The sun sails high in his azure realms;Beneath the arch of the breezy elmsThe feast is spread by the murmuring river.With his battle spear and his bow and quiver,And eagle plumes in his ebon hair,The chief Wakâwa himself is there;And round the feast in the Sacred Ring,48Sit his weaponed warriors witnessing.Not a morsel of food have the Virgins tastedFor three long days ere the holy feast;They sat in their teepee alone and fasted,Their faces turned to the Sacred East.21In the polished bowls lies the golden maizeAnd the flesh of fawn on the polished trays.For the Virgins the bloom of the prairies wide—The blushing pink and the meek blue-bell,The purple plumes of the prairie's pride,49The wild, uncultured asphodel,And the beautiful, blue-eyed violetThat the Virgins call "Let-me-not-forget,"In gay festoons and garlands twineWith the cedar sprigs50and the wildwood vine.So gaily the Virgins are decked and dressed,And none but a virgin may enter there;And clad is each in a scarlet vest,And a fawn skin frock to the brown calves bare.Wild rosebuds peep from their flowing hair,And a rose half-blown on the budding breast;And bright with the quills of the porcupineThe moccasined feet of the maidens shine.Hand in hand round the feast they dance,And sing to the notes of a rude bassoon,And never a pause or a dissonanceIn the merry dance or the merry tune.Brown-bosomed and fair as the rising moon,When she peeps o'er the hills of the dewy east,Wiwâstè sings at the Virgins Feast;And bright is the light in her luminous eyes;They glow like the stars in the winter skies;And the lilies that bloom in her virgin heartTheir golden blush to her cheeks impart—Her cheeks half hid in her midnight hair.Fair is her form—as the red fawn's fair,And long is the flow of her raven hair;It falls to her knees, and it streams on the breezeLike the path of a storm on the swelling seas.Proud of their rites are the Virgins fair,For none but a Virgin may enter there.'Tis a custom of old and a sacred thing;Nor rank nor beauty the warriors spare,If a tarnished maiden should enter there.And her that enters the Sacred RingWith a blot that is known or a secret stainThe warrior who knows is bound to expose,And lead her forth from the ring again.And the word of the warrior is a sacred by law;For the Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing.Aside with the mothers sat Hârpstinà:She durst not enter the virgins' ring.Round and round to the merry songThe maidens dance in their gay attire.While the loud "Ho-Ho's" of the tawny throngTheir flying feet and their song inspire.They have finished the song and the sacred dance,And hand in hand to the feast advance—To the polished bowls of the golden maize,And the sweet fawn meat in the polished trays.Then up from his seat in the silent crowdRose the frowning, fierce-eyed, tall Red Cloud;Swift was his stride as the panther's spring,When he leaps on the fawn from his cavern lair;Wiwâstè he caught by her flowing hair,And dragged her forth from the Sacred Ring.She turned on the warrior. Her eyes flashed fire;Her proud lips quivered with queenly ire;Her hand to the Spirits she raised and said,And her sun browned cheeks were aflame with red:"I am pure!—I am pure as falling snow!Great Tâku-Skan-Skan51will testify!And dares the tall coward to say me no?"But the sullen warrior made no reply.She turned to the chief with her frantic cries:"Wakâwa—my Father; he lies!—he lies!Wiwâstè is pure as the faun unborn;Lead me back to the feast, or Wiwâstè dies!"But the warriors uttered a cry of scorn,And he turned his face from her pleading eyes.Then the sullen warrior, the tall Red Cloud,Looked up and spoke and his voice was loud;But he held his wrath and spoke with care:"Wiwâstè is young, she is proud and fair,But she may not boast of the virgin snows.The Virgins Feast is a Sacred thing:How durst she enter the Virgins ring?The warrior would fain, but he dares not spare;She is tarnished and only the Red Cloud knows."She clutched her hair in her clenched hand:She stood like statue bronzed and grand:Wakân-deè39flashed in her fiery eyes;Then, swift as the meteor cleaves the skies—Nay, swift as the fiery Wakinyan's dart,32She snatch the knife from the warriors belt,And plunged it clean to the polished hilt—With deadly cry—in the villain's heart.Staggering he clutched the air and fell;His life-blood smoked on the trampled sand,And dripped from the knife in the virgin's hand.Then rose his kinsmen's savage yell.Swift as the doe's Wiwâstè's feetFled away to the forest. The hunters fleetIn vain pursue, and in vain they prowl,And lurk in the forest till dawn of day.They hear the hoot of the mottled owl;They hear the were-wolf's52winding howl;But the swift Wiwâstè is far away.They found no trace in the forest land,They found no trail in the dew-damp grass,They found no track in the river sand,Where they thought Wiwâstè would surely pass.The braves returned to the troubled chief;In his lodge he sat in his silent grief."Surely," they said, "she has turned a spirit.No trail she left with her flying feet;No pathway leads to her far retreat.She flew in the air, and her wail—we could hear it,As she upward rose to the shining stars;And we heard on the river, as we stood near it,The falling drops of Wiwâstè's tears."Wakâwa thought of his daughter's wordsEre the south-wind came and the piping birds—"My Father, listen,—my words are true,"And sad was her voice as the whippowilWhen she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill,"Wiwâstè lingers alone with you;The rest are sleeping on yonder hill—Save one—and he an undutiful son,—And you, my Father, will sit aloneWhen Sisóka53sings and the snow is gone."His broad breast heaved on his troubled soul,The shadow of grief o'er his visage stoleLike a cloud on the face of the setting sun."She has followed the years that are gone," he said;"The spirits the words of the witch fulfill;For I saw the ghost of my father dead,By the moon's dim light on the misty hill.He shook the plumes on his withered head,And the wind through his pale form whistled shrill.And a low, sad voice on the hill I heard.Like the mournful wail of a widowed bird."Then lo, as he looked from his lodge afar,He saw the glow of the Evening-star;"And