Chapter I: Preface

In presenting to the public this volume the compiler wishes to disown any attempt at a complete collection of Indian legends; both her knowledge of archaeology, and the time allowed for the completion of the work are inadequate to such an achievement. She has attempted to gather the more noticeable legends already in verse in order to stimulate interest in the scenery and romance of her State. From its name--Minnesota--to its floral emblem--the moccasin flower--the State everywhere bears the impress of former occupation. About every lake, forest, and valley clings the aroma of romance in the form of name or legend of the vanished Red Man.

The indistinct memory of his loves, wars, and adventures is growing rapidly fainter, until even the story-teller himself is confused as to the relation between event and locality. It has therefore seemed wise to link indissolubly scene and incident, that the poetry of those who have here lived and loved may not be completely displaced by the prosaic commerce of the white man.

The compiler wishes also to express her thanks to the writers who have allowed their works to reappear in this volume: To Rev. E. D. Neill, D.D., for much valuable counsel, and to Houghton, Mifflin & Co., for permission to make extracts from Hiawatha.

INDIAN LEGENDS.

* * * * *

The Lone War-Path.

A STORY OF SIOUX AND BLACKFOOT.

O'er a vast prairie stoops the sultry night; The moon in her broad kingdom wanders white; High hung in space, she swims the murky blue. Low lies yon village of the roaming Sioux-- Its smoke-stained lodges, moving toward the west, By conquering Sleep invaded and possessed.

All there, save one, own his benign command; Their chief has lately left this little band, And up the glittering path of spirits fled; Thus his young widow, not a twelvemonth wed, In yonder solitary tent conceals The aching hope, the trembling pangs she feels.

How breathless is the night! None saw it rise-- That black cloud stealing up the glassy skies-- Till threatening murmurs, loud and louder grown, Burst from its swelling bosom, and the moon Slips into brief oblivion, while a glare As of far, flickering torches, seems to bear The challenge of the gods. Awake, awake! Make ready for the tempest, ere it break! Drive tent-pins deeper, stretch the covering tight-- Hobble the ponies, scattering in affright Before the thunder-peals. When all is fast, Keep vigil, then, till the gods' wrath be past!

A sudden fury sweeps the somber plain, In dizzy slant descends the sheeted rain; Sharp lightnings rend in twain the sable gloom, While, cannon-like, the unchained thunders boom! On this wild tumult of the angry skies No ear discerns a woman's thrilling cries; Yet, ere its sullen echoes die away In caverns where the mocking spirits play, Faint, but rejoicing, on a couch of skins, A new-made mother lays her lusty twins!

The wise men of the tribe strange signs relate-- This stormy birth portends a stormy fate-- And since the warring heavens, that should affright, Called forth these daring boys on such a night, Their names must own the event that marked their birth-- The elder, "As-he-walks-he-shakes-the-earth," The younger twin, "Coming-his-voice-is-heard"-- Thus saith the oracle.

This mighty word Darkens the mother's heart with nameless dread, But casts no shadow on the unconscious head Of either sturdy twin. Their mutual play With joyous echoes fills the livelong day! From helpless infancy to boyhood grown, One brother never had been seen alone, Till sudden sorrow bowed the mother's pride-- The elder sickened and untimely died.

The gossips point to him that's left alone-- "He, too, will die, for half himself is gone!" At first, distraught he seemed--unlike a child; He ate not, slept not, neither spoke nor smiled. Then sought the forest--wandered there alone For days--his tender mother frantic grown-- Till he returned to her, and smiling, said, "My spirit meets and talks with him that's dead!" Thenceforth he seemed as one who, hand-in-hand, Walks with a brother in the spirit land.

Among the Sioux, in those heroic days, When certain valor gained the meed of praise, The seasoned warrior, old and full of scars, Counted the hero of a hundred wars, Yet craving higher honor, went alone, On foot, to meet the enemy, and won (If he returned victorious), on that day A proud distinction.

Fancy her dismay,-- The mother of a tender youth untried,-- When he, the twin we know of, seeks her side And murmurs in her ear, who loves him so,-- "Mother, my elder brother bids me go On a lone war-path." Knowing well 'twere vain To plead with him, her tears must fall like rain On 'broidered moccasins for those dear feet; His pouch, her choicest store of pounded meat Must fill before the dawn, which sends him forth On foot, alone, to pierce the savage north.

(DAKOTA WAR SONG.)

_I hear them coming who made thee weep![A] Leap on thy father's steed And urge him to his utmost speed, And rush to meet the warlike host, And meet them first, who hurt thee most. Strike one among ten thousand, And make but one to bleed! So shall thy name be known, Through all the world be known, If one is made to bleed! Heh-eh-eh-eh! Heh!_

Now to the journey gallantly addressed, (Still at his twin's mysterious behest), He kills a buck with branching horns, and takes The tongue and heart for food--then straightway makes A sacrifice to that stern deity-- The thunder-god--who rules his destiny. On a fair, level spot, encompassed round With trees, he pins the carcass to the ground; Prays for success, his burning heart's desire,-- Then sleeps beside the embers of his fire.

