The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Fire BirdThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Fire BirdAuthor: Gene Stratton-PorterIllustrator: Gordon GrantLee ThayerRelease date: February 6, 2011 [eBook #35188]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Steve Read and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FIRE BIRD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Fire BirdAuthor: Gene Stratton-PorterIllustrator: Gordon GrantLee ThayerRelease date: February 6, 2011 [eBook #35188]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Steve Read and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)
Title: The Fire Bird
Author: Gene Stratton-PorterIllustrator: Gordon GrantLee Thayer
Author: Gene Stratton-Porter
Illustrator: Gordon Grant
Lee Thayer
Release date: February 6, 2011 [eBook #35188]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Steve Read and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FIRE BIRD ***
BOOKS BYGENE STRATTON-PORTERNature BooksThe Song of the CardinalFriends in FeathersBirds of the BibleMusic of the WildMoths of the LimberlostMorning FaceHoming With the BirdsNature StoriesFrecklesA Girl of the LimberlostAt the Foot of the RainbowThe HarvesterLaddieMichael O'HalloranA Daughter of the LandHer Father's DaughterThe Fire Bird
BOOKS BYGENE STRATTON-PORTERNature BooksThe Song of the CardinalFriends in FeathersBirds of the BibleMusic of the WildMoths of the LimberlostMorning FaceHoming With the BirdsNature StoriesFrecklesA Girl of the LimberlostAt the Foot of the RainbowThe HarvesterLaddieMichael O'HalloranA Daughter of the LandHer Father's DaughterThe Fire Bird
BOOKS BYGENE STRATTON-PORTERNature BooksThe Song of the CardinalFriends in FeathersBirds of the BibleMusic of the WildMoths of the LimberlostMorning FaceHoming With the BirdsNature StoriesFrecklesA Girl of the LimberlostAt the Foot of the RainbowThe HarvesterLaddieMichael O'HalloranA Daughter of the LandHer Father's DaughterThe Fire Bird
"Medicine Man, O Medicine Man,Make for me a new, a sure medicineThat will ease my scorched heartOf the fire of a flaming red birdAnd take from my tortured handsTheir burden of moon white lilies."
THE FIRE BIRDGENESTRATTON-PORTER,ILLUSTRATIONSBY GORDON GRANTDECORATIONS BYLEE THAYERGARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTODOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY1922
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BYGENE STRATTON-PORTERALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIANPRINTED IN THE UNITED STATESATTHE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.First Edition
TOEDWARD SHERIFF CURTISBLOOD BROTHER TO THE INDIANS BY CEREMONIALSPIRIT BROTHER TO HIS FELLOW MEN BY BIRTH
CONTENTSPAGEPART IThe Love Dance of Princess Yiada1PART IICoüy-oüy and Mountain Lion22PART IIIYiada's Flight to the Mandanas49
ILLUSTRATIONSPrincess Yiada and the Medicine ManFrontispieceFACING PAGECoüy-oüy and Mountain Lion22Star Face and Dove Eye49
Medicine Man, O Medicine Man,Make for me High Magic.I, Yiada, daughter of White Wolf,Mighty Chief of the Canawacs,Mate of Star Face, Brave of the Mandanas,I of your blood, I have said it!From the roots of the white toluache liliesMake me a strong medicineThat will drown my scorching spirit-fireAnd empty my hands of their fulness.Beat your sacred turtle drumsLoud and threateningly.Drive back to the fear peopled forestOf the far and dread Shadow LandThe flaming ghost of the fire birdAnd the white flower of the still water.Heal me of the dread head-sicknessLike the midsummer madnessOf foaming-mouthed quiota.I, Yiada, proud daughter of the fierce Canawacs,I, mate of the Brave, Star Face,Chief of a forest of wigwams,With ponies like the sands of the sea, have said it.Hear me, for the healing of my sickened spirit!Where the triumphant blue sea water,Sky-gold all day in the slanting sunlight,Silver-white in the uncertain moonlight,Teases the pale sands of the craggy beaches,Lay the lodge of my Father, White Wolf,The savage hunter of beast and enemy,First at the kill, Chief of great wealth,Next in power to the high Sachem,Chief of all Chiefs.Many were the strong sonsWho sprang from White Wolf's loins—I, Yiada, his one daughter, pride of Falcon Eye,His daring chieftainess, from the far Mandanas.Tall our wigwams of deer and bear and elk skins,Stout our warm lodges of cedar and pine tree,Many our robes of beaver and buffalo and marten,Heavy our necklaces with cunningly carved beads,Polished elk teeth and eagle talons,Shining black obsidian and precious blue shell;Our war ponies flocking like birds fleeing winter.Always for me, the one daughter,The warm spot by the storm fire,The floating sweet fat from the cooking kettles,The first crusty brown cakeFrom the smoking red baking stones,The clear flowing gold sweetFrom the tall nests of the wood bees;The soft sun coloured robe of down fine doeskinEmbroidered with broad bands of white beads,Luring beads of green, and blue, and yellow,The red stained singing quills of the porcupine,And downy snow white under feathersFrom the breast of the white swan.I, first in the picking of the juicy berriesThe fruits of earth and bush,Most skilful in the weavingOf the bright story baskets,Swiftest at embroidering robes of doeskinFor chieftain or little fatling;Leader in the ceremonial dancesOf the young women of our tribe,In the great Assembly Lodge of our people.I, of slim body, willow smooth, oak strong,With thick long hair of crow-back blackness,And keen far eyes like the high eagleOf the top crag of the cloud countrySpying in the gold hunting grounds of the sun.Many the gaily dressed young BravesWho nightly crept close our lodgesAnd made soft eyes and sang wooing songs,When the moon of full womanhood shone on me.But always, when she