yonder," he said, "is Wiwâstè's face;She looks from her lodge on our fading race.Devoured by famine, and fraud, and war,And chased and hounded from woe to woe,As the white wolves follow the buffalo."And he named the planet theVirgin Star.54"Wakâwa," he muttered, "the guilt is thine!She was pure,—she was pure as the fawn unborn.O, why did I hark to the cry of scorn,Or the words of the lying libertine?Wakâwa, Wakâwa, the guilt is thine!The springs will return with the voice of birds,But the voice of my daughter will come no more.She wakened the woods with her musical words,And the sky-lark, ashamed of his voice, forbore.She called back the years that had passed, and longI heard their voice in her happy song.Her heart was the home of the sunbeam. BrightPoured the stream of her song on the starry night.O, why did the chief of the tall HóhéHis feet from Kapóza6so long delay?For his father sat at my father's feast,And he at Wakâwa's—an honored guest.He is dead!—he is slain on the Bloody Plain,By the hand of the treacherous Chippeway;And the face shall I never behold againOf my brave young brother—the chief Chaskè.Death walks like a shadow among my kin;And swift are the feet of the flying yearsThat cover Wakâwa with frost and tears,And leave their tracks on his wrinkled skin.Wakâwa, the voice of the years that are goneWill follow thy feet like the shadow of death,Till the paths of the forest and desert loneShall forget thy footsteps. O living breath,Whence art thou, and whither so soon to fly?And whence are the years? Shall I overtakeTheir flying feet in the star-lit sky?From his last long sleep will the warrior wake?Will the morning break in Wakâwa's tomb,As it breaks and glows in the eastern skies?Is it true?—will the spirits of kinsmen comeAnd bid the bones of the brave arise?""Wakâwa, Wakâwa, for thee the yearsAre red with blood and bitter with tears.Gone,—brothers, and daughters, and wife,—all goneThat are kin to Wakâwa,—but one—but one—Wakínyan Tanka—undutiful son!And he estranged from his fathers tee,Will never return till the chief shall die.And what cares he for his father's grief?He will smile at my death,—it will make him chief.Woe burns in my bosom. Ho, Warriors,—Ho!Raise the song of red war; for your chief must goTo drown his grief in the blood of the foe!I shall fall. Raise my mound on the sacred hill.Let my warriors the wish of their chief fulfill;For my fathers sleep in the sacred ground.The Autumn blasts o'er Wakâwa's moundShall chase the hair of the thistle's head,And the bare armed oak o'er the silent dead.When the whirling snows from the north descend,Shall wail and moan in the midnight wind.In the famine of winter the wolf shall prowl,And scratch the snow from the heap of stones,And sit in the gathering storm and howl,On the frozen mound, for Wakâwa's bones.But the years that are gone shall return again.As the robin returns and the whippowilWhen my warriors stand on the sacred hillAnd remember the deeds of their brave chief slain."Beneath the glow of the Virgin StarThey raised the song of the red war dance.At the break of dawn with the bow and lanceThey followed the chief on the path of war.To the north—to the forests of fir and pine—Led their stealthy steps on the winding trail,Till they saw the Lake of the Spirit55shineThrough somber pines of the dusky dale.Then they heard the hoot of the mottled owl;56They heard the gray wolf's dismal howl;Then shrill and sudden the war whoop roseFrom an hundred throats of their swarthy foes,In ambush crouched in the tangled wood.Death shrieked in the twang of their deadly bows,And their hissing arrows drank brave men's blood.From rock, and thicket, and brush, and brakes,Gleamed the burning eyes of the forest snakes.57From brake, and thicket, and brush, and stone,The bow string hummed and the arrow hissed,And the lance of a crouching Ojibway shone,Or the scalp-knife gleamed in a swarthy fist.Undaunted the braves of Wakâwa's bandJumped into the thicket with lance and knife,And grappled the Chippewas hand to hand;And foe with foe, in the deadly strife,Lay clutching the scalp of his foe and dead,With a tomahawk sunk in his ghastly head,Or his still heart sheathing a bloody blade.Like a bear in the battle Wakâwa raves,And cheers the hearts of his falling braves.But a panther crouches along his track,—He springs with a yell on Wakâwa's back!The tall Chief, stabbed to the heart, lies low;But his left hand clutches his deadly foe,And his red right clenches the bloody hiltOf his knife in the heart of the slayer dyed.And thus was the life of Wakâwa spilt,And slain and slayer lay side by side.The unscalped corpse of their honored chiefHis warriors snatched from the yelling pack,And homeward fled on their forest trackWith their bloody burden and load of grief.The spirits the words of the brave fulfill,—Wakâwa sleeps on the sacred hill,And Wakínyan Tânka, his son, is chief.Ah, soon shall the lips of men forgetWakâwa's name, and the mound of stoneWill speak of the dead to the winds alone,And the winds will whistle their mock-regret.The speckled cones of the scarlet berries58Lie red and ripe in the prairie grass.The Sí-yo59clucks on the emerald prairiesTo her infant brood. From the wild morass,On the sapphire lakelet set within it,Magâ60sails forth with her wee ones daily.They ride on the dimpling waters gaily,Like a fleet of yachts and a man of war.The piping plover, the laughing linnet,And the swallow sail in the sunset skies.The whippowil from her cover hies,And trills her song on the amber air.Anon, to her loitering mate she cries"Flip, O Will!—trip, O Will!