins swell out on their foreheads;And the sweat from their brawny breasts pours;but in vain their Herculean labor;For the oars of Tamdôka are ten,and but six are the oars of the Frenchmen,And the red warriors' burden of menis matched by thevoyageur'sluggage.Side by side, neck and neck, for a mile,still they strain their strong arms to the utmost,Till rounding a willowy isle, now ahead creeps the boat of Tamdóka,And the neighboring forests profound,and the far-stretching plain of the meadowsTo the whoop of the victors resound,while the panting French rest on their paddles.With sable wings wide o'er the land,night sprinkles the dew of the heavens;And hard by the dark river's strand,in the midst of a tall, somber forest,Two camp-fires are lighted, and beamon the trunks and the arms of the pine-trees.In the fitful light darkle and gleamthe swarthy-hued faces around them.And one is the camp of DuLuth,and the other the camp of Tamdóka,But few are the jests and uncouthof thevoyageursover their supper,While moody and silent the bravesround their fire in a circle sit crouching;And low is the whisper of leavesand the sough of the wind in the branches;And low is the long-winding howlof the lone wolf afar in the forest;But shrill is the hoot of the owl,like a bugle blast blown in the pine-tops,And the half-startledvoyageursscowl at the sudden and saucy intruder.Like the eyes of the wolves are the eyesof the watchful and silent Dakotas;Like the face of the moon in the skies,when the clouds chase each other across it.Is Tamdóka's dark face in the lightof the flickering flames of the camp fire.They have plotted red murder by night,and securely contemplate their victims.But wary and armed to the teethare the resolute Frenchmen and ready,If need be, to grapple with death,and to die hand to hand in the desert.Yet skilled in the arts and the wilesof the cunning and crafty Algonkins,They cover their hearts with their smiles,and hide their suspicions of evil.Round their low, smouldering fire,feigning sleep, lie the watchful and wily Dakotas;But DuLuth and hisvoyageursheap their firethat shall blaze till the morning,Ere they lay themselves snugly to rest,with their guns by their side on the blankets,As if there were none to molestbut the ravening beasts of the forest.'Tis midnight. The rising moon gleams,weird and still o'er the dusky horizon;Through the hushed, somber forest she beams,and fitfully gloams on the meadows;And a dim, glimmering pathway she paves,at times, on the dark stretch of river.The winds are asleep in the caves—in the heart of the far-away mountains;And here on the meadows and there,the lazy mists gather and hover;And the lights of the Fen-Spirits72flareand dance on the low-lying marshes,As still as the footsteps of deathby the bed of the babe and its mother;And hushed are the pines, and beneathlie the weary limbed boatmen in slumber.Walk softly,—walk softly, O Moon,through the gray, broken clouds in thy pathway,For the earth lies asleep, and the boonof repose is bestowed on the weary.Toiling hands have forgotten their care;e'en the brooks have forgotten to murmur;But hark!—there's a sound on the air!—'tis the light-rustling robes of the Spirits.Like the breath of the night in the leaves,or the murmur of reeds on the river,In the cool of the mid-summer eves,when the blaze of the day has descended.Low-crouching and shadowy forms,as still as the gray morning's footsteps,Creep sly as the serpent that charms,on her nest in the meadow, the plover;In the shadows of pine-trunks they creep,but their panther-eyes gleam in the fire-light,As they peer on the white men asleep,in the glow of the fire, on their blankets.Lo, in each swarthy right hand a knife,in the left hand, the bow and the arrows!Brave Frenchmen! awake to the strife!—or you sleep in the forest forever.Nay, nearer and nearer they glide,like ghosts on the fields of their battles,Till close on the sleepers, they bidebut the signal of death from Tamdóka.Still the sleepers sleep on.Not a breath stirs the leaves of the awe-stricken forest;The hushed air is heavy with death;like the footsteps of death are the moments."Arise!"