Read Ebook: Legends of the Northwest by Gordon Hanford Lennox

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Tall and straight as the larch tree stood The manly form of the brave young chief, And fair as the larch in its vernal leaf, When the red fawn bleats in the feathering wood. Mild was his face as the morning skies, And friendship shone in his laughing eyes; But swift were his feet o'er the drifted snow On the trail of the elk or the buffalo; And his heart was stouter than lance or bow, When he heard the whoop of his enemies. Five feathers he wore of the great Wanmde?, And each for the scalp of a warrior slain, When down on his camp from the northern plain, With their murder cries rode the bloody Cree. But never the stain of an infant slain, Or the blood of a mother that plead in vain, Soiled the honored plumes of the brave H?h?. A mountain bear to his enemies, To his friends like the red fawn's dappled form; In peace, like the breeze from the summer seas; In war, like the roar of the mountain storm. His fame in the voice of the winds went forth From his hunting grounds in the happy north, And far as the shores of the Great Med? The nations spoke of the brave Chask?.

Dark was the visage of grim Red Cloud, Fierce were the eyes of the warrior proud, When the chief to his lodge led the brave Chask?, And Wiw?st? smiled on the tall H?h?. Away he strode with a sullen frown, And alone in his teepee he sat him down. From the gladsome greeting of braves he stole, And wrapped himself in his gloomy soul. But the eagle eyes of the H?rpstin? The clouded face of the warrior saw. Softly she spoke to the sullen brave: "Mah-p?-ya D?ta,--his face is sad. And why is the warrior so glum and grave? For the fair Wiw?st? is gay and glad. She will sit in the teepee the live-long day, And laugh with her lover--the brave H?h?. Does the tall Red Cloud for the false one sigh? There are fairer maidens than she, and proud Were their hearts to be loved by the brave Red Cloud. And trust not the chief with the smiling eyes; His tongue is swift, but his words are lies; And the proud Mah-p?-ya will surely find That Wak?wa's promise is hollow wind. Last night I stood by his lodge, and lo I heard the voice of the Little Crow; But the fox is sly and his words were low. But I heard her answer her father--"Never! I will stain your knife in my heart's red blood, I will plunge and sink in the sullen river, Ere I will be wife to the fierce Red Cloud!" Then he spake again, and his voice was low, But I heard the answer of Little Crow: "Let it be as you will, for Wak?wa's tongue Has spoken no promise,--his lips are slow, And the love of a father is deep and strong."

M?h-p?-ya D?ta, they scorn your love, But the false chief covets the warrior's gifts. False to his promise the fox will prove, And fickle as snow in Wo-k?-da-we?, That slips into brooks when the gray cloud lifts, Or the red sun looks through the ragged rifts. Mah-p?-ya D?ta will listen to me There are fairer birds in the bush than she, And the fairest would gladly be Red Cloud's wife. Will the warrior sit like a girl bereft, When fairer and truer than she are left That love Red Cloud as they love their life? Mah-p?-ya D?ta will listen to me I love him well,--I have loved him long: A woman is weak, but a warrior is strong, And a lovelorn brave is a scorn to see.

Mah-p?-ya D?ta, O listen to me! Revenge is swift and revenge is strong, And sweet as the hive in the hollow tree. The proud Red Cloud will revenge his wrong Let the brave be patient, it is not long Till the leaves be green on the maple tree, And the Feast of the Virgins is then to be;-- The Feast of the Virgins is then to be!"

Proudly she turned from the silent brave, And went her way; but the warrior's eyes-- They flashed with the flame of a sudden fire, Like the lights that gleam in the Sacred Cave, When the black night covers the autumn skies, And the stars from their welkin watch retire.