—skip, O Will!"And her merry mate from afar replies:"Flip I will,—skip I will,—trip I will;"And away on the wings of the wind he flies.And bright from her lodge in the skies afarPeeps the glowing face of the Virgin Star.The fox pups60creep from the mother's lairAnd leap in the light of the rising moon;And loud on the luminous moonlit lakeShrill the bugle notes of the lover loon;And woods and waters and welkin breakInto jubilant song,—it is joyful June.But where is Wiwâstè? O where is she—The Virgin avenged—the queenly queen—The womanly woman—the heroine?Has she gone to the spirits and can it beThat her beautiful face is the Virgin StarPeeping out from the door of her lodge afar,Or upward sailing the silver sea.Star-beaconed and lit like an avenue,In the shining stern of her gold canoe?No tidings came—nor the brave Chaskè:O, why did the lover so long delay?He promised to come with the robins in May,With the bridal gifts for the bridal day;But the fair May mornings have slipped away,And where is the lover—the brave Chaskè?But what of the venomous Hârpstinà—The serpent that tempted the proud Red Cloud,And kindled revenge in his savage soul?He paid for his crime with his false heart's blood,But his angry spirit has brought her dole;61It has entered her breast and her burning head,And she raves and burns on her fevered bed."He is dead! He is dead!" is her wailing cry."And the blame is mine,—it was I,—it was I!I hated Wiwâstè, for she was fair,And my brave was caught in her net of hair.I turned his love to a bitter hate;I nourished revenge, and I pricked his pride;Till the Feast of the Virgins I bade him wait.He had his revenge, but he died,—he died!And the blame is mine,—it was I,—it was I!And his spirit burns me, I die,—I die!"Thus, alone in her lodge and her agonies,She wails to the winds of the night, and dies.But where is Wiwâstè? Her swift feet flewTo the somber shades of the tangled thicket.She hid in the copse like a wary cricket,And the fleetest hunters in vain pursue.Seeing unseen from her hiding place,She sees them fly on the hurried chase;She sees their fierce eyes glance and dart,As they pass and peer for a track or trace,And she trembles with fear in the copse apart.Lest her nest be betrayed by her throbbing heart.[Illustration]Weary the hours; but the sun at lastWent down to his lodge in the west, and fastThe wings of the spirits of night were spreadO'er the darkling woods and Wiwâstè's head.Then, slyly she slipped from her snug retreat,And guiding her course by Wazíya's star,62That shone through the shadowy forms afar,She northward hurried with silent feet;And long ere the sky was aflame in the east,She was leagues from the place of the fatal feast.'Twas the hoot of the owl that the hunters heard,And the scattering drops of the threat'ning shower,And the far wolf's cry to the moon preferred.Their ears were their fancies,—the scene was weird,And the witches63dance at the midnight hour.She leaped the brook and she swam the river;Her course through the forest Wiwâstè wistBy the star that gleamed through the glimmering mistThat fell from the dim moon's downy quiver.In her heart she spoke to her spirit-mother:"Look down from your teepee, O starry spirit.The cry of Wiwâstè, O mother, hear it;And touch the heart of my cruel father.He hearkened not to a virgin's words;He listened not to a daughter's wail.O give me the wings of the thunder-birds,For his were-wolves52follow Wiwâstè's trail;O, guide my flight to the far Hóhé—The sheltering lodge of my brave Chaskè."The shadows paled in the hazy east,And the light of the kindling morn increased.The pale-faced stars fled one by one,And hid in the vast from the rising sun.From woods and waters and welkin soonFled the hovering mists of the vanished moon.The young robins chirped in their feathery beds,The loon's song shrilled like a winding horn,And the green hills lifted their dewy headsTo greet the god of the rising morn.She reached the rim of the rolling prairie—The boundless ocean of solitude;She hid in the feathery hazel wood,For her heart was sick and her feet were weary;She fain would rest, and she needed food.Alone by the billowy, boundless prairies,She plucked the cones of the scarlet berries;In feathering copse and the grassy fieldShe found the bulbs of the young Tipsânna,43And the sweet medó64that the meadows yield.With the precious gift of his priceless mannaGod fed his fainting and famished child.At night again to the northward farShe followed the torch of Wazíya's star.For leagues away o'er the prairies green,On the billowy vast, may a man be seen,When the sun is high and the stars are low;And the sable breast of the strutting crowLooms up like the form of the buffalo.The Bloody River40she reached at last,And boldly walked in the light of day,On the level plain of the valley vast;Nor thought of the terrible Chippeway.She was safe from the wolves of her father's band,But she trode on the treacherous "Bloody Land."And lo—from afar o'er the level plain—As far as the sails of a ship at seaMay be seen as they lift from the rolling main—A band of warriors rode rapidly.She shadowed her eyes with her sun browned hand;All backward streamed on the wind her hair,And terror spread o'er her visage fair,As she bent her brow to the far off band.For she thought of the terrible Chippeway—The fiends that the babe and the mother slay;And yonder they came in their war-array!She hid like a grouse in the meadow-grass,And moaned—"I am lost!—I am lost! alas;And why did I fly my native landTo die by the cruel Ojibway's hand?"And on rode the braves. She could hear the steedsCome galloping on o'er the level meads;And lowly she crouched in the waving grass,And hoped against hope that the braves would pass.They have passed, she is safe,—she is safe! Ah, no,They have struck her trail and the hunters halt.Like wolves on the track of the bleeding doe,That grappled breaks from the dread assault,Dash the warriors wild on Wiwâstè's trail.She flies,—but what can her flight avail?Her feet are fleet, but the flying feetOf the steeds of the prairie are fleeter still;And where can she fly for a safe retreat?But hark to the shouting:—"Ihó!