braided ornamentsIn my hair, for dancing,And oiled me for high ceremonials,In my ear Falcon Eye, my Mother, whispered:"Keep your body for Mountain Lion,Son of the High Sachem,Chief of Chiefs when his Father makes his journeyTo the far country of the Great Spirit."Mountain Lion was the tallest,The strongest of our young men,The fastest rider, the most skilful dancer,The surest hunter among us,The spy who never failed,The warrior who always returned in triumph.Like the young trees of the sea shoreHe was slim and straight.Like the water rolling up the white sandsHe was ever tireless.Like the shining of the spirit sunHe lighted all the day with gold magic;Like the kindly silver moonHe peopled all the night with friendly shadows.The heart of every maiden was wingédIn the wild breast of her,If he but looked where her footsteps led her.Medicine Man, O Medicine Man,Make for me a new, a sure medicineThat will ease my scorched heartOf the fire of a flaming red birdAnd take from my tortured handsTheir burden of moon white lilies.In the cool night of the fat, bloody moon of harvestWhen the tribal storehouses were full heapedWith dried fish and bear, buffalo and deer meat,With little mountains of maize for winter;When the cakes and candles of yellow tallowWere moulded past numbering,When the wide-mouthed seed basketsWere high heaped with richness,And many deep nut baskets were overflowing,When the dried berries from far thicketsMade little sun painted hills—Then all of the tribe of our hunting groundsBathed their hard worked bodies,Oiled their smooth skins, painted their happy facesAnd put on the wealth of their richest robesFor the Great Dance of Thanksgiving.When the robins made love chase that season,In the secret ceremonial of the wise old womenMy Maiden's Hour had been celebrated.Always had my proud, savage MotherTaken me alone to the forest,And there, beating hands and chanting,She had carefully taught meThe Wonder Dance of the Maidens' HourOf the Mandanas, her people.It was a dance of moonlight and moon madness,Of sign love talk, of eyes asking great gifts,Of swift feet stamping like the roebuckAnd singing bead and shell trinket music,So that all the night was softly lightedWith strange visions flower sweet.On the day of the Thanksgiving CeremonialWhen my Mother oiled me to leaf fine smoothness,And hung me heavy with bracelets of bone beadsAnd a necklace of precious carved blue shell,As her skilled hands of love flew,In my ear she made Canawac talk:"To-night, before the Great SachemOn his high throne of prideful authority,With the son who follows him in Council,Sitting beside his knee,When thou leadest the Thanksgiving DanceAt the head of the young womenThou shalt wave all of them back to their places,And alone, before the assembled Chieftains,Thou shalt dance the Mating DanceOf the rich and powerful Mandanas,Ever keeping thine eye of glad submission,Fast on the eye of Mountain Lion."If the soft light in his eye strike fire for thee,Then shalt thou forget all othersAnd dance out thy heart for him aloneAnd bow low as the young cedar before him,And as the serpent charm him.If he arise and stand facing theeAnd dance love manifest before thee,Then is the hour come for thy union with him."Then shall I fly to set up thy wigwamOf down-fine doeskin, bleached with love,That many suns I have worked on in hiding for thee,And gladly in the sand before itThou shalt set thy lighted candle,Thy tall proud candle of gold bear tallow;And if he come to thee with soft wordsWith words of wooing magic,Then shalt thou bury thy candle flameIn the yielding sands before him."Then art thou our Chieftainess in seasons to come,And high shall thy sure heart beatWith pride of love and power,And swift shall thy red blood run in leaping streamsWith the flood-high tide of mighty Chieftains."Braves shall thy many straight sons be,Great Chiefs who shall rule other far nations;And sweet shall thy tall strong women beAs the red honey-flower that grows in the forest,And swift shall their hearts beAs the heart of the frightened fawnThat leaps with feathered feet before the hunter."Medicine Man, make me a sure medicine,A strong medicine, new to our people,That shall ease my weary eyesOf a red bird and a white lily.When the Harvest Ceremonial DanceWas cried through all the village,When night crept, silent as the bat's wing,From the blanketed heart of the forest,When the great Assembly LodgeWas lighted and filled with happy faces,When the old chiefs and the wise menHad spoken thanksgivings for fat harvest,And the time was come for all the tribe to rejoice,First came the dance of the little stumbling children;The little fat bellied round faced serious children,With shining black hair and wonder eyes,And flower red cheeks and mouths,And stout breath like short gusts of North Wind.When, worn out with swift dances,They rolled in their soft blankets,Came the shy youths' dance,And the uncertain growing maidens'All bravely tinkling little necklacesOf squirrel and rabbit teeth, and bright rare shells.Then danced the carefully trained young women,Grown and ripe for the Harvest of love.In their lead I did as my Mother had told me.Straight I stood before the Great SachemAnd the son of the pride of his heart.High I lifted my head like a proud pine tree,And softly I shook my bracelets of beadsAnd rattled my necklace of blue shell,And rustled the porcupine fringesOf my fine robe of yellow,In music like the little secret whisperingAmong the dry grass under passing feet.I spoke as I had always been taught by my Mother:"Great Chief, grant that I dance before theeThe Woman's Love Dance of the brave Mandanas,A dance that I have learnedFrom the swift feet of my Mother."Searchingly, the Great Sachem looked at his sonAnd his son looked at me with understandingAnd made a