Chapter II: Preface (2)

Could nothing be suggested to give her comfort? She cautiously raised the door of the wigwam, and by the red lightning she saw her brother bound as she had left him. Despair had nearly overpowered her once more, but the natural energy of her mind returning, she looked again to her own heart, to see if there was any hope. Should she never see again the home so dear to her! Were she and her bold brother to die by the hands of her father's murderers! Oh! that she possessed a sharp knife, to sever the thongs that bound him, how soon would they flee away as the birds do when winter's winds are heard from the north!

The idea once prominent in her mind, there was hope. Another flash showed her the most minute objects in the wigwam. Another directed her to the knife of We-har-ka, which lay glittering by her breast. A few moments of intense thought decided her: nerved by a sense of her own and her brother's danger, she no longer hesitated. What horrors could be greater than those by which she was surrounded! What if she were detected and murdered at once! Far better than to witness her brother's fate, and endure her own.

She placed herself near We-har-ka, then gently endeavoured to remove the knife she coveted. The young heart throbbed against her hand. Again she endeavoured to slide the knife from its place. We-har-ka turned upon her side as if disturbed. After a few moments had elapsed she once more made the effort; and now, as it is clasped in her hand, her senses have well-nigh left her, for this time she is successful.

But, well she knew there was no time for delay, nor even for consideration. The deepest darkness of night was now upon them; before long the morning twilight would be again resting over the earth.

The perfect and unusual repose of the Sioux was in her favour; and, excited even to desperation, she determined to endeavour to free her brother, and secure his and her own escape.

She first endeavoured to recall the situation of the principal objects in the village. She did not, however, require any effort of memory, for she could see distinctly where her brother was bound, and the path that led to this point. The storm's spirits were her friends: without the lightning she could have accomplished nothing.

There was a turn in the path that led through the village, and once or twice she was at a loss how to proceed. She would not be dismayed, though at times she feared her enemies would hear the loud beatings of her heart. Guided by the lightning, and resting for a moment when she feared her footfall would give the alarm, she at length reached the spot.

There had been no rest for the younger Chippeway. With the heart-crushing spectacle before his eyes, he had only given way to a horror at his father's sufferings, far more dreadful to witness than to endure. There was, besides, the anticipation of his own.

Again and again he looked at the strong cords that bound him. Could he for a short time possess the knife his enemies had wrested from him!

Useless, indeed, to him, without assistance!

Softer feelings, too, came in turn. His wife had been murdered before his eyes, his young son crushed under the feet of those who now lay sleeping tranquilly around him.

The weary night was wearing on. There would be no breaking of the day to him. There was no hope, but that which pointed to the unknown future; no light but that which glimmered from the silent land.

A slight noise arouses his acute senses, and he turns his head to that part of the village where were the greatest number of lodges. It might be that the footstep was that of some one of his foes, determined alone to enjoy the sight of his death. Oh! what joy thus to be saved the reproaches of his enemies, the laughing of the women, the sneers of all. Eagerly he peers through the darkness, and the first brilliant flash shows him the pale face of his sister, as she advances towards him.

Very near him slept, in a wigwam, two warriors who had the charge of him. They might awake: this thought made the very pulses of his life stand still.

For at once he understood his sister's intention. He knew her courage; he also knew that without an object she would not be thus incurring the risk of arousing their enemies.

Another flash, and she stood close by his side--her hand was upon his, as she felt for the thongs that bound him. One by one they were cautiously severed--slowly, for the slightest noise might be fatal.

It was hard work, too, for the maiden, for the sinews were like iron, and her strength failed her under the repeated efforts she was obliged to make. There was no word uttered,--their hearts silently conversed with each other. Time passed, and he was almost free; he was himself severing the last bond that detained him.

It yielded. Once more he could stretch out his muscular arm. Grasping his sister to his side, covered by the darkness and the thunder, and the heavily commencing rain, they made their way under the edges of the bluffs. The young Chippeway knew the route: a short peace had existed between the tribes, and he had more than once passed through the village.

At first their progress was slow and deliberate. There was no faltering, though. They were without weapons, with the exception of We-har-ka's knife. Hunger and faintness were oppressing them, but the danger they were in braced their hearts. As they began to leave the Sioux village in the distance, hope gave vigour to their frames.

After the day broke, the clouds were scattering, and the sunbeams were dotting the hills that lay between them and their foes. Still they could not rest. The wild plum was their only nourishment; nor was it until night had again shrouded the earth, and the young man laid his sister in the hospitable lodge of a Chippeway village, that he realized that he had been a prisoner and was again free.

It were impossible to describe the rage of the Sioux on ascertaining the escape of their prisoners. Chashé went soon after their flight to his sister's wigwam. His sleep had been restless, he thought of his dead relative, but he thought more of the Chippeway girl, whom he had resolved to adopt[12] in place of his young wife, who had died recently. Seeing his sister alone, he anxiously inquired of her what had become of the girl. What was his surprise when she told him there had been no one there; that when she arose, the storm was passing over, but it was still dark, but that no one had been in the lodge since then. Her brother, much irritated, contradicted her, using the most violent language; yet it was evident to him that his sister was unconscious of his having laid the girl by her side.