—At the word, with a bound,to their feet spring the vigilant Frenchmen;And the dark, dismal forests resoundto the crack and the roar of their rifles;And seven writhing forms on the groundclutch the earth. From the pine-tops the screech owlScreams and flaps his wide wings in affright,and plunges away through the shadows;And swift on the wings of the nightflee the dim, phantom forms of the spirit.Like cabris80when white wolves pursue,fled the four yet remaining Dakotas;Through forest and fen-land they flew,and wild terror howled on their footsteps.And one was Tamdóka. DuLuth through the nightsent his voice like a trumpet;"Ye are Sons of Unktéhee, forsooth!Return to your mothers, ye cowards!"His shrill voice they heard as they fled,but only the echoes made answer.At the feet of the brave Frenchmen, dead,lay seven swarthy Sons of Unktéhee;And there, in the midst of the slain,they found, as it gleamed in the fire light,The horn-handled knife from the Seine,where it fell from the hand of Tamdóka.[Illustration: THE RIVER WAKPA WAKAN OR SPIRIT RIVER]In the gray of the morn,ere the sun peeped over the dewy horizon,Their journey again was begun,and they toiled up the swift, winding river;And many a shallow they passedon their way to the Lake of the Spirits;But dauntless they reached it at last,and found Akee-pá-kee-tin's village, [a]On an isle in the midst of the lake;and a day in his teepee they tarried.[a] see Hennepin's account of Aqui-pa-que-tin and his village.Shea's Hennepin 227.Of the deed in the wilderness spake,to the brave Chief, the frank-hearted Frenchman.A generous man was the Chiefand a friend of the fearless explorer;And dark was his visage with griefat the treacherous act of the warriors."Brave Wazi-Kuté is a man,and his heart is as clear as the sun-light;But the head of a treacherous clan,and a snake in the bush is Tamdóka,"Said the chief; and he promised Duluth,on the word of a friend and a warrior,To carry the pipe and the truthto his cousin, the chief at Kathága;For thrice at the Tânka Medéhad he smoked in the lodge of the Frenchman;And thrice had he carried awaythe bountiful gifts of the trader.When the chief could no longer prevailon the white men to rest in his teepee,He guided their feet on the trailto the lakes of the winding Rice-River. [a]Now on speeds the light bark canoe,through the lakes to the broad Gitchee Seebee; [b]And up the great river they row,—up the Big Sandy Lake and Savanna;And down through the meadows they goto the river of broad Gitchee Gumee. [c][a] Now called "Mud River"—it empties into the Mississippi at Aitkin.[b]Gitchee seebee—Big River—the Ojibway name for the Mississippi,which is a corruption of Gitchee Seebee—as Michigan is a corruption ofGitchee Gumee—Great Lake, the Ojibway name of Lake Superior.[c] The Ojibways call the St. Louis RiverGitchee-Gumee See-bee—Great-lake River, i.e. the river of the Great Lake(Lake Superior).[Illustration: DALLES OF THE ST. LOUIS]Still onward they speed to the Dalles—to the roar of the white-rolling rapids,Where the dark river tumbles and fallsdown the ragged ravine of the mountains,And singing his wild jubileeto the low-moaning pines and the cedars,Rushes on to the unsalted seao'er the ledges upheaved by volcanoes.Their luggage thevoyageursboredown the long, winding path of the portage, [a]While they mingled their songwith the roar of the turbid and turbulent waters.Down-wimpling and murmuring there,twixt two dewy hills winds a streamlet,Like a long, flaxen ringlet of hairon the breast of a maid in her slumber.[a] The route of Duluth above described—from the mouth of the Wild RiceMud River to Lake Superior—was for centuries and still is, the Indians'canoe route. I have walked over the old portage from the foot of theDalles to the St. Louis above—trod by the feet of half-breeds andvoyageursfor more than two centuries, and by the Indians for,perhaps, a thousand years.All safe at the foot of the trail,where they left it, they found their felucca,And soon to the wind spread the sail,and glided at ease through the waters,Through the meadows and lakelets and forth,round the point stretching south like a finger,From the mist-wreathen hill on the north,sloping down to the bay and the lake-sideAnd behold, at the foot of the hill,a cluster of Chippewa wigwams,And the busy wives plying with skilltheir nets in the emerald waters.Two hundred white winters and morehave fled from the face of the SummerSince DuLuth, on that wild, somber shore,in the unbroken forest primeval,From the midst of the spruce and the pines,saw the smoke of the wigwams up-curling,Like the fumes from the temples and shrinesof the Druids of old in their forests.Ah, little he dreamed then, forsooth,that a city would stand on that hill-side,And bear the proud name of Duluth,the untiring and dauntless explorer.A refuge for ships from the storms,and for men from the bee-hives of Europe.Out-stretching her long, iron armso'er an empire of Saxons and Normans.The swift west-wind sang in the sails,and on flew the boat like a Sea-Gull,By the green, templed hills and the