How wearisome, how long the painful days That follow, as he treads by unknown ways A mazy wilderness, where lurk unseen All perils challenging his eye-sight keen. Yet on--with tattered shoes and blistering feet-- To find the savage foe he longs to meet! At last, to wearied eyes that search in vain, The far-off meeting-place of sky and plain, A fleck of dazzling whiteness doth appear. The youth exclaims, "My enemy is near!" Toward that white gleam his cautious steps are bent, Surely some roving Blackfoot's lonely tent.

Nearer and nearer creeps, with cat-like tread, The watchful Sioux. Above his lowered head The plumy grasses rear a swaying crest; His sinuous motion ripples the broad breast Of this ripe prairie, like a playful wind That leaves its shining, silver track behind.

A tent of skins--that piercing eye saw true-- Wondrously white and beautifully new; In all the colors known to savage art, A life-size figure with a blood-red heart Guards the low door. But who shall more divine, Since not a thread of smoke, nor sound, nor sign Of human presence makes the story clear, Save yonder dappled ponies grazing near?

Crouched in deep grass the wily Indian lies, Ambitious that lone hunter to surprise-- His gaze the wide horizon ranges low For the first glimpse of his returning foe; The painted lodge full many a glance doth win-- Each moment may reveal who lurks within!

At last it moves--that swinging oval door-- At last she steps upon the prairie floor, Shading her dark eyes from the dazzling ray-- A dusky princess, lovelier than the day! No matron, to her hidden foeman's sight, Has ever seemed so radiantly bright. Her dress is rich, in style unlike the Sioux. (These belles in doe-skin have their fashions, too!)

On either shoulder lies a jetty braid; Her slender form, most delicately made, Her deep, black eyes and winsome features miss Naught of proportion. What a conquest this! To such an enemy who would not bow? Truly our warrior is a captive now! Vainly she gazes--turns and disappears, His beating heart our youthful hero hears! Rashly he thinks to follow and surprise This charming stranger--carry off the prize Before her lord's return. By impulse led, To the low door he stoops his stately head, Flings a last hurried glance to left and right, Then enters, and beholds this beauty bright Seated upon a pile of costly skins, Embroidering her hunter's moccasins! He stands abashed--she glances up to greet His hasty entrance with a smile so sweet, Then drops her lashes with such coquetry. Amazed, he thinks, "No mortal woman she, Who does not fear a stranger entering so! Rather some teasing fairy, or a doe In woman's form." Abruptly he exclaims "What are you--a Dakota?" As he names That warlike tribe, at last she starts, and shakes Her head; then with her slender fingers makes, Slowly, the signs all tribes of Indians know-- "I do not speak your language."

"Is it so? Where is your husband?" asks our hero young, In this same silent, yet most graphic tongue. "I am the daughter of a Blackfoot chief, Whose home is three days' journey north. In brief, My brother is a hunter. I am here To keep his lodge, while he pursues the deer." "Then I will leave you," he replies, "and when Your brother comes, I shall return again!" Thus saying, takes his leave; but, ere he goes, One longing, lingering, backward glance he throws, Which tells the maid how straight her arrow sped To pierce the heart of him she else must dread.

(DAKOTA LOVE SONG.)

_My heart is heavy--my heart is sore--
I heard you were going away!
I wept all night--I wept all day--
I wept till I could weep no more
When I heard you were going away
Far, far away!
O my heart! O my poor heart!
Heh-eh-eh-eh! Ho-o-o!_

Concealing in the grass his eagle plumes, The patient Sioux his lonely watch resumes. The reddening sun is low, when, far away, He sees a moving speck. With its last ray A handsome youth dismounts before the door. His sister, as the custom was of yore, Removes the body of the doe with speed, Unsaddles, waters, pickets out his steed, Leaving the wearied hunter to repose. A film of smoke, dissolving as it goes, Curls upward from the Blackfoot's lodge.

At last, The youthful pair have ended their repast, And reappear without, to taste the cool Of evening. All their sportive converse, full Of meaning gestures, doth right well supply Its story to their unseen watcher's eye, Who through the night his tireless vigil keeps, While, wrapt in dreams, the unconscious Blackfoot sleeps.