swift sign to his Father;So raising his hands of authority,The Great Sachem cried aloud:"Yiada, daughter of Chief White Wolf,Will dance the Woman's Dance of the Mandanas,Let all others be seated. I have said it!"Alone, with the blood of heart red on lip and cheekAnd with the pride of my asking heartBeating like wings on my light feet,With my Mother keeping time for me,As she did in the secret forest,Slowly I stepped into the great danceOf the Mandanas, of the peace lands;The strongest love medicineEver measured by the feet of wild women.As I danced, even as my Mother had long told meI kept my eyes ever spyingDeep into the eyes of Mountain Lion.When the dance grew to its swiftest wildest note,When my proud head of certaintyAnd my willing arms were high lifted,And the beads and obsidian and blue shellTinkled soft singing, like falling rain,Mountain Lion sprang to his feetAnd came down in the firelight before me.With no knowledge of the dance of the Mandanas,And no teaching of step or of posture,He fell into the strange measuresThat my Mother had taught me;With eyes upon eyes and heart near to heart,Facing in the wide fire flaming circleWhere envious faces kept watch upon us,We danced the wonder danceOf the hour of full womanhood.Medicine Man, O Medicine Man,Healer of the hearts of the Mandanas,There, facing the chiefs and maidensOf a thousand lodges of our tribe,With the Great Sachem keenly watchingOn his high throne of great power,Darest say that was not my hourMy rightful moon of exultation?When I looked, near the close of the dance,Toward my Mother for guidanceShe gave me the swift happy sign of birds flying;So I caught that joyful signAnd I gave it to the waiting maidens.Like homing swallows they swept around me;The young Braves came stamping,Like roebucks before the does of Spring,Then all of us changed the danceTo the love measures of the Canawacs.When the chattering maidensWent back to their waiting mothers,I stood there tall and straight and proudFresh as the wing of the eagle,From the highest peak of dawnEye to eye, face to face with Mountain Lion.His eyes burned deep into my eyesWith a look of quivering power.Medicine Man, darest thou sayThat was not the great understanding?So when all of the othersWent on with the Dance of Thanksgiving,Soft as the veiling mistsFrom the dim breast of evening meadowsI slipped from the Council HouseAnd I flew to our lodge.With hands of high satisfactionMy Mother set my wigwam beside her lodge.I lighted my tall happy candle of bear fat;I opened my doorway wide to the friendly moon;Deep in the sands I set my love light to burning.And there I waited—long and long I waited,In burning eagerness of heartTremblingly listening with each breathFor the sure step of Mountain Lion.Then, Medicine Man,With black angered sign talkAnd fierce eyes of leaping fire,Came my storm driven Mother.As she came toward me,Like a killing wind uprooting the cedars,Arose high clamour from the Council Lodge.She caught up my hopeful waiting candle,My living love token to Mountain Lion, my man,She buried its flame deep in the white sands,In rage she thrust it from her,She snatched shut the welcoming doorsBefore the eyes of anguish of my MotherOf my willing doeskin wigwam,And in the harsh low voiced Canawac tongueShe cried to me in choking anger:"Woe is upon us! Strangers have reached us.Comes a great Chief from tribes of the far North,From the camps of the powerful Killimacs,From the home fires of the Ice God;And with him on a snow white ponyRides his beautiful raven haired daughter,A tall proud Princess of a great warlike nation."This night Mountain Lion will not come to thee:His father has sent him to serve the rich strangers.Get thee back to thy place in the Council LodgeBefore the venom tipped finger pointers miss thee,For there will be great feasting and much talk,The rejoicing will last for many suns and moons.It was the wrong time for thy dance of allurementThy maiden proffer of prideful loving,But I, thy Mother, taught thee thy undoing,I, thy Mother, gave to thee the sign."Then, Medicine Man,As fierce a storm as ever tore the forest,As ever pitched the sea high in wild fury,Broke in my heart, leaping to flee its lodging place.I lifted my head high, and proudly and silentlyI stepped into the moon tide,But I trembled and shook with all-over sickness,My blood ran hot angry gushes,And I, who had never known painIn any part of my strong body,Now felt its rending arrowsTearing my heart in sick torture,As I crept through the restless whispering forestWhere the wise old yellow leavesTalked over my shame with each otherAnd every mocking finger of nightPointed in derision at my wounded side.I crept back to the Council LodgeStill as a panther fending for her cubs,I slipped in unseen by any,And took up my place among the young women.On the high throne of powerBeside our Great Sachem, Storm Wind,Sat a tall Chief trailing rich robesOf white fox, sealskin, and white bear.A proud Chief of savage face,Weighted with a heavy necklace of eagles' claws,Many elk teeth, and lion talons,Hanging across his broad shoulders.Standing still and straight before them,First, I saw the stranger woman.I heard the deep voice of her father,Toned to soft talk, as among peace councils,When he told the Great Sachem and ChieftainsAnd all the watching Canawacs:"This is my daughter, a Princess of seven tribes,She who can run with the foot of the hare,Who can dance as the gold birch leaves,When spring comes stealing from the Southland;Who can guide the swift canoes surelyAnd ride the wild ponies on the chase,Whose fingers are skilful in basket weaving,In beading, and braiding, and polishing ornaments.She comes with me to make the friendshipOf a people of her mother's blood;And her name is a name held sacredAmong all the tribes at