Three nights he tarried--the brave Chask?; Winged were the hours and they flitted away; On the wings of Wak?ndee they silently flew, For Wiw?st? had found her a way to woo. Ah, little he cared for the bison-chase; For the red lilies bloomed on the fair maid's face; Ah, little he cared for the winds that blew, For Wiw?st? had found her a way to woo. Brown-bosomed she sat on her fox-robe dark, Her ear to the tales of the brave inclined, Or tripped from the tee like the song of a lark, And gathered her hair from the wanton wind. Ah, little he thought of the leagues of snow He trode on the trail of the buffalo; And little he recked of the hurricanes That swept the snow from the frozen plains And piled the banks of the Bloody River. His bow unstrung and forgotten hung With his beaver hood and his otter quiver; He sat spell-bound by the artless grace Of her star-lit eyes and her moon-lit face. Ah, little he cared for the storms that blew, For Wiw?st? had found her a way to woo. When he spoke with Wak?wa her sidelong eyes Sought the handsome chief in his hunter-guise. Wak?wa marked, and the lilies fair On her round cheeks spread to her raven hair. They feasted on rib of the bison fat, On the tongue of the Ta that the hunters prize, On the savory flesh of the red Hog?n, On sweet tips?nna and pemmican, And the dun-brown cakes of the golden maize; And hour after hour the young chief sat, And feasted his soul on the maiden's eyes.

The sweeter the moments the swifter they fly; Love takes no account of the fleeting hours; He walks in a dream mid the blooming of flowers, And never awakes till the blossoms die. Ah, lovers are lovers the wide world over-- In the hunter's lodge and the royal palace. Sweet are the lips of his love to the lover,-- Sweet as new wine in a golden chalice, From the Tajo's slopes or the hills beyond; And blindly he sips from his loved one's lips, In lodge or palace the wide world over, The maddening honey of Trebizond.

O, what are leagues to the loving hunter, Or the blinding drift of the hurricane, When it raves and roars o'er the frozen plain! He would face the storm,--he would death encounter The darling prize of his heart to gain. But his hunters chafed at the long delay, For the swarthy bison were far away, And the brave young chief from the lodge departed. He promised to come with the robin in May, With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; And the fair Wiw?st? was happy-hearted, For Wak?wa promised the brave Chask?.

Birds of a feather will flock together. The robin sings to his ruddy mate, And the chattering jays, in the winter weather, To prate and gossip will congregate; And the cawing crows on the autumn heather, Like evil omens, will flock together, In extra-session, for high debate; And the lass will slip from a doting mother To hang with her lad on the garden gate. Birds of a feather will flock together,-- 'Tis an adage old,--it is nature's law, And sure as the pole will the needle draw, The fierce Red Cloud with the flaunting feather, Will follow the finger of H?rpstin?.

The winter wanes and the south-wind blows From the Summer Islands legendary. The sk?skas fly and the melted snows In lakelets lie on the dimpled prairie. The frost-flowers peep from their winter sleep Under the snow-drifts cold and deep.

To the April sun and the April showers, In field and forest, the baby flowers Lift their golden faces and azure eyes; And wet with the tears of the winter-fairies, Soon bloom and blossom the emerald prairies, Like the fabled Garden of Paradise.

The plum-trees, white with their bloom in May, Their sweet perfume on the vernal breeze Wide strew like the isles of the tropic seas, Where the paroquet chatters the livelong day. But the May-days pass and the brave Chask?-- O, why does the lover so long delay? Wiw?st? waits in the lonely tee, Has her fair face fled from his memory? For the robin cherups his mate to please, The blue bird pipes in the poplar trees, The meadow lark warbles his jubilees, Shrilling his song in the azure seas, Till the welkin throbs to his melodies; And low is the hum of the humble bees, And the Feast of the Virgins is now to be.

THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS.

The sun sails high in his azure realms; Beneath the arch of the breezy elms The 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 Wak?wa himself is there; And round the feast in the Sacred Ring, Sit his weaponed warriors witnessing. Not a morsel of food have the Virgins tasted For three long days ere the holy feast; They sat in their teepee alone and fasted, Their faces turned to the Sacred East. In the polished bowls lies the golden maize And 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, The wild, uncultured asphodel, And the beautiful, blue-eyed violet That the Virgins call "Let-me-not-forget," In gay festoons and garlands twine With the cedar sprigs and 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 porcupine The 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 dissonance In 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, Wiw?st? 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 heart Their 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 breeze Like 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 Ring With a blot that is known or a secret stain The 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 H?rpstin?: She durst not enter the virgins' ring.