He turned away, and sought the scene of the last night's torture. There were the burnt fagots, and the ghastly remains. The smoke still curled and slowly rose from the ashes, but neither of the prisoners was to be seen. The thongs with which he had been bound lay on the ground.

There was no room for doubt: brother and sister had fled; and they lived so near the borders of the Chippeway country that there was every reason to believe they were beyond the reach of recovery.

Disappointment and rage overspread his features. He threw up the door of the lodge where the sentinels still slept calmly. Pushing the foremost over with his foot, "Where is your prisoner?" said he. "You are brave men, that cannot take care of one Chippeway!"

Starting to their feet, the sentinels at once became aware of what had occurred. "Where is the girl?" they asked of Chashé.

"They are both gone," said he, "and they must both have passed near you."

"And where were you when the girl went?" replied one of the sentinels. "You took her off with you, and if we could not keep the man, you could not keep the woman."

The inmates of the different lodges came forward to learn what had happened. Here advances a brave, followed by his young sons. The women throw down their bundles of sticks, to feast themselves with a sight of the Chippeways ere they commenced their usual avocations; but they only expressed their sorrow by groans of disappointment. It was decided that the fugitives should be pursued. A party of the younger men set out without delay; they were warned, however, not to go too near their enemy's country.

Glowing with the expectation of recapturing the prisoners, and, it might be, of bringing home more scalps, they were anxious to set out. The old medicine-men reminded them of their duty, gave them advice suitable to the occasion, and then, with uplifted hands, called upon Wakeen Tonca, Great Spirit, Father, to help them against their enemies.

The close of another evening found the Sioux quiet, and busy in drying venison, and the usual occupations of the season. With the day, however, were closing their labours. Often a cry of lamentation was heard from the lodge of the Sioux who had recently been killed in battle.

The body of Eagle Eye was deposited upon a high scaffolding. His two children were still engaged at the burial-ground. All cries of sorrow, usual at such times, were hushed. The sides of the high hills were tinged with gold and crimson. Some of these "mountains rose high, high up, until they could look into the heavens and hear God in the storm." The river was as calm as if no scene of cruelty had ever been enacted on its banks.

Round the frame where Eagle Eye's form was laid hung his medicine-bag. Chashé placed a vessel of water near the body. We-har-ka lightly lifted the bark dish of buffalo-meat[13] and wild rice, where the soul of the departed warrior could take it, and be refreshed when tired and hungry. Very near him was buried his wife. Her bones had been gathered and buried under the ground; branches of trees and solid pieces of wood had been placed crosswise over her grave, to protect it from the wolves.

The graves and scaffolds were continued to the very edge of the bluff, while flowers of the most brilliant hue sprung up at the feet of the mourners, and clung to the low small bushes that grew on the hilltop. The brother and sister were preparing to come down, when We-har-ka perceived the priest seated by one of the graves, apparently unconscious of all that was passing around him. She approached him, and softly laid her hand upon his shoulder. He turned to her slowly, as if aroused from a dream of long past years, and followed them to the village.

His lodge was near hers, and she listened to his full rich voice as he chaunted the vespers. Totally ignorant of what he said, she was yet soothed by the sweet sounds, and after they had ceased, unobserved by others, she sought him in his lodge, and night was closing over the earth as the voices of the two mingled in earnest conversation.

* * * * *

The Jesuit had long been anxious to take advantage of the first opportunity that offered to return to Canada. Here, his time was wasted and his health impaired to no purpose. He had succeeded in learning the language of the savages, so as to converse with them tolerably; but his mission was as useless here as it would have been among the wild beasts of Africa.

Constantly exposed to danger, without the means of living, except what he received from We-har-ka, and occasionally from others, his time unoccupied, his life was a burden. His health was not strong enough to enable him to join in the hardy exercises and sports of the red men. How anxiously, then, did he await the means of deliverance.

There was an occasional intercourse with the tribes that lived in the region of the great lakes: in this way he had come among the Sioux, and he hoped thus to return to Acadie. He passed hour after hour watching the approach of canoes, hoping to recognise the tall, gaunt forms of the Hurons, or some of those with whom the Sioux were on friendly terms. Over but one human being, We-har-ka, had he acquired the slightest influence. We have before alluded to the rivalry of the two young men, Chashé and the Beaver, for the disputed honour of being the war-chief of the band. They belonged to opposite clans, which were almost equally divided. It appeared evident that it could only be decided by some act of bravery performed by one of the parties.

The aspirants had equal claims. They were each daring in the greatest degree. Young, athletic, inured to fatigue and hardships, thirsting like the war-horse for the battle. Chashé owed his reputation in some degree to the reputation of his grandfather, while on the other hand the Beaver's courage made him feared by his own and the opposite clan.

The long-continued feud between the two clans had been more violent than ever since the death of the younger brother of Chashé. His sickness was attributed to a spell having been cast upon him by some one of the other clan. Eagle Eye attributed his death to the family of the Beaver; and so great was the hatred of the two clans[14] that murder after murder occurred, and every sickness and disaster was charged upon some individual, and thus revenge was constantly sought.