At earliest dawn, in the chill morning gray, Again the youthful hunter rides away; And, when the sun mounts half way up the sky, Her lover meets the Blackfoot maiden's eye. Archly she greets him--"Laggard! why so late? He whom you seek is gone--he could not wait!" "But you--you told him not," the youth replies, "Of my first visit!" In each other's eyes They look and laugh; and in that laughter free Dissolves the ancient, tribal enmity! The wooing of an Indian is but brief. He tells his tale, "My father was a chief-- These eighteen years in yonder heaven he dwells." The maiden's heart with awe and wonder swells On hearing that mysterious name and birth Which mark him as a being scarce of earth. Then, too, his gallant height and handsome face, Equipment strange, and bearing full of grace Ensnare her fancy.

When the bold demand Comes from this hero for her heart and hand, In blush and smile her answer may be guessed; Yet, womanlike, she puts him to the test! "Ere I consent, you must return with me Unto my father's lodge. And first--but see This raw-hide trunk. I pray you, creep inside--" (All this by signs); "then you can safely hide! I dread my brother's anger, when he hears Our foeman asks me for a wife."

Such fears (Prettily figured, it may be), win with ease The youth's consent to any scheme you please; Danger, discomfort, ridicule--all three This gallant wooer scorns, and smilingly Consents to crowd his noble length of limb Within the narrow space allotted him.

Captive he lies, and, all defenseless, hears The brother's late return. His jealous ears Miss no least accent in the voice of each, Yet glean so little from their foreign speech That, spite of passion (knowing woman's art), A spasm of dread contracts the hero's heart. Suppose, while thus in helpless case he lay, The maid his place of hiding should betray! Clutching with iron grasp his trusty gun, Scarce breathing, he awaits the morrow's sun. Meanwhile, she prattles of adventures gay-- Tells how a handsome stranger called that day, Describes his splendid dress,--the arms he bore, Such as no Blackfoot ever saw before; But not a word her cunning lips let fall Of love and courtship as the sum of all!

At daybreak forth again the hunter fares, But with his artful sister first prepares A fresh surprise. When scarcely out of sight, She hastens to relieve her captive knight; And while he gladly tastes the savory fare Which presently her willing hands prepare, Stretches his cramped limbs to the grateful sun, And drinks the favoring smiles so hardly won, A sudden shadow falls athwart his feet-- At last the war-like Sioux and Blackfoot meet.

Surely the boy his sister's secret guessed, Since only kindness dwells within his breast Toward his ancestral foe. By friendly signs, Each comely youth the other's thought divines; Then suddenly exclaims the dauntless Sioux, "Listen, my friend! I must return with you To ask and win this maiden for my wife!" "Return with us! not if you prize your life--" The startled Blackfoot answers. "You must know That all our tribe regard you as a foe; My sister's suitors are as many now As yonder leaves that twinkle on the bough. Should a Dakota venture such a plea, Our jealous youth would slay him instantly!"

The youthful warrior merely smiles, and lays His hand upon his gun, as one who says "I can defend myself!" "Do you so prize This thing?" demands the other in surprise. "Set up a mark, and you shall shortly see What sort of weapon 'tis I bear with me!" "Take my white pony!" "No," his friend replies, "Set up a willow wand."

The bullet flies Straight to its mark, and cleaves the target quite, While youth and maiden, starting in affright, Believe some heavenly wight this deed hath done-- Doubtless the thunder's veritable son! Convinced at last, the Blackfoot yields assent, And leads the stranger to his father's tent.

On the third evening, as the shadows fall, The hospitable chief receives them all In his great lodge, and listens to their tale Of the brave Sioux, whose weapon cannot fail, But, like the thunder, with mysterious roar, Strikes enemies unseen. Well pleased before With this fair stranger-youth's ingenuous face, He bids him welcome with a courtly grace, And on the morn proclaims to all his band This warrior shall receive his daughter's hand. The fiery Blackfeet, when this word they know, Dart glances of dire hatred at their foe; But, hold! the criers once again appear-- "This foreign bridegroom hath a magic here! Weapon like his no Blackfoot ever saw! Bring forth a mark and then prepare with awe To witness its destruction!"

Scoffingly Each brave presents his finest horse, while he Accepts of one, and fires before them all. Ah, pity! see the noble creature fall! Hear its death-scream!

Some trembled, others fled, But all declared so fair a maid should wed No less a brave than this. All cavil ceased; And now began with joy the marriage feast.

(LOVE SONG.)

_One day you will remember me--
One day--one day!
You will at last remember me,
And say,
"I was so dear to her--so dear to her!"
Yeh-eh-eh-eh--;
You will remember me
One day!
Yeh-eh-eh-eh--!_

When the young hero carried home his bride, He rode a pacing pony at her side; Twelve others followed--costly loads they bore, Rich robes and gifts--the Blackfoot maiden's dower. On a lone war-path finding such a fate, His triumph all the village celebrate; Peace is declared between the tribes; and soon-- Before the waxing of another moon-- Guns, knives and blankets, prized past all belief, Are sent as presents to the Blackfoot chief.