—Ihó!"9Rings over the wide plain sharp and shrill.She halts, and the hunters come riding on;But the horrible fear from her heart is gone,For it is not the shout of the dreaded foe;'Tis the welcome shout of her native land!Up galloped the chief of the band, and lo—The clutched knife dropped from her trembling hand;She uttered a cry and she swooned away;For there; on his steed in the blaze of day,On the boundless prairie, so far away,With his burnished lance and his feathers gay,Sat the manly form of her own Chaskè!There's a mote in my eye or a blot on the page,And I cannot tell of the joyful greeting;You may take it for granted and I will engage,There were kisses and tears at the strange, glad meeting;For aye since the birth of the swift-winged years,In the desert drear, in the field of clover,In the cot, and the palace, and all the world over,—Yea, away on the stars to the ultimate spheres,The language of love to the long sought lover,—Is tears and kisses and kisses and tears.But why did the lover so long delay?And whitherward rideth the chief to-day?As he followed the trail of the buffalo,From the tees of Kapóza a maiden, lo,Came running in haste o'er the drifted snow.She spoke to the chief of the tall Hóhé:"Wiwâstè requests that the brave ChaskèWill abide with his band and his coming delay'Till the moon when the strawberries are ripe and red,And then will the chief and Wiwâstè wed—When the Feast of the Virgins is past," she said.Wiwâstè's wish was her lover's law;And so his coming the chief delayedTill the mid-May blossoms should bloom and fade,—But the lying runner was Hârpstinà.And now with the gifts for the bridal dayAnd his chosen warriors he took his way,And followed his heart to his moon-faced maid,And thus was the lover so long delayed;And so as he rode with his warriors gay,On that bright and beautiful summer day,His bride he met on the trail mid-way,By the haunts of the treacherous Chippeway.God arms the innocent. He is there—In the desert vast, in the wilderness,On the bellowing sea, in the lion's lair,In the midst of battle, and everywhere.In his hand he holds with a father's careThe tender hearts of the motherless;The maid and the mother in sore distressHe shields with his love and his tenderness;He comforts the widowed—the comfortless,And sweetens her chalice of bitterness;He clothes the naked—the numberless,—His charity covers their nakedness,—And he feeds the famished and fatherlessWith the hand that feedeth the birds of air.Let the myriad tongues of the earth confessHis infinite love and his holiness;For his pity pities the pitiless,His wayward children his bounties bless,And his mercy flows to the merciless;And the countless worlds in the realms above,Revolve in the light of his boundless love.And what of the lovers? you ask, I trow.She told him all ere the sun was low,—Why she fled from the Feast to a safe retreat.She laid her heart at her lover's feet,And her words were tears and her lips were slow.As she sadly related the bitter taleHis face was aflame and anon grew pale,And his dark eyes flashed with a brave desire,Like the midnight gleam of the sacred fire.65"Mitâwin,"66he said, and his voice was low,"Thy father no more is the false Little Crow;But the fairest plume shall Wiwâstè wearOf the great Wanmdeè13in her midnight hair.In my lodge, in the land of the tall Hóhé,The robins will sing all the long summer dayTo the beautiful bride of the brave Chaskè."Aye, love is tested by stress and trialSince the finger of time on the endless dialBegan its rounds, and the orbs to moveIn the boundless vast, and the sunbeams cloveThe chaos; but only by fate's denialAre fathomed the fathomless depths of love.Man is the rugged and wrinkled oak,And woman the trusting and tender vine—That clasps and climbs till its arms entwineThe brawny arms of the sturdy stoke.67The dimpled babes are the flowers divineThat the blessing of God on the vine and oakWith their cooing and blossoming lips invoke.To the pleasant land of the brave HóhéWiwâstè rode with her proud Chaskè.She ruled like a queen in his bountiful tee,And the life of the twain was a jubilee.Their wee ones climbed on the father's knee,And played with his plumes of the great Wanmdeè.The silken threads of the happy yearsThey wove into beautiful robes of loveThat the spirits wear in the lodge above;And time from the reel of the rolling spheresHis silver threads with the raven wove;But never the stain of a mother's tearsSoiled the shining web of their happy years.When the wrinkled mask of the years they wore,And the raven hair of their youth was gray,Their love grew deeper, and more and more;For he was a lover for aye and aye,And ever her beautiful, brave Chaskè.Through the wrinkled mask of the hoary yearsTo the loving eyes of the lover ayeThe blossom of beautiful youth appears.At last, when their locks were as white as snow,Beloved and honored by all the band,They silently slipped from their lodge below,And walked together, and hand in hand,O'er the Shining Path68to the Spirit-land;Where the hills and the meadows for aye and ayeAre clad with the verdure and flowers of May,And the unsown prairies of ParadiseYield the golden maize and the sweet wild rice.There ever ripe in the groves and prairiesHang the purple plums and the luscious berries.And the swarthy herds of bison feedOn the sun-lit slope and the waving mead;The dappled fawns from their coverts peep,And countless flocks on the waters sleep;And the silent years with their fingers traceNo furrows for aye on the hunter's face.
When the meadow-lark trilled o'er the leasand the oriole piped in the maples,From my hammock, all under the trees,by the sweet scented field of red-clover,I harked to the hum of the bees,as they gathered the mead of the blossoms,And caught from their low melodiesthe rhythm of the song of Winona.
(In pronouncing Dakota words give "a" the sound of "ah,"—"e" the sound of "a,"—"i" the sound of "e" and "u" the sound of "oo." Sound "ee" the same as in English. The numerals 1-2 etc. refer to notes in the appendix).