Especially was Eagle Eye dreaded; his powers as a medicine-man were rated so high, that in passing by him many avoided his observation--they dreaded lest he should, by an undefined power, bring upon them the wrath of an evil spirit. And each warrior wore beneath his richly embroidered hunting-dress a charm, to protect him from a machination that he feared.

Yet did the Beaver love the sister of his rival, and he had induced her to defy her brother's hot temper, and promise him all her young affection. Love had made him eloquent, and he persuaded her out of all the opinions she had imbibed from the time she was capable of forming one; while he, blind to the attractions of all others, could only see grace in her person.

It was not likely his life would be safe should he marry her, and remain among his own people; and could he yield the chances of his high position among the braves with whom he had grown up to the love of woman? He knew that We-har-ka would leave all for him. The only question was, could he make the sacrifice?

They had closely kept their secret. We-har-ka had been promised to a young man of her grandfather's clan. She had from time to time delayed the marriage, by her influence over the old man. The husband they had chosen for her was the tried friend of her brother, styled among the Indians, a comrade. Well did We-har-ka know how determined was her brother's temper, and that he would force her into the marriage after her grandfather's death, and that, unless by some great effort, there was no hope.

On the night of the return of the party, and the burning of the prisoner, she had, indeed, gone to the prairies to weep; but it was as much over the difficulties of her position as the death of her relative. It was not without an object that she had come forward to meet the war-party, and told them her intention. When the excitement of the burning of the Chippeway was at its height, her lover had left the group of young men, and a short time brought him to We-har-ka's side. After a few moments passed in the joy of reunion, We-har-ka told him that her fate must soon be decided, and implored him to take her away from their home, as their only chance of happiness. They could go, she said, among the Sioux who lived on the Missouri, and there live free from care.

The young man did not answer her at first, and We-har-ka, startled with the boldness of her own proposal, awaited his answer, standing. Her arms were clasped over her breast, and her eyes bent to the ground: the moonlight glittered on the wampum which lay on her bosom, and flashed from the silver cross suspended from her neck.

At length the Indian broke out into angry abuse of her brother and all connected with her. The colour varied in her cheek, and her lips were more firmly compressed when he charged them with cowardice, but still she spoke not. She had counted the cost of his love, and knew, that to retain it, she must resign even the natural impulses of her heart.

She waited until the torrent of his passion had ceased, then pointing to the dark clouds that were gathering in the west, reminded him that they would be missed. The shout that came from the village warned them too of the necessity of separation. He then marked the agitation of her manner, bade her return home, telling her that, after her father was buried, he would come to the lodge of the Jesuit: at what time he could not say, but not until some amusements should engage the Sioux: then he would tell her his determination. We-har-ka, overpowered with fatigue on her return to her lodge, slept soundly, even with the Chippeway girl by her side.

* * * * *

We-har-ka sat in the wigwam of the Jesuit, listening to the accounts of the grandeur of the churches and the magnificence of the altars in the country where Father Blanc had passed his youth. He pointed to the small figure of Christ, on the altar of cedar wood, which he had constructed, then told her of the large one of gold which he had often knelt before in assisting in the ceremonies of the church. We-har-ka, whose thoughts had been wandering in quest of her lover, asked him again of the ever interesting story of the death and sufferings of the Saviour. Like those who witnessed the crucifixion, she wondered that that Great Being should submit to such indignities. Her religion would have justified resenting them. Yet she did not believe it was true, loving still to hear it told over and over again; especially was it agreeable to her now to while away the hour until her lover, under pretence of speaking to the priest, should find a chance of acquainting her with the plans he had formed. She looked again at the familiar objects on the altar. Again, as ever, she told the priest he was good and kind, but that she knew the Great Spirit was the father of all. Father Blanc's insinuating eloquence touched her feelings, but her heart was unaffected: yet the father, glad of a listener, even in the untutored Indian girl, dwelt on scenes long past, and it might be forgotten by all but him.

When the moon rose they sat outside the lodge on a mat. They were now both silent. The thoughts of the Jesuit wandered far and wide: memory transported him to the forests of Languedoc.

There he pursued his studies, full of high hope and youthful happiness. He wandered through the most beautiful scenes of nature, and there was one by his side; her smile was bent upon him, as she parted the long ringlets from her brow. He gazed again as he was wont when he bade her good night, and wondered if angels smiled so sweetly when they bore the dead to the regions of Paradise. Memory changes the scene. Death and desolation are met; darkness and beauty are blended strangely. Those angel eyes are closed, but the sweet smile is there.

Hushed lips bend over the bier where roses are lavishly strewed. Echoes of grief are heard along the halls, as they pass on with their beautiful burden to the house of death. Then come the long nights of sorrow, the vigils of despair, the renouncing of the hopes and pleasures of life: then the morbid restlessness, the wish for death and forgetfulness. Afterwards, the solitary life of the student, then the seclusion of the cloister, and the longing to wear out life under a different sky. He traced again his course, until he sat here, a wanderer, by the side of the Indian girl.