Such is the tale by Indian camp-fires told-- The old, old story that grows never old!

ELAINE GOODALE EASTMAN.

[Footnote A: _I. e._, who slew thy father.]

Fond Hearts of the Forest.

A LEGEND OF FOUNTAIN CAVE, NEAR ST. PAUL.

The hazy gloaming gathers round, The silence mellows every sound, The gentle wind, through foliage nigh, Begins to breathe its plaintive sigh; While o'er the hill creeps silver light, Where calm and chaste the queen of night, Awaking from her daily trance, Doth charm all nature with her glance. Her virgin train sweeps down the glade, Kissing the cavern's mouth of shade; She smiles upon the singing brook, With sparkles filling every nook That lurks about its dimpled face, Giving its deepest shadows grace, And breathing on its grassy mane A gloss it ne'er can hope to gain Beneath the sun's more kingly ray. Weirdly the purling waters play In her embrace; then break away To vanish under bending boughs, But giving voice to gurgling vows

Of future tryst, of love again Where meet the river banks and glen. The moonlight vaults beyond the trees To gain the river side, and sees A dusky maiden sitting there, Who twines her lovely raven hair, And frequent lifts her melting eyes To where the flashing ripple flies Across the bosom of that glass Where dancing stars nocturnal pass. A princess of the wildwood she, And graceful as the deer that flee Till stricken by the light-winged shaft So deadly from the hunter's craft. The river sings beneath her feet; It finds an echo in the sweet And tender thought that throbs behind The starry curtains of her mind. And when the thrills that sweep her heart Now from her tongue in music start, The wavelets beating on the strand, The murmuring leaves by zephyrs fanned, The minor rhythms that wake the bowers Of this fair glen when evening lowers, And warbling birds' melodious throng, All mingle with her low love song. Her voice is all that's wild and sweet, And slow must be that warrior's feet Who would not speed with all his heart To see her red lips meet and part. Love moves her with his golden sway-- A young and stalwart Chippewa Has gained her heart, and kindred ties And tribal feuds her love defies. What cares she that her people hate And his give back without abate? What cares she that he is not Sioux? If he but keep his promise true! She sings an old song, passion-laden By many a dead Dahkota maiden:

_O where is my lodge--my love?
O where is the lord of my breast?
Reveal me, Great Spirit above,
The arms where my passion may rest!

Brave warriors are thick as the leaves
That follow the wind in the fall;
Each maiden may think she receives
The smile of the noblest of all;

But I know a chief who can slay
The panther and bear with his hand,--
As warm and as proud as the day,
And braver than all in his band.

In his sinewy arms I shall rest,
And hear his voice call me "sweet dove!"
O he is the lord of my breast!
With him is my lodge and my love!_

She stops! She turns with sudden start, With troubled eyes and beating heart, To the frowning bluffs, where warlike cries And sound of savage revel rise. The warriors of her tribe are there, All dancing in the firelight glare. Their spears with reeking scalps are clad, Their thoughts are blood, their brains are mad; Each yelling brave now only knows Fierce hatred for his ancient foes. They boast of all their deeds of might, Of secret slaughter, deadly fight, And woe to him who comes to meet The lonely maid, Wenonah sweet, If they his paddle's dip shall hear Or after learn his presence near. When their wild revel, to her fright, Rose wilder with the fall of night, She stole away and gained this place To see again her lover's face. She gazes on the distant shore, But all is quiet as before. Again she sings, her flute-like tones So low that were the very stones On which she rests her feet possessed With sense to hear, what she confessed In tuneful cadence would be lost To them, for well she knows the cost For him who loves her, if her thought Be told aloud, and so there naught Breaks on the air but melody. If sung in words, her song would be:

_My love is strong, my love is brave, His heart is warm and true; He soon will come across the wave And bear me in his light canoe, To be his queen and slave._

_To me he bowed his eagle plume, He tamed his eagle eye, And vowed his love would life consume If I refused with him to fly, His teepee to illume.

O come, my chief! I watch--I wait! I give up all for thee; If thou wilt have an alien mate, Wenonah longs that one to be, That she may share thy fate.

Come quickly, love, but make no sound, My people are thy foes, If thou shouldst here by them be found A warrior's death thy life would close, Thy soul be skyward bound.