Round and round to the merry song The maidens dance in their gay attire. While the loud "Ho-Ho's" of the tawny throng Their 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 crowd Rose 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; Wiw?st? 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 T?ku-Skan-Skan will 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: "Wak?wa--my Father; he lies!--he lies! Wiw?st? is pure as the faun unborn; Lead me back to the feast, or Wiw?st? 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: "Wiw?st? 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: Wak?n-de? flashed in her fiery eyes; Then, swift as the meteor cleaves the skies-- Nay, swift as the fiery Wakinyan's dart, She 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 Wiw?st?'s feet Fled away to the forest. The hunters fleet In 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's winding howl; But the swift Wiw?st? 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 Wiw?st? 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 Wiw?st?'s tears."

Wak?wa thought of his daughter's words Ere the south-wind came and the piping birds-- "My Father, listen,--my words are true," And sad was her voice as the whippowil When she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill, "Wiw?st? lingers alone with you; The rest are sleeping on yonder hill-- Save one--and he an undutiful son,-- And you, my Father, will sit alone When Sis?ka sings and the snow is gone." His broad breast heaved on his troubled soul, The shadow of grief o'er his visage stole Like a cloud on the face of the setting sun.

"Wak?wa," 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? Wak?wa, Wak?wa, the guilt is thine! The springs will return with the voice of birds, But the voice of my daughter will come no more.

"Wak?wa, Wak?wa, for thee the years Are red with blood and bitter with tears. Gone,--brothers, and daughters, and wife,--all gone That are kin to Wak?wa,--but one--but one-- Wak?nyan 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 go To 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 Wak?wa's mound Shall 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 Wak?wa's bones. But the years that are gone shall return again. As the robin returns and the whippowil When my warriors stand on the sacred hill And remember the deeds of their brave chief slain."

Beneath the glow of the Virgin Star They raised the song of the red war dance. At the break of dawn with the bow and lance They 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 Spirit shine Through somber pines of the dusky dale.

Then they heard the hoot of the mottled owl; They heard the gray wolf's dismal howl; Then shrill and sudden the war whoop rose From 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. From 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 Wak?wa's band Jumped 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 Wak?wa raves, And cheers the hearts of his falling braves. But a panther crouches along his track,-- He springs with a yell on Wak?wa'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 hilt Of his knife in the heart of the slayer dyed. And thus was the life of Wak?wa spilt, And slain and slayer lay side by side. The unscalped corpse of their honored chief His warriors snatched from the yelling pack, And homeward fled on their forest track With their bloody burden and load of grief.

The spirits the words of the brave fulfill,-- Wak?wa sleeps on the sacred hill, And Wak?nyan T?nka, his son, is chief. Ah, soon shall the lips of men forget Wak?wa's name, and the mound of stone Will speak of the dead to the winds alone, And the winds will whistle their mock-regret.

The speckled cones of the scarlet berries Lie red and ripe in the prairie grass. The S?-yo clucks on the emerald prairies To her infant brood. From the wild morass, On the sapphire lakelet set within it, Mag? sails 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 afar Peeps the glowing face of the Virgin Star. The fox pups creep from the mother's lair And leap in the light of the rising moon; And loud on the luminous moonlit lake Shrill the bugle notes of the lover loon; And woods and waters and welkin break Into jubilant song,--it is joyful June.

But where is Wiw?st?? O where is she-- The Virgin avenged--the queenly queen-- The womanly woman--the heroine? Has she gone to the spirits and can it be That her beautiful face is the Virgin Star Peeping 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 Chask?: 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 Chask??

But what of the venomous H?rpstin?-- 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; It 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 Wiw?st?, 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 Wiw?st?? Her swift feet flew To 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.