dales,and the dark rugged rocks of the North Shore;For the course of the brave Frenchmanlay to his fort at the Gáh-mah-na-ték-wáhk,83By the shore of the grand Thunder Bay,where the gray rocks loom up into mountains;Where the Stone Giant sleeps on the Cape,and the god of the storms makes the thunder,83And the Makinak83lifts his huge shapefrom the breast of the blue-rolling waters,And thence to the south-westward led his courseto the Holy Ghost Mission.84Where the Black Robes, the brave shepherds,fed their wild sheep on the isle Wau-ga-bá-mé.84[Illustration: SUNSET BAY, LAKE SUPERIOR.]In the enchanting Cha-quam-e-gon Bay,defended by all the Apostles; [a]And thence by the Ké-we-naw,lay his course to the Mission Sainte Marie. [b]Now the waves drop their myriad hands,and streams the white hair of the surges;DuLuth at the steady helm stands,and he hums as he bounds o'er the billows:O sweet is the carol of bird,And sweet is the murmur of streams,But sweeter the voice that I heard—In the night—in the midst of my dreams.[a] The Apostle Islands.[b] At the Saut St. Marie.'Tis the moon of the sere, falling leaves.From the heads of the maples the west-windPlucks the red-and-gold plumageand grieves on the meads for the rose and the lily;Their brown leaves the moaning oaks strew,and the breezes that roam on the prairies,Low-whistling and wanton pursuethe down of the silk weed and thistle.All sere are the prairies and brown,in the glimmer and haze of the Autumn;From the far northern marshes flock down,by thousands, the geese and the mallards.From the meadows and wide-prairied plains,for their long southward journey preparing,In croaking flocks gather the cranes,and choose with loud clamor their leaders.The breath of the evening is cold,and lurid along the horizonThe flames of the prairies are rolled,on the somber skies flashing their torches.At noontide a shimmer of gold,through the haze, pours the sun from his pathway.The wild-rice is gathered and ripe,on the moors, lie the scarlet po-pán-ka; [a]Michabo85is smoking his pipe,—'tis the soft, dreamy Indian Summer,When the god of the South as he fliesfrom Wazíya, the god of the Winter,For a time turns his beautiful eyes,and backward looks over his shoulder.[a] Cranberries.It is noon. From his path in the skiesthe red sun looks down on Kathága,Asleep in the valley it lies,for the swift hunters follow the bison.Ta-té-psin, the aged brave, bendsas he walks by the side of Winona;Her arm to his left hand she lends,and he feels with his staff for the pathway;On his slow, feeble footsteps attendshis gray dog, the watchful Wicháka; [a]For blind in his years is the chiefof a fever that followed the Summer,And the days of Ta-té-psin are brief.Once more by the dark-rolling riverSits the Chief in the warm, dreamy hazeof the beautiful Summer in Autumn;And the faithful dog lovingly lays his headat the feet of his master.On a dead, withered branch sits a crow,down-peering askance at the old man;On the marge of the river belowromp the nut-brown and merry-voiced children,And the dark waters silently flow,broad and deep, to the plunge of the Ha-ha.[a] Wee-chah kah—literally "Faithful".By his side sat Winona.He laid his thin, shriveled hand on her tresses,"Winona my daughter," he said,"no longer thy father beholds thee;But he feels the long locks of thy hair,and the days that are gone are remembered,When Sisóka [a] sat faithful and fairin the lodge of swift footed Ta-té-psin.The white years have broken my spear;from my bow they have taken the bow-string;But once on the trail of the deer,like a gray wolf from sunrise till sunset,By woodland and meadow and mere,ran the feet of Ta-té-psin untiring.But dim are the days that are gone,and darkly around me they wander,Like the pale, misty face of the moonwhen she walks through the storm of the winter;And sadly they speak in my ear.I have looked on the graves of my kindred.The Land of the Spirits is near.Death walks by my side like a shadow.Now open thine ear to my voice,and thy heart to the wish of thy father,And long will Winona rejoicethat she heeded the words of Ta-té-psin.The cold, cruel winter is near,and famine will sit in the teepee.What hunter will bring me the deer,or the flesh of the bear or the bison?For my kinsmen before me have gone;they hunt in the land of the shadows.In my old age forsaken, alone,must I die in my teepee of hunger?Winona, Tamdóka can make my empty lodgelaugh with abundance;For thine aged and blind father's sake,to the son of the Chief speak the promise.For gladly again to my teewill the bridal gifts come for my daughter.A fleet-footed hunter is he,and the good spirits feather his arrows;And the cold, cruel winterwill be a feast-time instead of a famine."