What then would poor Wenonah do If she were left alone? She scarce would see the hand that slew Ere she would raise her death-chant tone, And with thee perish too!_

She scans the echoing cliff once more, Then turns to view the farther shore, And bending low she strives to hear Some sound to tell her he is near. O'er all there seems to fall a hush As tender as her cheek's warm blush. So firmly rooted to the spot-- As if she had all things forgot-- She looks like some wild, charm-bound elf, As lifeless as the moon itself. But no! the parted lip and eye Of flashing fire such thoughts belie, And well and eloquent avow The soul beneath that rigid brow. O virgin heart! O passion bright! That fills a glance with beauty's light. O Wenijishid, happy thou, Who surely will not tarry now! A moment thus--then up she springs, And now the song she softly sings Floats o'er the water from her lip To meet the constant, noiseless dip Of Wenijishid's paddle blade. How swift to greet the faithful maid He comes! She waits, 'tween joy and fear, While on he glides, each stroke more near. Love gives him more than wonted strength, And on the beach he leaps at length. With trembling joy, with artless grace, She springs into his glad embrace. Within her brave young hero's arms Forgot are all her past alarms. One rapturous kiss with quick impress,-- His burning hands her locks caress,-- And then they gaze, at love's sweet will, Eye into eye with answering thrill! "Wenonah, darling, since we met, Not once could I that smile forget Which told me (more than words could tell) The hopes that made this bosom swell Were fair in our great Spirit's sight. He, ere another moon's swift flight, Shall bid me take thee to my home And joy in thee, no more to roam." Her trustful voice is low and clear, And sweetest music in his ear: "No chief is braver, none more bold Than he whose neck my arms enfold. He dares the light the moonbeams make And danger courts for my poor sake. Hark! Wenijishid, hearest thou not Those yells of warning? Though this spot Rests now beneath a peaceful spell, How long 'twill so we cannot tell. Thy heart is big, and like a rock Will meet the blood-storm's awful shock; But I am weaker--and I fear For thee each moment thou art here. Behold how now the moonlight meets And with a kiss each ripple greets; Wenonah's heart, o'erflowed with bliss, Is wholly thine, and thine her kiss." The radiance mingled with the shade-- The murmur low by night winds made-- The rune, harmonious and complete, Of wavelets in their ceaseless beat-- The fragrance given of sleeping flower-- The brooding hush that fits the hour,-- With this fair scene all these are met To make the scene more lovely yet. Wenonah's kiss would all confess, It gives to beauty holiness; The moments passing seem to be Endowed with all eternity, And in this lonely spot, love found Brings the whole universe in bound! But, hark! what sound the breezes bear Turning her gladness to despair? Wenonah trembles like a reed, With hunted look she turns to plead: "O Wenijishid, leave me, quick! For dangers gather round thee thick. We are discovered, and thy death May hang upon each wasted breath. Fly for thy life! Too late! too late! Together we must meet our fate." He smiles, and there with dauntless front Would meet the coming foemen's brunt; But she who will not leave his side Bears in her hand his warrior pride, And hopes of joyous life with her Are sweeter than the battle's stir. His war-whoop's taunt rings through the glen, While answering come the cries of ten. Wenonah clasps his brawny arm, And lest his love might come to harm He turns to where his birchen boat Seems chafing to be set afloat; And, ere their foes have gained the strand, The light canoe beneath his hand Leaps off before a foaming track. He flings a yell of triumph back, And grimly smiles as on he flies To hear their disappointed cries; Yet lest they may too soon pursue, He urges on the flight anew. He plies the paddle with a will, They skim the waves,--but swifter still A vengeful arrow cleaves the air, To sink between his shoulders bare. The shock is cruel, and the blade Falls from his hand; his powers all fade Like thought, and plunging on his face, Deathlike he lies. Now to his place Wenonah springs; with bloodless lip, With gleaming eye and nervous grip, She works the paddle with a force Of which but love could be the source. Beyond the range of bow, she flings The blade aside and fiercely brings Her wounded hero to her breast. Now sadly called, now wildly pressed, He breathes at last a feeble sigh, And, feeling sure he will not die, She labors strongly, full of hope And nerved with any fate to cope. She gains the shore, and stoutly bears Her chief through brush and wild beast lairs. All through the night she speeds her flight. To where his people's fires burn bright. When friendly, helping hands are found, And she has given him to their care, She sinks upon the leafy ground, Panting like a hunted hare. Her faithful powers have filled their task, Their sacred trust no more need ask, And now the goal is gained, they bind Oblivion's charm around her mind.

* * * * *

Young life is pliant, love will give A mighty motive still to live. And when he wakes, with deep surprise He meets the dark and glorious eyes Of dear Wenonah on him bent In passion's hope absorbed, content.

* * * * *

Since this took place it is not known How many changing moons have flown; Yet still, when Luna's rapiers bright Pierce through the tenuous robe of Night, And shining on the stilly shore Create again that scene of yore, Wenonah and her lover true Pass over in their white canoe; Their spirit forms unshadowed glide Across the rapid, glistening tide.

Anpetusapa.

A LEGEND OF ST. ANTHONY FALLS.