Two hundred white Winters and morehave fled from the face of the Summer,Since here on the oak shaded shoreof the dark winding swift Mississippi,Where his foaming floods tumble and roar,on the falls and white rolling rapids,In the fair, fabled center of Earth,sat the Indian town of Ka-thá-ga.86Far rolling away to the north, and the south,lay the emerald prairies,Alternate with woodlands and lakes,and above them the blue vast of ether.And here where the dark river breaks into sprayand the roar of the Ha-Ha,76Were gathered the bison-skin teesof the chief tawny tribe of Dakotas;For here, in the blast and the breeze,flew the flag of the chief of Isantees,86Up-raised on the stem of a lance—the feathery flag of the eagle.And here to the feast and the dance,from the prairies remote and the forests,Oft gathered the out-lying bands,and honored the gods of the nation.On the islands and murmuring strandsthey danced to the god of the waters,Unktéhee,69who dwelt in the cavesdeep under the flood of the Ha-Ha;76And high o'er the eddies and waveshung their offerings of fur and tobacco. [a]And here to the Master of life—Anpé-tu-wee,70god of the heavens,Chief, warrior, and maiden, and wife,burned the sacred green sprigs of the cedar.And here to the Searcher-of-hearts—fierce Tá-ku Skan-skán,51the avenger,Who dwells in the uttermost parts—in the earth and the blue, starry ether,Ever watching, with all-seeing eyes,the deeds of the wives and the warriors,As an osprey afar in the skies,sees the fish as they swim in the waters,Oft spread they the bison-tongue feast,and singing preferred their petitions,Till the Day-Spirit70rose in the East—in the red, rosy robes of the morning,To sail o'er the sea of the skies,to his lodge in the land of the shadows,Where the black winged tornadoes [b] arise—rushing loud from the mouths of their caverns.And here with a shudder they heard,flying far from his tee in the mountains,Wa-kin-yan,32the huge Thunder-Bird,—with the arrows of fire in his talons.[a] See Hennepin's Description of Louisiana by Shea pp 243 and256. Parkman's Discovery p. 246—and Carver's Travels, p. 67[b] The Dakotas like the ancient Romans and Greeks think the homeof the winds is in the caverns of the mountains, and their great Thunderbird resembles in many respects the Jupiter of the Romans and the Zeusof the Greeks. The resemblance of the Dakota mythology to that of theolder Greeks and Romans is striking.Two hundred white Winters and morehave fled from the face of the Summer,Since here by the cataract's roar,in the moon of the red blooming lilies,71In the tee of Ta-té-psin [a] was born Winona—wild-rose of the prairies.Like the summer sun peeping, at morn,o'er the hills was the face of Winona;And here she grew up like a queen—a romping and lily-lipped laughter,And danced on the undulant green,and played in the frolicsome waters,Where the foaming tide tumbles and twirlso'er the murmuring rocks in the rapids;And whiter than foam were the pearlsthat gleamed in the midst of her laughter.Long and dark was her flowing hair flung,like the robe of the night to the breezes;And gay as the robin she sung,or the gold-breasted lark of the meadows.Like the wings of the wind were her feet,and as sure as the feet of Ta-tó-ka; [b]And oft like an antelope fleeto'er the hills and the prairies she bounded,Lightly laughing in sport as she ran,and looking back over her shoulder,At the fleet footed maiden or man,that vainly her flying steps followed.The belle of the village was she,and the pride of the aged Ta-té-psin,Like a sunbeam she lighted his tee,and gladdened the heart of her father.[a] Ta te—Wind, Psin—Wild Rice,—wild rice wind.[b] The Mountain Antelope.In the golden hued Wázu-pe-weé—the moon when the wild rice is gathered;When the leaves on the tall sugar-treeare as red as the breast of the robin,And the red-oaks that border the leaare aflame with the fire of the sunset,From the wide waving fields of wild-rice—from the meadows of Psin-ta-wak-pá-dan, [a]Where the geese and the mallards rejoice,and grow fat on the bountiful harvest,Came the hunters with saddles of mooseand the flesh of the bear and the bison,And the women in birchen canoeswell laden with rice from the meadows,With the tall, dusky hunters, behold,came a marvelous man or a spirit,White-faced and so wrinkled and old,and clad in the robe of the raven.Unsteady his steps were and slow,and he walked with a staff in his right hand,And white as the first-falling snowwere the thin locks that lay on his shoulders.Like rime-covered moss hung his beard,flowing down from his face to his girdle;And wan was his aspect and weird;and often he chanted and mumbledIn a strange and mysterious tongue,as he bent o'er his book in devotion.Or lifted his dim eyes and sung,in a low voice, the solemn "Te Deum."Or Latin, or Hebrew, or Greek—all the same were his words to the warriors,—All the same to the maidsand the meek, wide-wondering-eyed, hazel-brown children.[a] Little Rice River. It bears the name of Rice Creek to-dayand empties into the Mississippi from the east, a few miles aboveMinneapolis.Father Renè Menard [a]—it was he,long lost to his Jesuit brothers,Sent forth by an holy decreeto carry the Cross to the heathen.In his old age abandoned to die,in the swamps, by his timid companions,He prayed to the Virgin on high,and she led him forth from the forest;For angels she sent him as men—in the forms of the tawny Dakotas,And they led his feet from the fen,—from the slough of despond and the desert.Half-dead in a dismal morass,as they followed the red-deer they found him,In the midst of the mire and the grass,and mumbling "Te Deum laudamus.""Unktómee72—Ho!" muttered the braves,for they deemed him the black Spider-SpiritThat dwells in the drearisome caves,and walks on the marshes at midnight,With a flickering torch in his hand,to decoy to his den the unwary.His tongue could they not understand,but his torn hands all shriveled with famine,He stretched to the hunters and said:"He feedeth his chosen with manna;And ye are the angels of God,sent to save me from death in the desert."His famished and woe-begone face,and his tones touched the hearts of the hunters;They fed the poor father apace,and they led him away to Ka-thá-ga.[a] See the account of Father Menard, his mission and disappearance in thewilderness, etc. Neill's Hist. Minnesota, pp 104 to 107 inc.There little by little he learnedthe tongue of the tawny Dakotas;And the heart of the good father yearnedto lead them away from their idols—Their giants16and dread Thunder-birds—their worship of stones73and the devil."Wakán-de!" [a] they answered his words,for he read from his book in the Latin,Lest the Nazarene's holy commandsby his tongue should be marred in translation;And oft with his beads in his hands,or the cross and the crucified Jesus,He knelt by himself on the sands,and his dim eyes uplifted to heaven.But the braves bade him look to the East—to the silvery lodge of Han-nán-na; [b]And to dance with the chiefs at the feast—at the feast of the Giant Heyó-ka.16They frowned when the good fatherspurned the flesh of the dog in the kettle,And laughed when his fingers were burnedin the hot, boiling pot of the giant."The Blackrobe" they called the poor priest,from the hue of his robe and his girdle;And never a game or a feastbut the father must grace with his presence.His prayer book the hunters revered,—they deemed it a marvelous spirit;It spoke and the white father heard,—it interpreted visions and omens.And often they bade himto pray this marvelous spirit to answer,And tell where the sly Chippeway might be ambushedand slain in his forests.For Menard was the first in the land,proclaiming, like John in the desert—"The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand;repent ye, and turn from your idols."