[a] The Robin—the name of Winona's Mother."My father," she said, and her voicewas filial and full of compassion,"Would the heart of Ta-té-psin rejoiceat the death of Winona, his daughter?The crafty Tamdóka I hate.Must I die in his teepee of sorrow?For I love the White Chief,and I wait his return to the land of Dakotas.When the cold winds of winter return,and toss the white robes of the prairies,The fire of the White Chief will burn,in his lodge, at the Meeting-of-Waters.Winona's heart followed his feetfar away to the land of the morning,And she hears in her slumberhis sweet, kindly voice call the name of thy daughter.My father, abide, I entreat,the return of the brave to Kathága.The wild-rice is gathered,the meat of the bison is stored in the teepee;Till the Coon-Moon71enough and to spare;and if then the white warrior return not,Winona will follow the bear, and the coon,to their dens in the forest.She is strong; she can handle the spear;she can bend the stout bow of the hunter;And swift on the trail of the deerwill she run o'er the snow on her snow-shoes.Let the step-mother sit in the tee,and kindle the fire for my father;And the cold, cruel winter shall bea feast-time instead of a famine.""The White Chief will never return,"half angrily muttered Ta-té-psin;"His camp-fire will nevermore burnin the land of the warriors he slaughtered.I grieve, for my daughter has saidthat she loves the false friend of her kindred;For the hands of the White Chief are redwith the blood of the trustful Dakotas."Then warmly Winona replied,"Tamdóka himself is the traitor,And the white-hearted stranger had diedby his treacherous hand in the forest,But thy daughter's voice bade him bewareof the sly death that followed his footsteps.The words of Tamdóka are fair,but his heart is the den of the serpents.When the braves told their tale,like a bird sang the heart of Winona rejoicing,But gladlier still had she heardof the death of the crafty Tamdóka.The Chief will return, he is bold,and he carries the fire of Wakínyan;To our people the truth will be told,and Tamdóka will hide like a coward."His thin locks the aged brave shook;to himself half inaudibly muttered;To Winona no answer he spoke—only moaned he "Micunksee! Micunksee! [a]In my old age forsaken and blind!Yun! He he! Micúnksee! Micúnksee!" [b]And Wicháka, the pitying dog, whined,as he looked on the face of his master.[a] My Daughter! My Daughter![b] Alas! O My Daughter,—My Daughter!Wazíya came down from the North—from his land of perpetual winter.From his frost-covered beard issued forththe sharp-biting, shrill-whistling North-wind;At the touch of his breath the wide earth turned to stone,and the lakes and the rivers;From his nostrils the white vapors rose,and they covered the sky like a blanket.Like the down of Magá [a] fell the snows,tossed and whirled into heaps by the North-wind.Then the blinding storms roared on the plains,like the simoons on sandy Sahara;From the fangs of the fierce hurricanesfled the elk and the deer and the bison.Ever colder and colder it grew,till the frozen earth cracked and split open;And harder and harder it blew,till the prairies were bare as the boulders.To the southward the buffaloes fled,and the white rabbits hid in their burrows;On the bare sacred mounds of the deadhowled the gaunt, hungry wolves in the night-time.The strong hunters crouched in their tees;by the lodge-fires the little ones shivered;And the Magic Men [b] danced to appease,in their teepee, the wrath of Wazíya;But famine and fatal disease,like phantoms, crept into the village.The Hard Moon [c] was past, but the moonwhen the coons make their trails in the forest [d]Grew colder and colder. The coon or the bear,ventured not from his cover;For the cold, cruel Arctic Simoon swept the earthlike the breath of a furnace.In the tee of Ta-té-psin the store of wild-riceand dried meat was exhausted;And Famine crept in at the door,and sat crouching and gaunt by the lodge-fire.But now with the saddle of deer,and the gifts, came the crafty Tamdóka;And he said, "Lo I bring you good cheer,for I love the blind Chief and his daughter.Take the gifts of Tamdóka,for dear to his heart is the dark-eyed Winona."The aged chief opened his ears;in his heart he already consented;But the moans of his child and her tearstouched the age-softened heart of the father,And he said, "I am burdened with years,—I am bent by the snows of my winters;Ta-té-psin will die in his tee;let him pass to the Land of the Spirits;But Winona is young; she is free,and her own heart shall choose her a husband."The dark warrior strode from the tee;low-muttering and grim he departed."Let him die in his lodge," muttered he,"but Winona shall kindle my lodge-fire."