Her eyes were wandering over the brilliant scenes. The stars seemed almost to rest on the body of her relative, as she looked towards the burial-ground where she had passed the day.

The branches of the large trees were in perfect repose: there was no wind to disturb them; and the gorgeous reflection of the moon on the river seemed almost to illuminate the village.

Richly endowed with the poetry of nature, the anxious girl felt calmed by the beauty and tranquillity of the scene. The evening was passing away, and he had not come. Confident of his affection, she determined to be patient. Sometimes her friends would pass along and converse with her; but they knew her heart was sad, deprived of the affectionate caresses of her relative. Her brother she had not seen since they had returned together from the burial-ground, but she supposed he was in one of the groups which were enjoying the lovely quiet of the evening.

Suddenly a wild and piercing cry arrests her attention. Starting to her feet, almost frantic for a moment, she recognised her brother's voice. Again it fell in one long, rich, full cry on her ear.

There was something unusual in that sound. There was no defiance, no fear, no excitement in the voice. It was as if the bald eagle, long watching and hovering over its prey, had at length planted her talons in its side, and was fleeing away far from human hope or protection. So clear was the sound, so long its echo, that some doubted if it were indeed a human voice.

Not so with We-har-ka: pressing her clasped hands tightly over her heart, turning her marble face to the heavens, she knew it all. That was not the cry indicating the presence of enemies; her heart would not have quailed before it as it did now: it was the announcement of the gratification of a long-cherished revenge. Her lover's absence was explained. Only a moment, however, was given to conflicting thoughts. The young girl moved forward, and, as it were, pioneered the others to the quarter from whence the sound proceeded. There was no shrinking in her slight form: she might have been taken for some spirit returned to earth to accomplish some high purpose, unconscious of aught save its own mission.

Passing on to a rock, whence you could see the beautiful valley that spread out before them, the whole story was told in a moment.

Chashé stood as if expecting witnesses; in his bearing there was a frightful exultation that ill accorded with the other circumstances of his position. In his hand he held the knife, from which drops of blood were slowly falling on his dress. He watched them with a savage laugh of delight. His figure seemed taller, by half, in the moonlight, its long shadow fell so darkly over the grass. He was not alone, for easily could all recognise the manly and noble form of the man he hated, at his feet. Well they know that it was death alone that could keep him there. The blood was oozing from his heart: and they could, even at the distance from whence they first saw him, distinguish the marble paleness of his features.

A loud shout now arose from the Indians as they pressed forward. They were divided as to the interest in this scene. The friends of Chashé exulted with him, and those of the other clan called for revenge. It seemed uncertain how the excitement of the crowd would show itself, when it was diverted for a moment by the appearance of We-har-ka. She rapidly slid down the rocks, which it was necessary to pass, in order to reach the two young men. None of them could keep up with her, so quick and shadowy were her movements.

Throwing herself on the ground beside her lover, she made the most frantic efforts to staunch the flowing of the wound. She tore up the grass, and pressing it together, placed it against the wound; but the blood continued to flow in spite of all her efforts. Her bearing, calm and collected at first, now changed with the evident hopelessness of the case; her wild and frantic screams pierced the air as she threw herself upon his body. Her brother seized her roughly by the arm, indignant at this show of affection; but she shrank from his touch, and again springing to his side, before he could divine her purpose, she had wrested the knife from his grasp and pierced it deep in her own breast. Chashé caught it from her ere she could a second time bury it in her bosom; but she glided from him and ascended the bluff over which she had passed to reach the dreadful spot. A stream of blood follows in her path. Now she has reached the edge of the precipice: she springs, and the noise of the dashing waves mingles with the cry of horror that arises from the witnesses of her self-destruction.

The Indians were obliged to return to their village in order to arrive at the place where were their canoes. Every effort was made, but in vain, to recover the body of the unfortunate girl. She was never seen again.

Father Blanc soon after returned to Acadie with a party who were going that route. He was thankful to leave the scene of such accumulated horrors. He had become warmly attached to the young Sioux maiden, whose early sorrows had been impressed on his memory. The horrors of that night were written in characters of blood: nor did he ever relate the incident without trembling at the recollection. He found in the Canada Indians more tractable scholars,--at least, when they feared the cannon of the French.

There is reason to conclude that the efforts of the Jesuits among the aborigines of our country left no abiding impression of good: but, like the waters which the tall ships have passed over, they were agitated for a while from their usual course, then returned to their restless surging as before.

[Footnote 4: The names Sioux and Dacota are applied to the same nation; the Indians themselves recognising and preferring the latter name. The little that is known of them is given in the introduction to Dacota, or Legends of the Sioux. They have, for many years, been considered a powerful, warlike, and interesting people. They formerly possessed the knowledge of many things of which they are now totally ignorant. They retain the greatest attachment to their country and their religion.]

[Footnote 5: For every scalp taken by a Sioux in battle he is entitled to wear a feather of the War Eagle. This is an ornament greatly esteemed among them.]