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 soon Fled 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 heads To 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 field She found the bulbs of the young Tips?nna, And the sweet med? that the meadows yield. With the precious gift of his priceless manna God fed his fainting and famished child.

At night again to the northward far She followed the torch of Waz?ya'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 crow Looms up like the form of the buffalo. The Bloody River she 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 sea May 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 land To die by the cruel Ojibway's hand?" And on rode the braves. She could hear the steeds Come 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 Wiw?st?'s trail. She flies,--but what can her flight avail? Her feet are fleet, but the flying feet Of the steeds of the prairie are fleeter still; And where can she fly for a safe retreat?

But hark to the shouting:--"Ih?!--Ih?!" Rings 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 Chask?!

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.

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 care The tender hearts of the motherless; The maid and the mother in sore distress He 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 fatherless With the hand that feedeth the birds of air. Let the myriad tongues of the earth confess His 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 tale His face was aflame and anon grew pale, And his dark eyes flashed with a brave desire, Like the midnight gleam of the sacred fire. "Mit?win," he said, and his voice was low, "Thy father no more is the false Little Crow; But the fairest plume shall Wiw?st? wear Of the great Wanmde? in her midnight hair. In my lodge, in the land of the tall H?h?, The robins will sing all the long summer day To the beautiful bride of the brave Chask?."

Aye, love is tested by stress and trial Since the finger of time on the endless dial Began its rounds, and the orbs to move In the boundless vast, and the sunbeams clove The chaos; but only by fate's denial Are 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 entwine The brawny arms of the sturdy stoke. The dimpled babes are the flowers divine That the blessing of God on the vine and oak With their cooing and blossoming lips invoke.

To the pleasant land of the brave H?h? Wiw?st? rode with her proud Chask?. 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 Wanmde?. The silken threads of the happy years They wove into beautiful robes of love That the spirits wear in the lodge above; And time from the reel of the rolling spheres His silver threads with the raven wove; But never the stain of a mother's tears Soiled 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 Chask?. Through the wrinkled mask of the hoary years To the loving eyes of the lover aye The 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 Path to the Spirit-land; Where the hills and the meadows for aye and aye Are clad with the verdure and flowers of May, And the unsown prairies of Paradise Yield the golden maize and the sweet wild rice. There ever ripe in the groves and prairies Hang the purple plums and the luscious berries. And the swarthy herds of bison feed On 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 trace No furrows for aye on the hunter's face.

WINONA.

Two hundred white Winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer, Since here on the oak shaded shore of 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-th?-ga. Far 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 spray and the roar of the Ha-Ha, Were gathered the bison-skin tees of the chief tawny tribe of Dakotas; For here, in the blast and the breeze, flew the flag of the chief of Isantees, Up-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 strands they danced to the god of the waters, Unkt?hee, who dwelt in the caves deep under the flood of the Ha-Ha; And high o'er the eddies and waves hung their offerings of fur and tobacco. And here to the Master of life --Anp?-tu-wee, god 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 T?-ku Skan-sk?n, the 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-Spirit rose 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 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, the huge Thunder-Bird, --with the arrows of fire in his talons.

See Hennepin's Description of Louisiana by Shea pp 243 and 256. Parkman's Discovery p. 246--and Carver's Travels, p. 67

The Dakotas like the ancient Romans and Greeks think the home of the winds is in the caverns of the mountains, and their great Thunder bird resembles in many respects the Jupiter of the Romans and the Zeus of the Greeks. The resemblance of the Dakota mythology to that of the older Greeks and Romans is striking.

Two hundred white Winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer, Since here by the cataract's roar, in the moon of the red blooming lilies, In the tee of Ta-t?-psin 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 twirls o'er the murmuring rocks in the rapids; And whiter than foam were the pearls that 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-t?-ka; And oft like an antelope fleet o'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-t?-psin, Like a sunbeam she lighted his tee, and gladdened the heart of her father.

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