'Tis autumn, and the breezes lift Their melancholy tones; 'Tis evening: through each passing rift The stars, like precious stones In lustrous beauty (clouded soon), Sweet incense to the sight, Attend their white-robed mistress moon, Queen of romantic night. Anon, as the cloud hosts fly Before the wind across the sky, The court of the queen is suddenly seen, With its pomp sublime and array Of sparkling and glittering sheen, More lovely than the light of day, More glorious than the twilight gleam That mingles with the sun's last beam Where the waves of ocean play.

By the river's bank a wandering band Have reared their teepee walls, Here where the warriors all may stand And view the mighty falls. The ivory moon is mounting high, The lodge fires flicker low, And slumbering forms are visible by The embers' last faint glow, When lightly steps a youthful brave Out from the forest ways Into the star-roofed nave, Out from the shadowing trees (Leaves fluttering slow in the slow night breeze) Into the broad, revealing rays, Into the silvery glow. With step as buoyant as the air He glides above the glistening sward; The largest, whitest teepee there Doth seem to center his regard, For there his unmarked path doth end, And there his burning glances send Their passionate lightnings, wild, yet all Made reverent by the spot on which they fall. This lodge doth tower Above the poles on every hand Like some strange chieftain o'er his band. Why comes he at this hour? Hath dark revenge a purpose here? Shall bloody strife appear On such a scene? Ah, no! the power That spurs him hath a softer spell; For here the tribe's most cherished flower, The daughter of the chief, doth dwell.

His deep, rich voice floats down the glade, In soft, unwonted tones Like gentle winds through pine-tree cones; He sings the Warrior's Serenade; While at the end of every strain-- With more effect his cause to plead-- He plays a wild and shrill refrain Upon a flute of rude-cut reed.

_Lonely warbling bird of night! Leave thy bough and perch above The silent, dewy folds of white That screen my sleeping love. Drink the moonlight rays that fall Pure and mellow, like the beams Of starry eyes beyond my call, Far in the land of dreams. Tell her I am brave and strong; Tell her I have loved her long; Singing softly, like a dove, Tell her all you know of love I cannot tell in song.

Tell her I am waiting here At the threshold of her bower; Winds are lifting far and near The sweets of every flower, All the stars are out in state, Music breathes in every stir, All of nature seems to wait For a glimpse of her. Tell her I am brave and strong; Tell her I have loved her long; Singing softly like a dove, Tell her all you know of love I cannot tell in song._

Is it the wind that swings apart The deerskin door from the lodge away? Is it a sudden leap of his heart That makes too vivid fancy play? Or is it a nut-brown arm that holds The trembling folds, And are those liquid eyes that shine Like diamonds fine? Sing on, sing on, bold youth, And hope shall lead thee to the truth!

_She is lovelier than the sky, Sweeter than the freshest bud, I can no longer wait and sigh Here in the moonlight flood; All my heart is at her feet, All my strength at her behest; O sing, and bid her come to greet The one who loves her best! Tell her I am brave and strong; Tell her I have loved her long; Singing softly, like a dove, Tell her all you know of love I cannot tell in song._

His manly voice entreating calls As softly as the dewdrop falls. He ceases, and the night winds hush As if they too had waited long; The organ river's chanting rush Seems but an echo of his song. And shall he wait and plead in vain? Ah, no! love is not always pain; For see, the folds are drawn aside, And dimly there may be descried A shadowy form of shadowy grace, That halts while still in gloom arrayed, With eyes that light the tawny face And tresses darker than the shade.

O spell of song! O power and thrill Of love! O dream that sways The blood of youth, that feels no chill Till love betrays!

O hark! ye sprites that haunt this time,-- This quiet moon-lit hour, When Cupid weaves, in every clime, His web of subtlest power,-- O, can ye hear, and not rejoice, The music of a maiden's voice?

"Anpetusapa's glance would meet The night bird that can sing so sweet." With what a bounding stride he goes! With what a light his dark eye glows! With what a look he seeks to fire Those gentle eyes with his desire!

"O multiply what voice reveals; The bird can sing not half it feels! Too deep, too deep, to tell in words, And even too sweet for song of birds, Is passion like this heart of mine Doth feel for thine!"

She lightly steps into the light, She gently lifts her gentle eyes, She flies not, though her heart takes flight And soars without disguise.

"I know thee; thou art strong and tall, Thy fearless deeds are known to all. O may this eve be not more fair Than life to thee, is all my prayer."