[Footnote 6: The Dacotas believe thunder to be a bird. It would be impossible to enumerate their gods, they are so numerous; but the thunder is much feared as being one of the most powerful. In living among them you constantly see representations of these gods, drawn and carved on the various articles that are used among them.]

[Footnote 7: Wampum is a long bead made of the inside of a shell, white and of dark purple colour; it is very much valued by the Indians, used as necklaces; the women esteem nothing more highly than a string or two of wampum. It has frequently been used as currency among the different tribes; but in making treaties it is strung and made into a belt, and at the close of a speech is presented to the other party as a pledge of good faith.]

[Footnote 8: Among the Sioux it is customary to inflict wounds, sometimes deep and severe ones, upon themselves on the occasion of the death of a friend. The arms of aged people are frequently seamed with scars.]

[Footnote 9: Acadia, or Acadie, was the ancient name for what is now called Nova Scotia. Before the latter name was used in the act of incorporation by the British Parliament, Acadie was within the jurisdiction of Lower Canada.]

[Footnote 10: The Sioux and Chippeways seem to be natural enemies. Peace has been declared between the two nations time and again, but never has it been sustained, although the United States Government has made every effort to and even compel them to forego their ancient enmity.]

[Footnote 11: Wakeen-stone. The Sioux choose stones as objects of worship. We find them frequently on their thoroughfares; they never pass these without stopping to smoke, or to make some slight offering, such as tobacco, a feather, an arrow, or a trinket.]

[Footnote 12: Young persons taken prisoners in battle are often adopted, in the place of some lost relative. They are then treated with the kindness usually shown towards a dear and valued friend.]

[Footnote 13: The Sioux believe in the duality of the soul,--one going to the land of spirits, while one hovers round the grave, requiring nourishment. Some few of their wise people believe that each body claims more than two souls, assigning an occupation for each; but this is not the prevailing opinion.]

[Footnote 14: In a Sioux village there are different clans, known by the peculiar medicine that each uses, each clan claiming superior power, resting in a spell, which the medicine man or woman can throw upon those of the opposite party.]

C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.
Chromolith of P. S. Duval Ph.

THE LAUGHING WATERS, Three miles below The Falls of S^{t.} Anthony.]

THE LAUGHING WATERS.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

A few miles from the Falls of St. Anthony are The Little Falls, or, as
the Sioux call them, The Laughing Waters.

Do you know where the waters laugh?
Have you seen where they playfully fall?
Hid from the sun by the forest trees green,
(Though its rays do pierce the vines between,)
Dancing with joy, till, night-like, a screen
Comes down from the heavens at the whippoorwill's call.

Come with me, then, we will tread
On a carpet of long grass and flowers.
The wild lady's slipper we'll pluck as it droops,
We will watch the proud eagle, as from heaven she stoops,
A seat we will take by the dark leafy nooks,
Where a fairy might while away summer's bright hours.

From on high, the gay waters come!
At first, how they lazily creep
O'er embedded rocks, while agates so bright
Here and there greet the sun, by noonday's strong light,
And again dimly glance when stars come at night,
To watch where the Father of Waters' waves sleep.

How mildly they laugh as they haste!
Now they near the spot where they will spring,
Lightly clearing the distance to the pebbles below,
Where, tired with the effort, more calmly they flow,
While the glistening spray, and the foam white as snow,
Their light o'er the rocks and the dancing waves fling.

At evening how often will come
The wild deer to drink and to rest;
Till frightened away by the nighthawk's loud scream,
They flee to the shades where the wood spirits dream,
And sink to repose by the moonlight's fair beam,
Like the babe by its mother's soft smile lulled to rest.

And here does the tall warrior stand,
With the maiden he loves by his side!
He tells her to list while the fairies do quaff
Their cupful, and shout, and then wildly laugh,
For they know that she leans on his love like a staff,
Which will ever support her in life's changing tide.

'Twould be well, did ye weep, waters bright!
Soon no more to thy banks will they come,--
The maiden who loves, or the warrior so brave,
The wild deer at eve, in thy waters to lave,
The song-bird to dip its bright wing in thy wave,
When the shadows that fall with the night are all gone.

The Indian's reproach ye might hear,
Did ye listen, fair waves, to the sound!
Are you gay, when you know of the tears we have shed,
When profaned are the graves of our fathers long dead,
When haunted our lands, by the white man's proud tread,
As he passes o'er rock and o'er prairie and mound?

For ages we've loved thy fair stream!
No more can we claim thee, no more
Will the warrior sing his war-song in thy ears,
Will the mother who comes for her child to shed tears,
Will the maiden who prays to the spirit she fears,
Gaze on thy bright waves, or rest by thy shore?