[a] Wild goose.[b] Medicine men.[c] January.[d] February.Then forth went Winona. The bow of Ta-té-psinshe took and his arrows,And afar o'er the deep, drifted snow,through the forest, she sped on her snow-shoes.Over meadow and ice-covered mere,through the thickets of red oak and hazel,She followed the tracks of the deer,but like phantoms they fled from her vision.From sunrise till sunset she sped;half-famished she camped in the thicket;In the cold snow she made her lone bed;on the buds of the birch [a] made her supper.To the dim moon the gray owl preferred,from the tree top, his shrill lamentation,And around her at midnight she heardthe dread famine-cries of the gray wolves.In the gloam of the morning againon the trail of the red-deer she followed—All day long through the thickets in vain,for the gray wolves were chasing the roebucks;And the cold, hungry winds from the plainchased the wolves and the deer and Winona.[a] The pheasant feeds on birch-buds in winter. Indians eat them when veryhungry.In the twilight of sundown she sat,in the forest, all weak and despairing;Ta-té-psin's bow lay at her feet,and his otter skin quiver of arrows."He promised,—he promised," she said—half-dreamily uttered and mournful,—"And why comes he not? Is he dead?Was he slain by the crafty Tamdóka?Must Winona, alas, make her choice—make her choice between death and Tamdóka?She will die but her soul will rejoicein the far Summer-land of the spirits.Hark! I hear his low, musical voice!He is coming! My White Chief is coming!Ah, no; I am half in a dream!—'twas the mem'ry of days long departed;But the birds of the green Summerseem to be singing above in the branches."Then forth from her bosom she drewthe crucified Jesus in silver.In her dark hair the cold north wind blew,as meekly she bent o'er the image."O Christ of the White man," she prayed,"lead the feet of my brave to Kathága;Send a good spirit down to my aid,or the friend of the White Chief will perish."Then a smile on her wan features played,and she lifted her pale face and chanted:"E-ye-he-ktá! E-ye-he-ktá!Hé-kta-cè; é-ye-ce-quón.Mí-Wamdee-ská, he-he-ktá;He-kta-cè; é-ye-ce-quón,Mí-Wamdee-ská."[TRANSLATION.]He will come; he will come;He will come, for he promised.My White Eagle, he will come;He will come, for he promised,—My White Eagle.Thus sadly she chanted, and lo—allured by her sorrowful accents—From the dark covert crept a red doeand wondrously gazed on Winona.Then swift caught the huntress her bow;from her trembling hand hummed the keen arrow.Up-leaped the red gazer and fled,but the white snow was sprinkled with scarlet,And she fell in the oak thicket dead.On the trail ran the eager Winona.Half-famished the raw flesh she ate.To the hungry maid sweet was her supper.Then swift through the night ran her feet,and she trailed the sleek red-deer behind her.And the guide of her steps was a star—the cold-glinting star of Wazíya—[a]Over meadow and hilltop afar,on the way to the lodge of her father.But hark! on the keen frosty airwind the shrill hunger-howls of the gray wolves!And nearer,—still nearer!—the blood of the doe have they scented and follow;Through the thicket, the meadow,the wood, dash the pack on the trail of Winona.Swift she speeds with her burden,but swift on her track fly the minions of famine;Now they yell on the view from the drift,in the reeds at the marge of the meadow;Red gleam their wild, ravenous eyes;for they see on the hill-side their supper;The dark forest echoes their cries;but her heart is the heart of a warrior.From its sheath snatched Winona her knife,and a leg from the red doe she severed;With the carcass she ran for her life,—to a low-branching oak ran the maiden;Round the deer's neck her head-strap [b] was tied;swiftly she sprang to the arms of the oak-tree;Quick her burden she drew to her side,and higher she clomb on the branches,While the maddened wolves battled and bled,dealing death o'er the leg to each other;Their keen fangs devouring the dead,—yea, devouring the flesh of the living,They raved and they gnashed and they growled,like the fiends in the regions infernal;The wide night re-echoing howled,and the hoarse North wind laughed o'er the slaughter.But their ravenous maws unappeasedby the blood and the flesh of their fellows,To the cold wind their muzzles they raised,and the trail to the oak-tree they followed.Round and round it they howled for the prey,madly leaping and snarling and snapping;But the brave maiden's keen arrows slay,till the dead number more than the living.All the long, dreary night-time, at bay,in the oak sat the shivering Winona;But the sun gleamed at last, and awayskulked the gray cowards [c] down through the forest.Then down dropped the doe and the maid.Ere the sun reached the midst of his journey,Her red, welcome burden she laidat the feet of her famishing father.