—The first of the brave brotherhood that,threading the fens and the forest,Stood afar by the turbulent floodat the falls of the Father of Waters.[a] It is wonderful.[b] The morning.In the lodge of the Stranger [a]he sat awaiting the crown of a martyr;His sad face compassion begatin the heart of the dark eyed Winona.Oft she came to the teepee and spoke;she brought him the tongue of the bison,Sweet nuts from the hazel and oak,and flesh of the fawn and the mallard.Soft hánpa [b] she made for his feetand leggins of velvety fawn-skin,—A blanket of beaver complete,and a hood of the hide of the otter.And oft at his feet on the mat,deftly braiding the flags and the rushes,Till the sun sought his teepee she sat,enchanted with what he relatedOf the white winged ships on the seaand the teepees far over the ocean,Of the love and the sweet charity of the Christand the beautiful Virgin.[a] A lodge set apart for guests of the village.[b] Moccasins.She listened like one in a trancewhen he spoke of the brave, bearded Frenchmen,From the green sun-lit valleys of Franceto the wild Hochelága [a] transplanted,Oft trailing the deserts of snowin the heart of the dense Huron forests,Or steering the dauntless canoethrough the waves of the fresh water ocean."Yea, stronger and braver are they,"said the aged Menard to Winona,"Than the head-chief, tall Wazi-kuté,74but their words are as soft as a maiden's;Their eyes are the eyes of the swan,but their hearts are the hearts of the eagles;And the terrible Máza Wakán [b] ever walks,by their side like a spirit.Like a Thunder-bird, roaring in wrath,flinging fire from his terrible talons,It sends to their enemies death,in the flash of the fatal Wakándee." [c][a] The Ottawa name for the region of the St. Lawrence River.[b] "Mysterious metal"—or metal having a spirit in it. This is thecommon name applied by the Dakotas to all fire arms.[c] Lightning.The Autumn was past and the snowlay drifted and deep on the prairies;From his teepee of ice came the foe—came the storm-breathing god of the winter.Then roared in the groves,—on the plains,—on the ice-covered lakes and the river—The blasts of the fierce hurricanesblown abroad from the breast of Wazíya.3The bear cuddled down in his den,and the elk fled away to the forest;The pheasant and gray prairie-henmade their beds in the heart of the snow-drift;The bison-herds huddled and stoodin the hollows and under the hill-sides;Or rooted the snow for their foodin the lee of the bluffs and the timber;And the mad winds that howled from the north,from the ice-covered seas of Wazíya,Chased the gray wolf and red fox and swarthto their dens in the hills of the forest.Poor Father Menard,—he was ill;in his breast burned the fire of the fever;All in vain was the magical skillof Wicásta Wakán61with his rattle;Into soft child-like slumber he fell,and awoke in the land of the blessèd—To the holy applause of "Well done!"and the harps in the hands of the angels.Long he carried the cross,and he won the coveted crown of a martyr.In the land of the heathen he died,meekly following the voice of his Master,One mourner alone by his side—Ta-té-psin's compassionate daughter.She wailed the dead father with tears,and his bones by her kindred she buried.Then winter followed winter.The years sprinkled frost on the head of her father;And three weary winters she dreamedof the fearless and fair-bearded Frenchmen;In her sweet sleep their swift paddles gleamedon the breast of the broad Mississippi,And the eyes of the brave strangers beamedon the maid in the midst of her slumber.She lacked not admirers;the light of the lover oft burned in her teepee—At her couch in the midst of the night,—but she never extinguished the flambeau.The son of Chief Wazi-kuté—a fearless and eagle plumed warrior—Long sighed for Winona, and he—was the pride of the band of Isántees.Three times, in the night, at her bed,had the brave held the torch of the lover,75And thrice had shecovered her headand rejected the handsome Tamdóka. [a][a] Tah-mdo-kah—literally the buck deer.'Twas Summer. The merry voiced birdstrilled and warbled in woodland and meadow;And abroad on the prairies the herdscropped the grass in the land of the lilies,—And sweet was the odor of rosewide-wafted from hillside and heather;In the leaf-shaded lap of reposelay the bright, blue eyed babes of the summer;And low was the murmur of brooksand low was the laugh of the Ha-Ha;76And asleep in the eddies and nookslay the broods of magá60and the mallard.'Twas the moon of Wasúnpa.71The band lay at rest in the tees at Ka-thá-ga,And abroad o'er the beautiful landwalked the spirits of Peace and of Plenty—Twin sisters, with bountiful hand,wide scatt'ring wild rice and the lilies.An-pé-tu-wee70walked in the west—to his lodge in the midst of the mountains,And the war eagle flew to her nestin the oak on the Isle of the Spirit. [a]And now at the end of the day,by the shore of the Beautiful Island, [b]A score of fair maidens and gaymade joy in the midst of the waters.Half-robed in their dark, flowing hair,and limbed like the fair Aphroditè,They played in the waters,and there they dived and they swam like the beavers,—Loud-laughing like loons on the lakewhen the moon is a round shield of silver,And the songs of the whippowilswake on the shore in the midst of the maples.[a] The Dakotas say that for many years in olden times a war-eaglemade her nest in an oak tree on Spirit island—Wanagi-wita just below theFalls till frightened away by the advent of white men.[b] The Dakotas called Nicollet Island "Wi-ta Waste"—the Beautiful Island.But hark!