O-KO-PEE. A MIGHTY HUNTER OF THE SIOUX.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

It is impossible for one possessed of kind and generous feelings to pass a grave without mournful reflections. Though a stately monument rise over it, it covers the work of death. The mouldering form was once as full of joy and care, of tears and rejoicings, as we;--a being who performed his part in the theatre of life, but who has now, for ever, taken his place behind the closed curtain. And if it be the resting-place of the poor and unknown, we must feel too: the rude stone at the head, the weeds springing up, the indifference of the merry children as they play around it, do not take from the claim that was once possessed by the form that is fast mingling with its native earth, to have been one of the many toilers after a happiness never obtained, a rest never enjoyed on earth! How have passed away many of the nations of the earth. Some have noble monuments. Egypt, Greece, Rome, Palmyra, and the Aztecs, who flourished upon our own shores--gems of wealth and learning are heaped upon their graves; the undying wreath of fame crowns their memory. The older the world, the better they will be known. As time advances, so will increase our knowledge of their history and laws--their hieroglyphics will be understood, throwing light upon things hitherto a mystery to us.

But not so with our Indian nations; they must depart with hardly a memorial of their existence. Few now care to learn aught that one day may be spoken in memory of a noble people passed away; few now reflect that the soul of this people stands winged for its flight.

* * * * *

Some recollections of the time passed among the Northwestern Indians are very delightful to me, but many are equally sad--none more so than the history of a poor idiot creature with whom we were well acquainted.

O-ko-pee, "The Nest." I have often reflected upon his eventful life, and melancholy death--his patience and humility, the muscular strength of his form, and the passionless expression of his features. The mortal tenement was able and healthful when I first knew him, but the spiritual no longer animated it; indeed, as a companion he was no better than the game he hunted, for his mind was gone.

When overcome with hunger he would tell us how very long it was since he had eaten. He knew, too, when he was cold, for he would direct our attention to his threadbare clothing. Like the prairie deer or buffalo, he would seek shelter from the storm or burning sun; but though he might once have reflected upon the occupations of a disembodied spirit, when it should be released from the shackles of earth, he had long since ceased to do so. His mind floated on the stormy waves of life, like the wreck at sea, far alike from light, hope, or help.

His life was an eventful one for an Indian's. Born when the Sioux were not dependent upon white people, he trod his native earth with the consciousness of owning it. He routed up the timid grouse from the prairies, and brought down the red-head and wood-duck on the wing, never fearing that they and he would be chased from the haunts they loved. Often, when a small boy, would he kill the plover and woodcock in numbers, carrying them to his mother as trophies of his skill. How gaily he laughed as for the first time he stayed the fleet course of the wild deer, and watched her panting, as she lay beside the brook, looking for the last time at her own image in its clear waters, longing to suage the thirst of death with its refreshing coolness.

His bones were still tender and his frame small when he sped his wild horse among the buffalo, sending his lance into their sides, and shouting as they tore up the earth, roaring in their agony. Was he in danger from the restiveness of his horse? he knew he had only to fix his black eye upon the revengeful buffalo, and, by the power of the soul speaking there, subdue his rage. The eye of man meeting the eye of beast, never turning or yielding its glance, would quell the passions of the animal, and he would be safe.

He could not stay in the wigwam, even for an hour: child of the woods and prairies, he needed only their companionship. The streams, the rocks, and hills were the friends whose society he loved. Among them he could "commune with his own heart, and be still."

Threading the passes among the hills, or stepping from point to point on the dangerous rocks by the shore, he ever took the lead in the chase, and early gained the reputation of being the most famous hunter among the Sioux. How he obtained the soubriquet of "The Nest"[15] I know not, but he retained it through all the varying events of his life on earth, and it has followed him to the Indian's unhallowed grave, over which hovers no spirit of hope, but the dark and fallen angels of ignorance and superstition.

As O-ko-pee approached to manhood, the English claimed and obtained jurisdiction over the Sioux. But the hunter, well acquainted with his own laws, showed no inclination to meddle with those of another nation, who showed the might of right.

Perhaps he did not feel with the many, who were more sensitive and less happy, the soul-destroying anticipation of slavery. So long as he had his lance and bow and arrow, what cared he for innovation? and he was too ignorant of the economy of nations to recognise the fact that when a people loses the right of self-government, it yields for ever the power of advancing in strength or happiness.

Living in his own world, turning his eyes in adoration to the sun he worshipped, he believed the Great Spirit would not interfere with his concerns farther than to punish him should he neglect to celebrate the feasts and customs of his nation, or turn from the faith of his ancestors. Never was he happier than when listening to the flapping of the wings of the mischievous thunder-birds, the gods of his nation, as they roused themselves at the bright and forked streaks in the heavy clouds.

There were many, however, among the Sioux who would not willingly yield to the oppressions of the English, as they now would gladly resent, had they the power to do so, the encroachments of the people of the United States. Thus, a Dacota, who had received a personal injury from an Englishman, determined to take an opportunity of resenting it; he did so, according to Indian rules of strategy. He watched when his victim was unawares, and took aim successfully, then plunging into the thick forests, was lost to the search of his foes, as was the dead Englishman, to the distress of his family. The English pursued a system then which has since been adopted by our own countrymen; a system sometimes productive of great injustice, yet, under the peculiar circumstances, the best one that could be fixed on. I allude to that of taking hostages, and retaining them until the offender should be given up.