[a] Wazíya's Star is the North Star.[b] A strap used in carrying burdens.[c] Wolves sometimes attack people at night but rarely if ever in the daytime. If they have followed a hunter all night, or "treed" him they willskulk away as soon as the sun rises.Wazíya's wild wrath was appeased,and homeward he turned to his teepee,3O'er the plains and the forest-land breezed,from the Islands of Summer, the South wind.From their dens came the coon and the bear;o'er the snow through the woodlands they wandered;On her snow shoes with stout bow and spearon their trails ran the huntress Winona.The coon to his den in the tree,and the bear to his burrow she followed;A brave, skillful hunter was she,and Ta-té-psin's lodge laughed with abundance.The long winter wanes. On the wingsof the spring come the geese and the mallards;On the bare oak the red-robin sings,and the crocuses peep on the prairies,And the bobolink pipes, but he brings,of the blue-eyed, brave White Chief, no tidings.With the waning of winter, alas,waned the life of the aged Tatépsin;Ere the blue pansies peeped from the grass,to the Land of the Spirits he journeyed;Like a babe in its slumber he passed,or the snow from the hill tops in April;And the dark-eyed Winona, at last,stood alone by the graves of her kindred.When their myriad mouths opened the treesto the sweet dew of heaven and the rain drops,And the April showers fell on the leas,on his mound fell the tears of Winona.Round her drooping form gathered the yearsand the spirits unseen of her kindred,As low, in the midst of her tears,at the grave of her father she chanted:E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày!E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày!E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày!Ma-káh kin háy-chay-dan táy-han wan-kày.Tú-way ne ktáy snee e-yáy-chen e-wáh chày.E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày!E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày!Ma-káh kin háy-chay-dan táy-han wan-kày.[TRANSLATION]Sore is my sorrow!Sore is my sorrow!Sore is my sorrow!The earth alone lasts.I speak as one dying;Sore is my sorrow!Sore is my sorrow!The earth alone lasts.Still hope, like a star in the nightgleaming oft through the broken clouds somber,Cheered the heart of Winona, and bright,on her dreams, beamed the face of the Frenchman.As the thought of a loved one and lost,sad and sweet were her thoughts of the White Chief;In the moon's mellow light, like a ghost,walked Winona alone by the Ha-ha,Ever wrapped in a dream. Far away—to the land of the sunrise—she wandered;On the blue rolling Tánka Medé, [a]in the midst of her dreams, she beheld him—In his white-winged canoe, like a bird,to the land of Dakotas returning;And often in fancy she heardthe dip of his oars on the river.On the dark waters glimmered the moon,but she saw not the boat of the Frenchman;On the somber night bugled the loon,but she heard not the song of the boatmen.The moon waxed and waned, but the starof her hope never waned to the setting;Through her tears she beheld it afar,like a torch on the eastern horizon."He will come,—he is coming," she said;"he will come, for my White Eagle promised,"And low to the bare earth the maidbent her ear for the sound of his footsteps."He is gone, but his voice in my earstill remains like the voice of the robin;He is far, but his footsteps I hear;he is coming; my White Chief is coming!"[a] Lake Superior,—TheGitchee Gumeeof the Chippewas.But the moon waxed and waned. Nevermorewill the eyes of Winona behold him.Far away on the dark, rugged shoreof the blue Gitchee Gúmee he lingers.No tidings the rising sun brings;no tidings the star of the evening;But morning and evening she sings,like a turtle-doe widowed and waiting;Aké u, aké u, aké u;Ma cântè maséca.Aké u, aké u, aké u;Ma cântè maséca.Come again, come again, come again;For my heart is sad.Come again, come again, come again;For my heart is sad.Down the broad Gitchee Seebee [a]the band took their way to the Games at Keóza.While the swift-footed hunters by landran the shores for the elk and the bison.Like magás [b] ride the birchen canoeson the breast of the dark Gitchee Seebee;By the willow-fringed islands they cruiseby the grassy hills green to their summits;By the lofty bluffs hooded with oaksthat darken the deep with their shadows;And bright in the sun gleam the strokesof the oars in the hands of the women.With the band went Winona.The oar plied the maid with the skill of a hunter.They loitered and camped on the shore of Remníca—the Lake of the Mountains. [c]There the fleet hunters followed the deer,and the thornypahin[d] for the women.