peace with us.Like music there fell from his smooth tongueA name well known to council wise Canawacs,'Coüy-oüy'—a breath of sweetness—He spoke it like the easy tongue of a lazy brookSoftly singing among the small stones of its bed.Then every Canawac remembered the dark daysWhen the Great Spirit became justly angered,And in the height of his deep wrathAgainst the treachery of all tribesDrew up the waters of destructionUntil they covered the earth's face,Leaving upon the tallest treeOnly one Chief and his mate,And one pair of every bird and climbing beast,On the top of the highest mountainOf all the earth known to man.When the water had come up to the top branchesUntil only their heads were above it,And had stood still for three weary suns,Then slowly it drew back, and left the earth barren,So there was no fire to cook foodFor the hungry Sachem and his mate,Nor to warm the water soaked camping grounds.Then the Sachem sent a beaver messengerFar down to the underworldTo borrow only one coalFrom the campfires of the dark spirits;But the beaver was not able to bring itFor burning his mouth cruelly.Then he sent the fierce mountain lion,Searching all over the earth for campfires,But there was no fire to be found,For the water had been everywhere.Then he sent a little gray bird to the spirit worldTo bring from the campfires of the unseen countryOne living coal with which to make a fireFor the cooking kettles and light-signals,And to warm the lodges of all the tribesThat would follow him in suns to come.So the dauntless little gray birdSlowly winged across the far spaces.Three suns arose and set, and at the red eveningWhen the third sun plunged its face in the sea,With all of its plumage burned a flame-tongue red,With a beak of red like hot coalsAnd its face blackened with fire,Came the brave panting birdWith a living coal held fast in its mouth,A coal snatched from the high altarsOf the far country of the spirits.And so the fire gift was brought back to earthTo warm the hearts and the wigwamsOf every nation, for all seasons to come.The bird was sent from a stranger tribeFar to the south of our hunting grounds,Where the hot suns shine and the grass withers;But travellers journeying northward to see us,Had told our grandfathers about it,Had shown us the bird of bloody red beakAnd face still blackened with fire,Singing gaily in our summer forests,Singing even in the ice of winter.Often when we chanted songs of thanksgivingTo the Great Spirit, for rich gifts,When we thanked him for the buffalo and beaver,For the deer meat and fish and corn for winter,Then our tribes made a ceremonial of glad rejoicingFor the bird that brought backThe great wonder gift of fire.Its sacred name fell on our earsLike the peace of the Great Spirit,Fell soft as flying snowflakesWhen first squaw winter comes,Soft as the hunting wing of the thieving owl,Sweet as the breath of flowers in the nesting moon,From the lips of the Great Chief: "Coüy-oüy."Before him, her shining head bowed,Our people watched her in silent wonder.She was tall, taller than any of our women,Tall and slender like the singing wind reedsThat grow around the magic poolOf the white spirit lily of the still water,Far back in the valley pastures.She moved like the night hawkSlowly sweeping across the moon sky.From the proud lift of her headAnd the eagle look of her dark eyeFrom the red flower flame of her soft lipsAnd the sureness of her being,I could see that the heart of herWas like a wiry little war ponySwiftly racing up the steep trail of her breastWith the hunt blood of the soft chaseFevering its questing nostrils.No woman among our people,Had seen the beauty of her robe,For she stood in flower white, flower fine doeskin,Bleached and tanned like winter snowdrift,Like the shining water flower face of far lakes,Like the wide wing of a homing white swan,Like the silver rays of the big cold hunting moon.All around her feet fell soft knotted fringesCut deep as the height of the first upstandingOf papooses ready to walk.And her belt and her neck were deeply embroideredWith a thousand green stained quillsFrom the backs of many porcupines,While her long heavy necklaceWas got from traders crossing far seas,For it lay soft dull jade like the green wave meadowIn the deepest bay of the leaf tinted big sea water.Medicine Man, O Medicine Man,When one looked upon her searchingly,As I looked long upon her,That night of fat harvest thanksgiving,Slowly one saw creeping from her bare arms,From her firm high breasts,Over the dark gleaming bowed headAnd sure slender shoulders of her,A faint waving cloud like fine blue mistThat could have been none otherThan the secret power of the Great Spirit,Stealing from her breast to wrap around herSo that any evil spirit magicMight not be strong to work against her.I could see that she was softerThan our hard working women,Though she had learned from the beeTo be busy and useful,Though she had learned from the hunted fawnTo travel far journeys in daring wingéd leaps.
Medicine Man, it were not enough,Ha! it were not enoughThat the stranger bore the song nameOf the fire bird our tribe worshipped;For on her breast, sheltered with one slim hand,With flaming wings outspread,And panting saw-edged beak like fire,Lay a brother of the spirit bird,Flame red, blood red, feathers like wounds—Dead coal black of face;A wild thing, sheltered and unafraid.In her language and with wave smooth sign talkShe told the Great Sachem and our ChiefsThat she had found it in the forestWounded from the missed kill of the night birdOr bare escaped from the eager clawsOf the hunger driven wildcat.
"Before the approving eyes of the watching CanawacsNever had there been a sight so fair to see,As when, clinging trustingly to her firm finger,The broken bird fed from her hand of pity."