O-ko-pee, who had dreamed away his childhood among the most beautiful scenes of nature, found himself a prisoner, torn from the objects which were dear to him as life; nay, they were his life, for deprived of them he sunk to the level of the beasts of the forests.

Immured in a prison, far from the refreshing air of his native hills, shut in by the bars he vainly strove to loosen or to break, seeing no more the bear, the buffalo, the otter, or the deer, his heart was broken.

After many years of imprisonment, useless, for the real murderer never was found, he was turned loose, like an animal from whence the owner can no longer derive either amusement or profit: he returned mechanically to his former occupation. Once again free in the woods, he was soon a laughing-stock for the Sioux. "He has no heart since he was prisoner to the white man!" they cried, as he passed to the prairies, with his vacant look and humbled demeanour. Where was the proud glance and the free step? Ask those who with the iron arm of power punished the innocent for the guilty.

Still, as ever, he followed the chase--thirteen deer did he kill in one day, and never tired of hunting, even as age advanced seemed to increase his passion for roaming.

Often has he come to us with every variety of game, never breaking his word, whatever might be the state of the weather. But in coming or going, giving or receiving, his demeanour and countenance never changed; his eyes were wandering in vacancy, save when the fire-water, given by the white man in exchange for the soft furs he brought him, would tinge his sallow cheeks with the flush of madness, and lighten his eye with the glances of a fiend, and change from the sober quiet and calmness of the unhappy idiot to the noisy, reeling, hellish figure, which seemed a visitant from the world of darkness rather than a suffering inhabitant of earth.

O-ko-pee is dead. It is not mine to say whether or not, in another state of existence, he enjoys happiness sufficient in degree to make up for the heavy trials of life: I have only to do with him here; and as I have said he lived a sacrifice to the all-conquering and indomitable spirit of the Saxon race, so did he die.

Some years ago, a band of Sioux, distant from Fort Snelling, attacked a party of Winnebagoes, taking fourteen scalps. Hearing that the scalps were carried from village to village, and danced round day after day, there was a party sent from the Fort to take these scalps from the Indians, as there was a fear lest the hot blood of the young warriors should be roused, and serious difficulties would then occur between the two tribes. So the scalps were brought into the Fort; the affair was reported at Washington. The Winnebagoes asked for indemnity for the injuries they had received, and the authorities at Washington decided that four thousand dollars should be paid to the Winnebagoes out of the annuities received by the Sioux from our own government. It was in the summer: the Indian potato, hard and indigestible, was just ripening: the corn was green. The Sioux were without flour and other provisions; even if game had been abundant, they had neither powder nor shot. They pined away by fever and weakness; death stalked among them like a giant, laughing as he crushed to earth men who were like children beside him.

Was there no help for them? the mandate had gone forth. The children fell to the ground dying for want of nourishment; the strong man clung to the trees for support, and the gray-haired leaned against the insensible rocks. Few there were who could bring down the game with their bows and arrows as did their forefathers, and the white people were crowding in their country and driving the game back where they were too feeble to pursue it.

Then came forward the kind missionaries to the aid of their unhappy friends. How liberally they shared with them all that they possessed, striving too to quiet their minds, agitated by burning fever. They gave them medicine and food, supporting the dying mother and taking charge of the infant and the aged. They sought to assuage the agonies of exhausted nature, directing in its flight the restless spirit standing upon the borders of life to that happy place where hunger and sickness are unknown.

It was on one of the warmest days of summer when my little children, with their father, crossed the St. Peter's, and advanced towards the trading establishment at Mendota. On the shores of the river one wigwam was placed, and, attracted by the groans of anguish which proceeded from it, they entered. It was O-ko-pee dying; yes, dying as he had lived, a sacrifice to the white man's rule--dying as he had lived, alone.

No friend supported his aching head, which was burning with fever, or chafed the cold limbs covered with ashes. Indeed, his head was pillowed on a bed of ashes. He recognised his visiters, and seeing their young faces solemnized by what they had never before witnessed, the presence of death, he spoke to them by name, said he was sick, and asked them for medicine. It was too late for medicine or sympathy; in another hour O-ko-pee, the hunter of the Sioux, was gone for ever from the earth.

[Footnote 15: It is customary, when an Indian advances towards manhood, for him to lose the name bestowed upon him in childhood, obtaining another by some peculiarity of appearance or conduct, some daring action or violent passion; thus, Sleepy Eyes, is the name of a chief among the Sioux, from the drowsy expression of his countenance.]

CHEQUERED CLOUD.

THE AGED SIOUX WOMAN.

I would tell you of a friend of mine:
She's neither rich nor fair;
The snows of many winters
Have bleached her raven hair.
The brightness of her large black eye
Has been dimmed for many years;
And the furrows in her cheek were made
By time and shedding tears.

She is an Indian woman,
And me has often told
Traditions of her native land,
And legends sung of old;
Of battles fiercely fought and won,
Of the warrior as he fell,
While he tried to shield from a fearful death
The wife he loved so well.