[a] Chippewa name of the Mississippi[b] Wild Geese[c] Lake Pepin; by Hennepin called Lake of Tears—Called by the DakotasRemnee-chah-Mday—Lake of the Mountains.[d] Pah hin—the porcupine—the quill of which are greatly prized forornamental work.From the tees rose the smoke of good cheer,curling blue through the tops of the maples,Near the foot of a cliff that arose,like the battle-scarred walls of a castle.Up-towering, in rugged repose,to a dizzy height over the waters.But the man-wolf still followed his prey,and the step-mother ruled in the tepee;Her will must Winona obey,by the custom and law of Dakotas.The gifts to the teepee were brought—the blankets, and beads of the White men,And Winona, the orphaned, was boughtby the crafty relentless Tamdóka.In the Spring-time of life,in the flush of the gladsome mid-May days of Summer,When the bobolink sang and the thrush,and the red robin chirped in the branches,To the tent of the brave must she go;she must kindle the fire in his tepee;She must sit in the lodge of her foe,as a slave at the feet of her master.Alas for her waiting!the wings of the East-wind have brought her no tidings;On the meadow the meadow-lark singsbut sad is her song to Winona,For the glad warblers melody bringsbut the memory of voices departed.The Day-Spirit walked in the westto his lodge in the land of the shadows;His shining face gleamed on the crestof the oak-hooded hills and the mountains,And the meadow-lark hied to her nest,and the mottled owl peeped from her cover.But hark! from the teepees a cry!Hear the shouts of the hurrying warriors!Are the steps of the enemy nigh,—of the crafty and creeping Ojibways?Nay; look on the dizzy cliff high!—on the brink of the cliff stands Winona!Her sad face up-turned to the sky. Hark!I hear the wild chant of her death-song:My Father's Spirit, look down, look down—From your hunting-grounds in the shining skies;Behold, for the light of my soul is gone,—The light is gone and Winona dies.I looked to the East, but I saw no star;The face of my White Chief was turned away.I harked for his footsteps in vain; afarHis bark sailed over the Sunrise-sea.Long have I watched till my heart is cold;In my breast it is heavy and cold as stone.No more shall Winona his face behold,And the robin that sang in her heart is gone.Shall I sit at the feet of the treacherous brave?On his hateful couch shall Winona lie?Shall she kindle his fire like a coward slave?No!—a warrior's daughter can bravely die.My Father's Spirit, look down, look down—From your hunting-grounds in the shining skies;Behold, for the light of my soul is gone,—The light is gone and Winona dies.Swift the strong hunters clomb as she sang,and the foremost of all was Tamdóka;From crag to crag upward he sprang;like a panther he leaped to the summit.Too late! on the brave as he creptturned the maid in her scorn and defiance;Then swift from the dizzy height leaped.Like a brant arrow-pierced in mid-heaven.Down-whirling and fluttering she fell,and headlong plunged into the waters.Forever she sank mid the wail,and the wild lamentation of women.Her lone spirit evermore dwellsin the depths of the Lake of the Mountains,And the lofty cliff evermore tellsto the years as they pass her sad story. [a]In the silence of sorrow the nighto'er the earth spread her wide, sable pinions;And the stars18hid their faces,and light on the lake fell the tears of the spirits.As her sad sisters watched on the shorefor her spirit to rise from the waters,They heard the swift dip of an oar,and a boat they beheld like a shadow,Gliding down through the nightin the gray, gloaming mists on the face of the waters.'Twas the bark of DuLuth on his wayfrom the Falls to the Games at Keóza.[a] The Dakotas say that the spirit of Winona forever haunts the lake.They say that it was many, many winters ago when Winona leaped from therock—that the rock was then perpendicular to the water's edge and sheleaped into the lake, but now the rock has worn away, or the water hasreceded, so that it does not reach the foot of the rock.[Illustration: "DOWN THE RAGGED RAVINE OF THE MOUNTAINS." DALLES OF THEST LOUIS.]

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