Even as she told how she had found it,She folded its wings against its full breastAnd set it upright on her steady finger.Medicine Man, it moved not, it fluttered not,Though one bleeding wing hung broken.Where it had lain between her round breastsIts red sign stained the front of her white robe,The mark of her soft heart of pity.Medicine Man, the face of the Great SachemChanged slowly as he watched our visitor;He looked with understanding upon her,He marvelled at the quiet bird.The heart of my Father, the White Wolf,Grew tender as he studied her.My own heart lay strange in my tormented breastUntil swiftly she turned her face from the womenEver the grinders of the meal in our jars,Ever the curers of the deer meat, and salmon,The fillers and the guardians of the storehouses;And stretching her hand toward Mountain Lion,By strange words and by pretty sign talkShe asked of him like coaxing birds:"Coarse meal and water. Coüy-oüy is hungry."As a sudden wind bends a tall birch low,Willing my man sprang to obey her bidding.Before the approving eyes of the watching CanawacsNever had there been a sight so fair to see,As when, clinging trustingly to her firm finger,The broken bird fed from her hand of pity.I could see the deep look, the inner trouble,The battle in the heart of Mountain Lion,When she held the bird toward himThat it should drink, as do the wounded,From the polished mussel shell he had brought.He looked, not at the broken bird, as we did,But far into the eyes of Coüy-oüy,The Princess of the Killimacs.Medicine Man, was it not a Brave's hour,Was it not a Warrior's hour,That hour in which I stood unflinchingAnd saw her take him from me?I, whose heart had possessed himSince we shot the play arrows of childhood,And together chased the painted wingsThrough the flower fields of the Canawacs.Then came Prairie Flower,Mate of the Great Sachem,To lead away the mighty strangers.For many suns and as many moonsWe feasted and danced gaily.Was I not brave to wear fine robes,Nightly to chant boastful songs?My breast was torn and bleedingAs the broken wing of the fire bird,Yet many searing timesAt the command of the Great SachemWas I made to smile in the Council Lodge,And to dance the Love Dance of the Mandanas;That dance that I had learned in secretFrom the flying feet of my Mother,Learned only for Mountain Lion,For the great ceremonial of love giving.Medicine Man, Hear me!Not again did the eyes of Mountain LionTravel across the Council LodgeTo seek my eyes in understanding.Coüy-oüy had taken his eyes;On her face she proudly kept them,For he saw nought but the blue mist around her,The gleam of her hair, the red bow of her lips.He heard nought but the luring musicOf her echo sweet voice,And the happy song of her quilled robeAs she hourly passed among our people;While always clinging to her breast or shoulderProud and fearless as in freedom,Rode the sacred wounded bird of blood redness.Her father homed in wigwamsNear the lodge of the Great Sachem,Rode his hunting pony on the far chase beside him,Sat on high in the councils of our Chieftains.When the dancing and feasting were overIt was known through the voices of the criersThat for many moons our visitorsWould home beside our campfires,Learning of our wisdom from us,Teaching, where their customs differed.The Great Sachem was swift to order,The rarest fish from sea or river,The juiciest of the small birdsFrom the snares of the children,The tenderest fawn fleshFrom the arrows of the hunters,To be brought for the cooking kettlesOf the strangers who trusted us.Every day I watched the slow sun,And at night I danced with the maidens,But no sleep came to my eyes,No hunger came to my body.My Mother tempted me with bits as sweetAs the Sachem had commanded for Coüy-oüy,But my parched throat refused them in scorn,My dry tongue found no savour in juicy fatness,My hot hands could not place the beads evenly.Then it was that my Mother came to my wigwam,And closing the doorway she stood before me,And long and long she looked far into my heart.Deep in her eyes there gathered the black fury,And a storm like the wildest stormThat ever twisted the cedars in wrath,Raged in her rocking breastsAnd her lightning flashing eyes.Fiercely in the silent Canawac motion tongue,Her look burning into my living spirit,She made the sign of the quick kill;And turning she slipped like a visionFrom my wigwam of torture.As she crept into the mouth of darkness,O Medicine Man,I knew that she had but made the outward signFor the savage inward purposeLong hardening in my deepest heart.The next sun, when our mothers sent the maidensWith their baskets to the Fall nut gathering,I kept ever close beside Coüy-oüy, my enemy,And in my breast there flamed fierce anger,That she had robbed my heart.Always at the door of her wigwam,Rocking in the sunshine of each dawning,Hung a yellow osier basket woven like a ball,With its ribs placed wide enough apartTo give the gifts of light and air,Close enough to prison a flame red bird.And there, healed of his wounds,But forever broken for flight,On a twig shaped and placed by Mountain Lion,Coüy-oüy, the flame feathered voyager of air,Sang a song filled with tears and wailing,The cry of a broken bird heartPleading for wings and a mate.The Great Spirit heard his notes of sorrow,But I hardened my heart against the sacred bird;For his golden cage had been cunningly wroughtBy hands of such great strength that nakedThey had slain the mountain lionAnd taken its yellow skin for a ceremonial robe,Its fierce name for the sign of a great deed.Now I saw in dazed wonderThat Mountain Lion had grown papoose hearted.He was not leading the hunters in the forest;He was not at the head of the fishermenSpearing and netting as of old.He had proved his manhood in deadly combat;He had won his name by the fiercest fightEver known among any of our warriors;But now he chose to lie in his wigwam and dream,And I knew what he dreamed, O Medicine Man!So with soft words and pretty sign talkI led his evil spirit to the bright late flower;I showed her the little flitting creatures.And when I helped her fill her basketWith sweet nuts that were greatly desired,My ear, quick for every sound of menace,Marked the thing the softer one did not hear.By a slender