—on the river a song,—strange voices commingled in chorus;On the current a boat swept alongwith DuLuth and his hardy companions;To the stroke of their paddles they sung,and this the refrain that they chanted:"Dans mon chemin j'ai recontréDeux cavaliers bien monteés.Lon, lon, laridon daine,Lon, lon, laridon dai.""Deux cavaliers bien monteés;L'un a cheval, et l'autre a pied.Lon, lon, laridon daine,Lon, lon, laridon dai." [a]Like the red, dappled deer in the glade,alarmed by the footsteps of hunters,Discovered, disordered, dismayed,the nude nymphs fled forth from the waters,And scampered away to the shade,and peered from the screen of the lindens.[a] A part of one of the favorite songs of the Frenchvoyageurs.A bold and and adventuresome man was DuLuth,and a dauntless in danger,And straight to Kathága he ran,and boldly advanced to the warriors,Now gathering, a cloud, on the strand,and gazing amazed on the strangers;And straightway he offered his handunto Wázi-kuté, the Itáncan.To the Lodge of the Stranger were ledDuLuth and his hardy companions;Robes of beaver and bison were spread,and the Peace pipe23was smoked with the Frenchman.There was dancing and feasting at night,and joy at the presents he lavished.All the maidens were wild with delightwith the flaming red robes and the ribbons,With the beads and the trinkets untold,and the fair, bearded face of the giver;And glad were they all to behold the friendsfrom the Land of the Sunrise.But one stood apart from the rest—the queenly and peerless Winona,Intently regarding the guest—hardly heeding the robes and the ribbons,Whom the White Chief beholding admired,and straightway he spread on her shouldersA lily-red robe and attired,with necklet and ribbons, the maiden.The red lilies bloomed in her face,and her glad eyes gave thanks to the giver,And forth from her teepee apaceshe brought him the robe and the missalOf the father—poor Renè Menard;and related the tale of the "Black Robe."She spoke of the sacred regardhe inspired in the hearts of Dakotas;That she buried his bones with her kin,in the mound by the Cave of the Council;That she treasured and wraptin the skin of the red-deer his robe and his prayer-book—"Till his brothers should come from the East—from the land of the far Hochelága,To smoke with the braves at the feast,on the shores of the Loud-laughing Waters.76For the "Black Robe" spake much of his youthand his friends in the Land of the Sunrise;It was then as a dream, now in truth,I behold them, and not in a vision."But more spake her blushes, I ween,and her eyes full of language unspoken,As she turned with the grace of a queen,and carried her gifts to the teepee.Far away from his beautiful France—from his home in the city of Lyons,A noble youth full of romance,with a Norman heart big with adventure,In the new world a wanderer, by chance,DuLuth sought the wild Huron forests.But afar by the vale of the Rhone,the winding and musical river,And the vine-covered hills of the Saône,the heart of the wanderer lingered,—'Mid the vineyards and mulberry trees,and the fair fields of corn and of cloverThat rippled and waved in the breeze,while the honey-bees hummed in the blossomsFor there, where the impetuous Rhone,leaping down from the Switzerland mountains,And the silver-lipped soft flowing Saône,meeting, kiss and commingle together,Down-winding by vineyards and leas,by the orchards of fig trees and olives,To the island-gemmed, sapphire-blue seasof the glorious Greeks and the Romans;Aye, there, on the vine covered shore,'mid the mulberry trees and the olives,Dwelt his blue-eyed and beautiful Flore,with her hair like a wheat field at harvest,All rippled and tossed by the breeze,and her cheeks like the glow of the morning,Far away o'er the emerald seas,ere the sun lifts his brow from the billows,Or the red-clover fields when the bees,singing sip the sweet cups of the blossoms.Wherever he wandered—alone in the heart of the wild Huron forests,Or cruising the rivers unknownto the land of the Crees or Dakotas—His heart lingered still on the Rhone,'mid the mulberry-trees and the vineyards,Fast-fettered and bound by the zonethat girdled the robes of his darling.Till the red Harvest Moon71he remained in the vale of the swift Mississippi.The esteem of the warriors he gained,and the love of the dark eyed Winona.He joined in the sports and the chase;with the hunters he followed the bison,And swift were his feet in the racewhen the red elk they ran on the prairies.At the Game of the Plum-stones77he playedand he won from the skillfulest players;A feast to Wa'tánka78he made,and he danced at the feast of Heyóka.16With the flash and the roar of his gunhe astonished the fearless Dakotas;They called it the "Máza Wakán"—the mighty, mysterious metal."'Tis a brother," they said,"of the fire in the talons of dreadful Wakínyan,32When he flaps his huge wings in his ire,and shoots his red shafts at Unktéhee."69The Itancan,74tall Wazí-kuté,appointed a day for the races.From the red stake that stood by his tee,on the southerly side of the Ha-haTo a stake at the Lake of the Loons79—a league and return—was the distance.On the crest of the hills red batonsmarked the course for the feet of the runners.They gathered from near and afar,to the races and dancing and feasting.Five hundred tall warriors were therefrom Kapóza6and far off Keóza;8Remnica, [a] too, furnished a shareof the legions that thronged to the races,And a bountiful feast was preparedby the diligent hands of the women,And gaily the multitudes faredin the generous tees of Kathága.The chief of the mystical clanappointed a feast to Unktéhee—The mystic "Wacípee Wakán" [b]—at the end of the day and the races.A band of sworn brothers are they,and the secrets of each one are sacred.And death to the lips that betrayis the doom of the swarthy avengers,And the son of tall Wazí-kutéwas the chief of the mystical order.[a] Pronounced Ray mne chah—the village of the Mountains situate whereRed Wing now stands.