Ask her whence her nation came:
With a smile she will reply,
"The Dacotas aye have owned this land,
Where the eagle soars so high;
Where Mississippi's waters flow,
Through bluffs and prairies wide;
Where by Minesota's sandy shore
The wild rice grows beside."

Ask her of her warrior sons,
Who rose up by her side--
Enah! in the fearful battle,
And by sickness they have died--
And of her gentle daughter:
See the tear steals lowly down,
As the memory of the slaughter
Of that frightful night comes on.

Many have been her sorrows,
While ever to her breast
Sickness or want or suffering came,
Like a familiar guest.
Yet, she says there was a time
When her step was light and free,
And her voice as joyous as the bird
That sings in the forest tree.

I said she was my friend:--
I am not one of those,
Who from the wealthy or the great
Companionship would choose.
The soul that animates her frame
Is as gifted and as free,
And will live for ever,--like the one
That God has given me.

She worships the Great Spirit,
Yet often does she tell
Of the fairies that inhabit
Mountain, river, rock, and dell.
She will say to kill a foe
Of religion is a part;
Yet underneath her bosom beats
A kind and noble heart.

She has ever loved to listen
To the savage shout and dance;
To see the red knife glisten
O'er the dying Chippeway's glance.
To watch the prisoner, burning,
Confronting at the stake
His enemies, who vainly strive
His spirit proud to break.

Judge her kindly,--and remember,
She was not taught in youth
To bend the knee and lift the heart
To the God of love and truth.
"Love ye your foes," said He who brought
To us the golden rule;
But "eye for eye," was the maxim taught
In the ancient Jewish school.

We know it was a beggar
Who in Abraham's bosom slept,--
And, haply, her ancestors
By Babylon's waters wept.
While poor, like Lazarus, it may be,
From Israel's stock has come
The red man, tracing out on earth
His God-forgotten doom.

Well I knew, when last we parted,
That, if ever we met more,
'Twould be when life's sweet sympathies
And painful cares are o'er.
She said, while down her aged face
The tears coursed rapidly,
"Many a white woman have I known,
But you were kind to me."

Not half as dear to the miser
Is the yellow gold he saves,--
Or the pearl, to the venturous diver,
Which he seeks beneath the waves,
Or the summer breeze, to the drooping flower,
Fresh from the balmy South,
As those grateful words which slowly came
From the Indian woman's mouth.

She has struggled with the ills of life;
For her no parent's prayers
Have risen to the throne of God,
To sanctify life's cares.
But God will judge her kindly:
He sees the sparrow fall;
And, through his Son's atoning blood,
May he mercy show to all!

FIRE-FACE.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Fire-face was willing to die, he said, but not until he had killed another white man. He was sincere in acknowledging hatred towards the people of the United States. There was no doubt but he had stained his hands with the blood of one white man; but this did not satisfy him: let him take the life of another, and he was willing to be made prisoner, and to meet what punishment might be designed for him. The mantle of Cain had indeed fallen upon him; his heart was turned even from his own people, and angry threatenings were ever upon his lips, against those with whom he had grown up side by side. Wabashaw, chief of one of the bands of Sioux on the Mississippi, left his home, where the prairies stretch out to the distance, without even a hill to relieve the level sameness, or trees to shelter them from the short but intense heat of the summer, to encamp, by permission, on the St. Peter's River, opposite Fort Snelling. Fire-face, one of the band, was with them, accompanied by his two wives.

He was feared by all of the band; even the brave chief Wabashaw, whose life he had threatened, turned from the fierce gaze of the man, over whom had been cast a spell from the spirits of evil, for he frowned alike upon friend and foe. Only his wives seemed easy when he was near, and they not only feared but loved the strange being, whose hand was against every man's.

He passed the most of his time seated near his lodge, with his medicine-bag hanging near; his implements of war and hunting glistening in the light, and his loaded gun ever by his side.

Many efforts had been made to apprehend this desperate man, yet he had always eluded the pursuit of the soldiers; and now, although aware of the danger he was in, when living so near the garrison, he appeared to be perfectly unconcerned, saying, he knew the soldiers would make every effort to arrest him; but that he would never be taken until another of the pale faces had fallen by his arm. Wabashaw, the chief, frequently visited the Fort, always accompanied by his late friend Many Lightnings, and on every occasion he pressed the necessity of taking Fire-face prisoner. "He was a bad Indian," said Wabashaw, "who loved to see blood; and, if allowed to go at liberty, some one would be murdered by him."

The chief said that he did not sleep at night in his own lodge, but went for safety to the near village of Mendoto, where he remained until the sun was high in the heavens the next day. In consequence of these representations, a party of soldiers was sent to arrest him, and the Indians were to assist in the capture.

Fire-face was on the lookout: he appeared to show himself in the way of danger for the pleasure of overcoming it. He would remain at ease until the party was near him; and then, like an arrow from the bow, he would fly through the village, no man daring to stay him: and you might as well have attempted to catch the sunbeam on the waters as the hunted man. Pursuit was unavailing, and the soldiers each time returned disappointed to the Fort.