beckoning blue flower,I measured the distance,And skilfully I led the other nut pickersFar away from the spot of danger.Then I dared her to race in turn with meTo leap the long leap across the nut bushes,To land at the mark of the sky flower,A fair thing to shelter death.I set down my heaped basket of furry nuts,I gathered my robe to my knees and raced swiftly,I made the leap to which I challenged her,Before her and all of the wondering maidens.She followed my footsteps like a rift of white light.She rose high in the air over the sweet nut bushes,But she had not my strength, not my purpose.My leap carried me far over the danger;But as I turned quickly to watch herI saw her touch earth in smiling confidence,At the mark of the waving sky flower.When she tore away, her eyes wide in danger,Dragging her robe from the clinging thicket,With greedy eyed, death hungry heartI watched her proud face.The Great Spirit had not pitied me,If the curved death serpent had struck at her,His awful fangs had missed her soft body.O Medicine Man, make me magic for the fire bird,Ease my spirit of the snaring water flower.Many suns I waited in hunger and spirit searching;Far and alone I wandered over the meadows,Beside the white sand shore of the sea water.One day I lost from my necklaceA carved piece of rare blue shell,A beautiful heaven tinted shell, a treasure,Got from traders from the Islands of the seasFar to the south of us—across vast waters;A big shell so precious among us that only oneCost us the weaving of fifty blankets;The greatest wealth known to our people.Slipping unseen from all the others,I went alone through a trail of deep forestTo the back of a far secret cavern I knew,Where lay hidden my precious blue shell,And I cut one small piece from it,For the mending of my necklace.When I came back to the sun, O Medicine Man,And through the forest followed my trail,I heard the rushing thunder footstepsAnd the death growl of Black Bear.I looked, and I saw at the welcoming cavern mouth,Hurrying in from the forest, the bloody killer,Mother black bear, gaunt and hard chased,With far hanging tongue and foam dripping jaws;And behind her, panting and whimpering,Her pair of travel worn hungry little children.Some far tribe had driven her from her home,And with her crying small ones followingShe was seeking shelter in my treasure lodge.I watched her turn and forbid her children to enter;Alone, bravely to the inner recesses she went.Her nose must have told her of my recent body,But she could lead her sleepy cubs no farther,For the death weariness was upon all of them.So she came back to the cave's homing mouth,Drove her panting cubs to the farthest wall,And making fierce boastful war talk,There she claimed the homing rights of the wild.I went back to where our women were workingAnd I began the Brave's task of drilling my shell.Coüy-oüy came and lay beside me, watching.Her tribes had no knowledgeOf such rare precious ornaments.She greatly desired to possess oneFor her most precious bracelet.When we were alone, as I workedI told her how to find my cavernAnd where the shell was hidden on a high ledge.Her heart knew no fear;Her eyes shone with gladnessWhen I told her my great secret of blue treasureAnd that, if she would go alone,She might take for herself one piece.The one I was drilling so carefully I must useFor the mending of my rarest necklace.When I thought of the dripping jawsOf the killer, ravenous, tormented to frenzy,And looked at the smoothness of her body,I relented; I knew mercy.It was in my softened heartTo say that the hunters must go with her;But before my lips of compassionCould speak the words my heart said,With the joy light shining on her face,She told me in happy confidence:"I will take but one small pieceTo ornament my richest bracelet,And I will polish it smooth even as you do,And Mountain Lion shall carve it for me."O Medicine Man, look in mercy upon me!Darest say she drove not her own stake,Lighted her torture fire with fearless hands?Darest say she knew not that Mountain LionWould now make her our Chieftainess?Darest say the buzzing of a swarm of maidensHad not told her many suns pastThat Mountain Lion was my man,That he had danced the Mating DanceOf the Mandanas with me,Before the assembly in the Council HouseOn the night of her coming among us?All that night my eyes surrounded her wigwam.With first dawn ray she came slipping forthAnd darted down the veiled trailThat led through the deep forest.Well had I marked the pathThat ran to the cave's mouth.When she had gone I closed the slender openingThrough which I had unceasingly watchedThe moon's long journey for her,And for the first time in many pitiless sunsI fell into the deep visionless sleepOf the body tired past endurance.It was near evening when my Mother wakened me.She told me, her eyes burning deep into mine,How hunters in the forest had found Coüy-oüyFleeing like a doe before the furious black killer.When she fell, her utmost strength exhausted,Over her raged the foaming black death.Her beautiful breast and armsWere forever shorn of their smoothness,But she lived, and her hateful face of allurementHer trouble-maker face, was untouched.I knew what my Mother knewWhen she turned from my doorway.Medicine Man, the killer had not struckTo the depth where life tented.She had not sent my enemy to the Great Spirit.She had only moved to compassionThe heart in the breast of Mountain Lion,So that alone in his canoe he speared the rare fish,Alone on the mountains he sought the tender bird,Even the bright flower, the red leaf,To lay at her doorway—love's offering.Well I knew that when she was healedHe would stand tall and straight before her,And in his fierce pleading eyesShe would find the great understanding.Then, Medicine Man, despair settled in my heart;I shrivelled like the ungathered wild plum,I burned with a fierce, hot inward fire.The day came when Coüy-oüy stood forthWhitely robed in shining wonder,Untouched in her courage and her beautySave that she hid her arms with deep fringes.In bitterness of spirit I turned from her,I followed the long lonely trailThrough the fringed blue flower meadows.I lay beside the small still waters of the flat lands,And I talked to my sister, the tall blue