[b] Sacred Dance—The Medicine dance—See description infra.On an arm of an oak hangs the prizefor the swiftest and strongest of runners—A blanket as red as the skies,when the flames sweep the plains in October.And beside it a strong, polished bow,and a quiver of iron tipped arrows,Which Kapóza's tall chief will bestowon the fleet-footed second that follows.A score of swift-runners are therefrom the several bands of the nation;And now for the race they prepare,and among them fleet-footed Tamdóka.With the oil of the buck and the beartheir sinewy limbs are anointed,For fleet are the feet of the deerand strong are the limbs of the bruin,And long is the course and severefor the swiftest and strongest of runners.Hark!—the shouts and the braying of drums,and the Babel of tongues and confusion!From his teepee the tall chieftain comes,and Duluth brings a prize for the runners—A keen hunting-knife from the Seine,horn-handled and mounted with silver.The runners are ranged on the plain,and the Chief waves a flag as a signal,And away like the gray wolves they fly—like the wolves on the trail of the red deer;O'er the hills and the prairie they vie,and strain their strong limbs to the utmost,While high on the hills hangs a cloudof warriors and maidens and mothers,To behold the swift runners,and loud are the cheers and the shouts of the warriors.Now swift from the lake they return,o'er the emerald hills and the heather;Like grey-hounds they pant and they yearn,and the leader of all is Tamdóka.At his heels flies Hu-pá-hu, [a] the fleet—the pride of the band of Kaóza,A warrior with eagle-winged feet,but his prize is the bow and the quiver.Tamdóka first reaches the post,and his are the knife and the blanket,By the mighty acclaim of the hostand award of the chief and the judges.Then proud was the tall warrior's stride,and haughty his look and demeanor;He boasted aloud in his pride,and he scoffed at the rest of the runners."Behold me, for I am a man! [b]my feet are as swift as the West wind.With the coons and the beavers I ran;but where is the elk or the cabri?80Come!—where is the hunter will darematch his feet with the feet of Tamdóka?Let him think of Taté [c] and beware,ere he stake his last robe on the trial.""Ohó! Ho! Hó-héca!" [d] they jeered,for they liked not the boast of the boaster;But to match him no warrior appeared,for his feet wore the wings of the west-wind.[a] The wings.[b] A favorite boast of the Dakota braves.[c] The wind.[d] About equivalent to Oho—Aha—fudge.Then forth from the side of the chiefstepped DuLuth and he looked on the boaster;"The words of a warrior are brief,—I will run with the brave," said the Frenchman;"But the feet of Tamdóka are tired;abide till the cool of the sunset."All the hunters and maidens admired,for strong were the limbs of the stranger."Hiwó! Ho!" [a] they shoutedand loud rose the cheers of the multitude mingled;And there in the midst of the crowdstood the glad-eyed and blushing Winona.[a] Hurra there!Now afar o'er the plains of the westwalked the sun at the end of his journey,And forth came the brave and the guest,at the tap of the drum, for the trial.Like a forest of larches the hordeswere gathered to witness the contest;As loud is the drums were their wordsand they roared like the roar of the Ha-ha.For some for Tamdóka contend,and some for the fair, bearded stranger,And the betting runs high to the end,with the skins of the bison and beaver.A wife of tall Wazi-kuté—the mother of boastful Tamdóka—Brought her handsomest robe from the tee,with a vaunting and loud proclamation:She would stake her last robe on her son who,she boasted, was fleet as the Cábri80And the tall, tawny chieftain looked on,approving the boast of the mother.Then fleet as the feet of a fawn to her lodgeran the dark eyed Winona,She brought and she staked on the lawn,by the side of the robe of the boaster,The lily-red mantle Duluth, with his own hands,had laid on her shoulders."Tamdóka is swift, but forsooth,the tongue of his mother is swifter,"She said, and her face was aflamewith the red of the rose and the lily,And loud was the roar of acclaim;but dark was the face of Tamdóka.They strip for the race and prepare,—DuLuth in his breeches and leggins;And the brown, curling locks of his hairdownward droop to his bare, brawny shoulders,And his face wears a smile debonair,as he tightens his red sash around him;But stripped to the moccasins bare,save the belt and the breech-clout of buckskin,Stands the haughty Tamdóka awarethat the eyes of the warriors admire him;For his arms are the arms of a bearand his legs are the legs of a panther.The drum beats,—the chief waves the flag,and away on the course speed the runners,And away leads the brave like a stag,—like a hound on his track flies the Frenchman;And away haste the hunters, once more,to the hills for a view to the lake-side,And the dark-swarming hill-tops,they roar with the storm of loud voices commingled.Far away o'er the prairie they fly,and still in the lead is Tamdóka,But the feet of his rival are nigh,and slowly he gains on the hunter.Now they turn on the post at the lake,—now they run full abreast on the home-stretch;Side by side they contend for the stake,for a long mile or more on the prairie.They strain like a stag and a hound,when the swift river gleams through the thicket,And the horns of the rulers resound,winding shrill through the depths of the forest.But behold!—at full length on the groundfalls the fleet-footed Frenchman abruptly.And away with a whoop and a bound,springs the eager, exulting Tamdóka.Long and loud on the hillsis the shout of his swarthy admirers and backers;"But the race is not won till it's out,"said DuLuth, to himself as he gathered,With a frown on his face,for the foot of the wily Tamdóka had tripped him.Far ahead ran the brave on the route,and turning he boasted exultant.Like spurs to the steed to DuLuthwere the jeers and the taunts of the boaster;Indignant was he and red wroth,at the trick of the runner dishonest;And away like a whirlwind he speeds—like a hurricane mad from the mountains;He gains on Tamdóka,—he leads!—and behold, with the spring of a panther,He leaps to the goal and succeeds,'mid the roar of the mad acclamation.Then glad as the robin in Maywas the voice of Winona exulting;And the crest-fallen brave turned away,and lonely he walked by the river;He glowered as he wentand the fire of revenge in his bosom was kindled,But he strove to dissemble his ire,and he whistled alone by the Ha-ha.