His mighty sinews, sternly trained, Are now with manly grace restrained, And the fortunate touch of a fairy's wand Far ruder would seem than the touch of his hand; And the light of his eye like a streamlet doth flow Where passion and tenderness mingle and flash On the dancing ripples, whose murmuring low From his lips seem to dash A faithful, harmonious echo:

"Of happiness all my life will tell If thou in my lodge doth dwell. Oh! couldst thou but know The new, the glad, the tender glow That warms my heart, so fiercely brave When breasting battle's fiercest wave-- Couldst thou but feel it pulse and bound Whene'er my ear is charmed to hear Thy gentle tongue's melodious sound-- Couldst thou but see how these fond eyes Rejoice to look upon thy face When like a dream before them rise Thy matchless form and wondrous grace-- How deeply, thirstily they drink Thy dew-bright eyes, whose flashing glance Doth like a luring firefly dance (Along an island's shadowy brink Where rippling waters, restless waters, Sing their low, unchanging song Upon the pebbles all night long). Thou art a flower whose smile hath made A sunbeam pierce the forest shade; Thou art a rose that fragrant grows To beautify the darksome glade And sweeten every breeze that blows. Anpetusapa! wilt thou give The promise that shall make me live As I have never lived before? I love thee, and the powers divine Shall teach thy heart to pulse with mine, And bless our union evermore While moons shall pass or starlight shine."

The guardian bosom of her lover Serves well her modest blush to cover; Her willowy arms about him twine As closely as the greenwood vine Doth hang upon the towering oak, That holds it safe from every stroke And proudly shelters the delicate form From all the buffets of the storm. The moon and every heavenly gem Now seem to shine alone for them.

O Time! why must thou speed away? For knowest thou not that present joy Bears no increase for such as they, For whom all change must bring alloy? And thou, young Love! canst thou not make A lonely Eden for their sake? 'Tis better that but two should find Gladness of heart and peace of mind, Than all the greater sum of life-- With burning hearts that fates unbind And crowding thoughts that gender strife. But no, the gift of life is one Of strangest form, of blended tints And crossing lines, with mingled hints Of glory from an unseen sun; And shades that hourly darker grow For those who seek that sun to know;-- And they must take the whole or none. So they must wake to memory Of other things, so they must be Reminded of the powers that hold Their future lives, to rule and mold.

"Anpetusapa need not name The glory of her father's fame; He is a mighty chief, and none Too quickly will he choose a son."

"O fear not, my blossom,
For he shall not see
The flower of his bosom
Mismated with me.
Where war-whoops are sounding
Their blood-stirring call,
There I shall go bounding
The foremost of all.
When foemen shall fly me
And chiefs call me brave,
He will not deny me
The boon I shall crave."

"Yes, thou art brave for one so young; This voice of mine thy feats hath sung When from the war-path thou returned On which thy first renown was earned. If my poor love can make thy bliss, My service give the happier life, All hope shall dwell in one kind kiss For thine eternal-loving wife."

"O blessed promise! future bright! This feeble tongue of mine can never Reveal how dear thou art to-night, How cherished thou shalt be forever!"

* * * * *

The chief approved the suitor bold, And for rich goods his daughter sold. She thought not of the trade, but went To her young lord with true content, And while she dreamed of joy to come Her heart was full, her lips were dumb; And day by day her task was wrought, Each hour with self-denial fraught; His wants were met, his lodge was trim, Her patient thoughts were all for him. The powers divine did seem to bless The promise of his wild caress; And so the happy moons flew by, Till new refulgence filled her sky When there appeared a baby boy, Whose laugh o'erflowed her cup of joy; For this must prove, she could but feel, A bond between them strong as steel.

Alas, thou too confiding wife, What clouds were gathering o'er thy life! For vanity alone will stay With human nature to the last; Each happy day will slip away Into the valleys of the past, Returning but a ghostly thing When the spirit drinks at Memory's spring.

Why did he vow to cherish ever? Or why allow his heart to change? What maid was she who came to sever Thy love and thee? What magic strange Had she to work her strange endeavor? What mind shall solve the mystery Of loves that come and loves that flee? Why should Anpetusapa give Her heart's whole life, her richest treasure, To one whose boasted flame could live Through but a dozen moons' small measure; Whose passion was for selfish pleasure?

Yet so it was; another came Her heart to cloud, her place to claim. Her lodge became another's nest; The first wife, she was second now; 'Neath custom's yoke compelled to bow And see her rival fondly pressed. The death gloom settled on her brow, Day brought no sun, the night no rest. The beam of sadness lit her eye, And memories that could never die Until her body, void of breath, Became the precious spoil of Death. Morn after morn beheld her still Slow sinking, like a mountain rill Whose fountain-head, once bubbling bright, Hath dried away, and left the white And pulseless sand to mark where long Began the sparkle and the song.

One joy alone was left to bring The heart-swept thrill of other days, When to her baby she would sing Her lullaby of love and praise; And this, even this, renewed the thought Of joyous hopes that came to naught. Betrayed by faith, yet faithful to the last, She murmured not; but patiently she passed Each day in kindly service, given As if her heart were all unriven, Until at length heroic strength Could bear no more.