HeronWhile she hunted food among the water flowers;And I told the wise old HeronFor the easement of my torture,I told her, O Medicine Man,This same tale I tell you.And then, Medicine Man,The Heron gave me a sure sign.She stalked to where a great white flowerWas resting in serene beauty,Like a sheaf of fallen moons upon the water,And from beneath the safety of its shelterShe picked out my little frog brother so easily.She tossed him clear and high in the air,And head first he shot down her long red gullet.Then she looked at me questioninglyAnd awaited my understanding.So I slipped from my robe of doeskin,And fighting my way through the black muck,And the snares of the entangling round leaves,I gathered the white flower riding like a spirit canoeThat had sheltered fatness for my sister Heron.Clean and white as storm foam I washed it,Carefully on the home trail I carried it,Like a living thing to my wigwam I took it,And I put it in a cooking kettleOverflowing cold water from mountain torrent,Then I waited for the spirit to make me a sure sign.That night, when Coüy-oüy's shadow touched me,Like a star fallen from on high was her beauty.Her eyes rested for the first timeOn the white flower of the still waters.On her knees she made a little medicine over it;In her throat she chanted a hushed songOf exultation and worship,Over the wonder beauty of the white flowerThat she had never knownIn the far, cold land of the Killimacs.On her face there was a veiling breath mistLike the softest ray from the lovers' moon;All around her wrapped the blue light blanketThat seemed to steal from her bodyCreeping through her white robe.Then, Medicine Man, I told her this fair tale:That I loved a young BraveSon of the mighty Eagle Feather,The Chief of a high mountain tribe far north of us,And that when he saw me in the deep forestHolding up high the fair water flowerThe lure of its white magicWould make in his cold heartThat strong medicine I needed,To bring him face to face with meIn that great understandingWhich is followed by union, among our tribes.O Medicine Man, I told her by wordAnd by convincing sign talkThat if her heart ran soft as gold sweetnessAt the coming of any of our young Braves,And her roving eyes flew to themSearching for loving understanding,Until she feared they would betray her,And the tongue of her heart pled for them,And her willing hands thought sweet sign talk—If she would hold aloft the white flower,That she had gathered from the water,Deep in the thickness of the forestWhere none but her Brave could see it,It would surely make for her the great magicThat would draw him straight to the flameOf the candle she set before her wigwam.Long and long and long againShe watched the white flower.All her heart melted at its gold heart sweetness;And then she looked deep into my eyes,To spirit depths she searched me carefully,But pride would not let me quail before her.She knew she had barely missedThe peril of the death snake:She had sent hunters to bring its rattles for her.She knew she had faced the red deathBy the black killer of the treasure cave;Yet was my spirit so strong over her doubtingThat once again in the chill of early morningShe set her proud feet confidentlyOn the forest trail I pictured for her.She knew not how the white flowerOf the still water lifted to the sun,She knew not the wind reeds and flute rushes.I told her the path her feet must follow alone,That when she saw a white flowerLike a rocking canoe cradled by soft wind,Riding on the breast of the blue water,She should leave her robe in the deep forest,She should run like the chased antelope,And leap from the sand shoreTo the resting place of the flower.She should snatch it in her hand, hold it high,And swim back to the red beach of dawning.But Medicine Man, O Medicine Man,I sent her not on the meadow pathWhere the war ponies fattened.I sent her not to the still black waterOf the singing reeds and rushes,Where the charmed spirit flowersWith sun hearts and snow facesSpread in flocks like feeding gullsOver the breast of the dark waters.Medicine Man, I sent her straight to that one spotOn the sands of the great sea water in the deep bay,In the sheltered cove of the soundless depthsWhere every Canawac knew there crouched waitingThe hungry Monster of the lazy sucking sands.Again I watched all the moon timeAnd in the gold red morningShe slipped from her wigwamAnd entered the ancient forest.Soft as flame ascending, swift as night bird flying,I circled past her among my familiar tree brothers.Long before her coming to the bay of torture,I dropped the snaring white flower,Fresh and lovely, a convincing decoy,Far into the heart of the pitiless death poolWhere the eager mouths of the swallowing sandsEmbrace and draw, quietly, but so surelyThat no strength of arm can lift,No power of spirit can save their victim.Behind the rocks I hid and waited;In anguish I prayed to the Great SpiritThat the luring white flower of wonderMight rest on the gently heaving waterUntil the time of the coming of my enemy.As I waited with my eyes ever watching, watchingThe wave cradled flower white as swan feathers,Through the air shot the slim scarred formOf Coüy-oüy, my hated enemy.Her slender feet touched the waterAnd went down softly as a diving bird,Her reaching hand caught the white flower surely.She lifted her face to the face of the morning;The beauty that shone upon herWas like the beauty of the Great SpiritWhen he had first the vision of the flower worldAnd the wonder of flower magic was sent to him.Coüy-oüy held the water flower in high triumph;She gazed at it, she laughed to it, she kissed it,She laid it against her glad face like a papoose,And chanted to it throaty words of lullaby.Then with the other hand and with her quick feetShe began swimming to reach the certain shore.When her light feet would not lift to the surfaceAnd her strong stroke would not move her body,Slowly the dawn light faded from her faceAnd a look like the look of a little hurt papooseCame over her in slow wonder—A look of surprise, of doubtThat her strength could be unavailing.Then she struggled like an arrow stricken sea bird,For the sure sands grip their captive cruelly.Then gray terrors came sweeping upon her,And her face was