Upon the shore Of wild Messipi's plunging flood, Where they were camped so long before, They camped again; again their blood Marched to the music of its roar.

* * * * *

'Tis morning: every bird its matin sings And beats the air with throbbing wings, The air so sweet and quick; the glistening dew Hangs crystal beauty on all verdant things,-- Each trembling drop reflecting true The overspread, unclouded blue; While from the east the cohorts of the sun With dazzling spears begin to strew The morning vapors, damp and dun, Whose melting ranks are closed anew To vanish where the rapid waters run.

Anpetusapa hides her woe Until her husband and her foe Have left the lodge and gone from sight. Then with a tearless eye and bright, She gazes madly round the place Where every comfort bears the trace Of wifely labor wrought with pain, Of woman's love that lives in vain. Here moccasins lie with bead-work gay; Here on the wall the breezes sway The music-breathing flute, Whose lips are dry and mute, While she who once inspired its tone Now sits despairing and alone. The very curls of smoke that rise And mingle with the morning skies, Are tokens of the duties done Beneath the red eye of the rising sun. Awhile she sits in cruel thought, Till, with her anguish overwrought, She flies to him who sweetly bears The image of her faithless god, And on each infant feature wears The smiling hopes on which he trod. Convulsively she clasps her child, Whose love, alone left undefiled, Is not enough to nerve her soul Beneath its crushing weight of dole.

She listens to the roaring water, Whose voice she heard in music grand When she was but the old chief's daughter, When love such wondrous fortunes planned; And ruthless phantoms of the past Across her mind are flitting fast, Each with a keen, envenomed dart That poisons brain and tortures heart. With breath too quick to lift a sigh, With marble firmness on her brow, With glassy wildness in her eye, She seeks the river's margin now. She springs into a birch canoe, All beaded with the morning dew, And clasping close her mother's pride, Soon gains the middle of the tide.

O hark! thou selfish one who gave Embrace more treacherous than the wave: Does not her song which mounts the air Reproach thee with its grand despair? Why dost thou hurry to the river? Why dost thou call, why dost thou shiver, While she whom thou hast driven away Is bold amidst the chilly spray? What good is all thy vain remorse? Thinkst thou from jaws of death to force A sacrifice so lightly thrust Upon the altar of thy lust? A host like thee could nothing urge To meet one tone of her sad dirge:

_My heart cannot live without loving;
My heart cannot give up its own;
No more will I linger with sorrow,
But follow the joys that have flown;
With Death I will rest me to-morrow
On a kind, dreamless bed of stone.

I fear not the rush of the water,
For me all its terrors are vain;
It cannot bring less than gladness,
For it banishes all my pain;
I will sink with my burden of sadness
And mix with the earth again.

My baby, my darling, my blossom,
Nor anguish nor falsehood shall know;
Together we cleave the wild billow--
Unfaltering together we go
To rest on the same rocky pillow,
To slumber and mingle below._

Plunging on the sunlit stream, The frail canoe, with trembling leaps, Hurries toward the mists that gleam To veil the awful steeps. What need has she for any veil? Despairing eyes will never quail! See, now upon the glowing crest, Where clouds of spray beneath her lie, She clasps her boy upon her breast, She gazes on the cloudless sky, And in its blue depth seems to see Death, robed in peaceful purity; Then down into the boiling tomb That makes for her the happiest doom. How strange that peace should thus be found Amid such tumult-breathing sound! To leap from life and light, and find A darkness sweeter to the mind!

* * * * *

Long shall the mists of morning show The spirit of her who long ago Wrapped them round her wearily-- A victim of love and treachery. Long shall her mournful death-song find An echo in the moaning wind; Long shall Dahkota legend bind That echo with the roaring falls, The ancient, foam-crowned, giant falls, Whose voice so oft hath given The welcome of its watery halls, That lead the soul, when the Great Spirit calls, To the hunting-grounds of heaven. And though a child of the forest dark Weary of life would here embark, As to a portal hither comes,-- And yet who may not pass this way Into eternal joy and day,-- The water hides and soon benumbs The sorrow, and the cadence deep Becomes a lullaby to hush The spirit to its endless sleep Beneath the surging rush, Beneath the shrouding spray, Where the tireless waters sweep To their wild, unpausing leap-- Then fly to the South away! The flood is cold, but the heart is bold When the future that lives new sorrow gives; And within the chamber halls Of the grand and solemn falls May be found a sleep so sweet and deep That its darkness never palls, While ages pass with silent creep. Time hath no tooth to tear The heart whose pulse is dead, And sorrow may live in the air But not in the river-bed! I ween all peacefully there Is pillowed forever the head Of a woman whose heart was fair, Though her cheeks were dusky red.

Winona.