white, white as the white flowerThat she held at arm's length above her.Her black oiled braids floated out on the water,While a cry, a shrill cry, a high screaming cry,The voice of a wounded mountain lion,Rang from her lips in quivering terror.I knew who had carefully taught herTo use that cry in time of trouble:I knew that for my Brave she was calling.And I knew, too, how the wood and the waterCarried sound far distances to wild ears.I wondered if Mountain Lion were on the waterOr if he were hunting the wide forestOr if he were drilling ornaments of blue shellOr weaving the sacred, singing fire birdA new wigwam of gold osiers.Only once she screamed that awful wild cry,Then her struggles were the final battle.Already her face of anguish was evenWith the treacherous water hiding death,Already her slender body was forever encased.One arm slowly beat the fair bay helplessly;But even as the gray terror closed in upon her,The stealthy catlike death of the wavesAnd the little famished mouths of sand,The slow mealy strangling sands,She bravely held aloft the white flower.And then, Medicine Man, I cared not if he came,The Mountain Lion, my faithless man!The utmost reach of his strength could not save her,He might go down to bottomless depths with her;He might strive and bear me down to her.Come was my just and rightful hour of triumph!I arose and went forth on the white shoreI smiled like a mother upon her,Then I pointed my finger, I laughed in scorn,I made bad sign talk at her,I danced the Braves' triumph dance, with song,I cried to her in the exultation of victory:"He will not come again to you,The faithless Mountain Lion, my man,He who danced the sacred Mating DanceOf the Mandanas with me in the Council Lodge,He who read into my eyes the great understandingEven upon the night of your coming among us.Go thou back to the evil spirits who sent thee!"Until the last wave overran her eyes,The slim thing of bone hardness,Of arrow straightness, and sureness,Of bird swiftness, would not look once upon me,Would not plead with me for mercyNor sign for help at my hands.When she saw me she suddenly ceased to struggle,And with her eyes fixed upon the white flower,The fallen moon that rides the still black water,She went to bottomless depths silently;Slowly, slowly, Medicine Man, she sank,Until the flower again restedOn the breast of the unconscious water.Then I went into the forest on her trail,I hunted her precious robe of snow white doeskin,I rolled a heavy stone in its rich bead work:I carried it back swiftly,And upon the face of the white flowerSlowly sinking beneath the water I threw it.Then I knelt in cunning like the fox,And swiftly working my way backward,With my steady, careful fingersI sifted the sands over our footsteps,Until I came to the feather grassAnd the dry leaves of the deep forest.Like the hunted I ran to the safety of my wigwam,I buried myself in my soft robes of satisfaction,My heart laughed in victory,The sleep I had lost for many mocking moonsWhile my brain thought snares,Now settled heavy, like sickness upon me.Even as I slept in deep stupor,There came dreams and yet again dreams,But they were not familiar dreamsOf the low humming rattlerNor the foaming mouth of the knife footed killer.I dreamed that over my heart flamed and scorchedAnd burned Coüy-oüy, the little sacred red bird;While my hands could not braidAnd put the gay ornaments in my hair,Could not put on my robe,Could not tie my moccasins,Could not lift food to my hungry mouth,Because they were full of the white flowersFrom the land of the still water.When the alarum cries soundedAnd the ponies' feet thundered,When the hunting dogs ragedAnd shrill clamour arose in the camp,My Mother shook me,And long she looked deep into my eyesAnd I looked into her eyes;And then in the silent talk of our tribeI made the swift going down signOf the Monster sands of the far bay.There was no triumph on her faceWhen she slowly turned from me,And fear was born in my heartBecause I clearly saw its awful imageWhen it sprang into life in the deeps of her eyes.When the scouts and hunters were gathering,When the visiting Chief was threatening,And all of our Chiefs were in secret council,While the women were wailing the death cry,There came to my lodge in that hour,The footsteps I had always awaited.So I passed through my doorwayAnd in the revealing sunlightI stood before Mountain Lion,Terrible to face in his deep rage.With dazed hand I drew sleep from my eyes;I met his gaze stupidly with smiling face;When he saw this he was forced to doubtThe thing he had come expecting to see.When he tried to look far into my eyes for a signHe saw only stupid Old Man Sleep sitting thereMocking the tortured heart in his breast.Then he caught me fiercely by the shoulders,He drew me close to him,He forced my eyes to meet his,And low and hoarse he cried to me in torture:"She jumped to the mark of the sky flower,And the snake with death in its mouth was there;The mark was the mark you set for her, Yiada."She went to the far, lonely caveOf the chased and hungry black death,And the rare shell that she soughtWas a part of your treasure, Yiada."Again she is missing, evil spirits know how long,What torture death have you sent her seeking now—Coüy-oüy, my brave fire bird, my woman?"O Medicine Man, if he had not said soft words,I might have told him as he held me before him.I might have braved the storm of his wrathAnd made my journey to the Great SpiritIn that menacing breath.When I saw that she lived in my placeIn the secret tent of his heartI laughed at him and I cried tauntingly:"She is chasing painted wingsIn the pasture meadows of the valley.She is at the still pool hunting the water flower:She would use its white magicTo snare your wild heart,Even as she used the red magic of the fire bird.Go and seek her, O mighty hunter!Go and seek—until you find her!"
When the hunters had raced from our villageToward the land of ice,Toward the land of hot suns,Toward the land of dawn,And where the sun dives in the sea,In the conflicting cross windsBetween the paths of their going,On their stoutest poniesRode the young women and the squawsWho could be spared with safetyFrom the watch of the campfiresAnd the care of the little happy children.