Chapter III: Preface (3)

He would soon come back to the encampment. What a courage was his, thus purposely throwing himself in the way of danger, knowing too that he had not one friend to whom he could turn. His frightened, helpless family alone cared for him. It was evidently a pleasure to him to be in a situation of peril, to show his adroitness in extricating himself.

About ten o'clock one night he sat in his lodge, gloomily meditating on his position. Could he eventually escape the pursuit of his enemies? Was he not a doomed man, when the bands of friendship were severed between him and those with whom he had fought, and whose lives had been tracing an even course with his?

The children's heavy breathing was the only sound that could be heard. His wives sat mute in the lodge. He had been hunted to the death, and now sleep was overcoming him, and his watchfulness was yielding to his fatigue; while he thought to lay his tomahawk beside him, and seek repose, the door of his lodge was turned aside, and the long-knives (as the soldiers were called) were upon him.

Their exulting looks were met by his calmest demeanour: he offered no resistance; but when the soldiers placed their hands upon his wrists to secure the captive, he glided from their grasp as easily as a serpent might pass from the touch of a child; he bounded from their sight, and again they vainly sought the strange man: the protecting shades of night were about him, and he knew full well the hiding-places of the neighbourhood. When out of their reach he laughed as he looked at his oiled hands and arms, for _there_ was the secret of his escape.

Morning found him again in his lodge, calm, fearless as ever. The Sioux thought he must wear a charmed life, and they kept from the reach of his arm: and the children, even his own, played where they could not see his dark face as he watched their amusements.

There is a spell, however, that few Indians can resist; it is to them an unfailing quietus for care: they can fancy they are free when fire-water quickens the coursing of their veins. They curse the white man from the heart, and hope and look forward to the time when the red man shall have his own again. They then forget that the outstretched arms of desolation are ready to clasp them, and that destruction, like the night-bird, is hovering over their heads with its hoarse cry sounding to their hearts.

Fire-face could not refuse the charm. The Indians pressed it upon him, and then informed the soldiers that they were going out with the intention of hunting, as Fire-face thought, that on this occasion he might be followed and taken.

The party went on their route, stopping occasionally to drink and to smoke. Fire-face, overcome by the liquor he had drank, could hardly keep up with them. His gun swung carelessly from his shoulder, and his usual gravity was changed for a loud and boisterous cheerfulness.

"The white people fear me," he said, laughing; "well they may, for my arm is strong, and before I die I will kill another of them. I have already murdered a white man, and should be satisfied if one of their women died by my tomahawk. I should like to take her scalp with the long light hair hanging from it."

The Indians still encouraged him to drink, and as the morning advanced he became the more unfitted to pursue his way. From a state of passion and excitement he had passed into one of stupor: at length he rested himself against a tree, and alternately muttered and dozed.

In the mean time soldiers were following him up. Wabashaw gave information of the path Fire-face had taken, and they were soon upon him.

He was a prisoner at last, and that consciousness sobered him. His hands were bound. One of the Sioux, indignant at this proceeding, attempted to cut the straps, but was pushed off. After a slight delay, the soldiers returned with him to the garrison.

He continually reproached himself with his own unwatchfulness, telling the soldiers that he had always intended killing one of them ere he should be in their power. He mournfully said it was too late now to accomplish his purpose.

At about six o'clock in the afternoon he was brought into the Fort. The news of his capture had reached the encampment of Wabashaw on the opposite side of the river, and as he approached the guard at the gate of the Fort, a number of Sioux wore seen watching him. His two wives stood there, and as their husband's figure passed, guarded and bound, they literally lifted up their voices and wept.

Fire-face, in the mean time, was turned over to the tender mercies of the guard, and he was soon seated at the grated window of his cell. I had heard a great deal of the man, and thought that one who combined so many terrible traits of character must show it in his countenance: in order to see this singular being, I determined to visit him in his cell. We passed the guard-room and entered his dark and dreary-looking place of confinement. His back was to us, as he was looking through the bars of his window towards his home. Hearing some one approach, he turned to us with an expression of face entirely mild; there was neither passion nor murder portrayed in his features, not even a restlessness in his manner--only a quiet dignity, a calm unconcern.

He begged of the commanding officer to be shot at once, deprecating the thought of imprisonment--only let him die or be free. It was in vain to remind him of his offences: the laws of the white man were not for him. He then said that he wished to see his wives. The request was granted: they were sent for, and after a little while they, trembling with fear, passed the terrible-looking guard and entered their husband's cell, with their faces covered with their blankets.

The next day a council was held at the council-house, and I could not resist the wish I had to be present. I longed to see the aborigines of my country presiding as it were in their own halls of legislature. There was always a charm and freshness in listening to their unstudied eloquence.

When I reached the council-house the speaking was nearly over, but the scene repaid me for the trouble I had taken to witness it.

The warriors were seated in rows round the room on the floor, with the exception of Wabashaw, Many Lightnings, and a few of the principal men,--these occupied a bench.

Their dresses were very rich; their fans were of large feathers, stained in many colours. "The Owl" was looking grave, for he had been reproved for interfering with the soldiers, by attempting to cut the prisoner's straps. One old man was in mourning, and he looked particularly _en dishabille_, his clothing (and there was little of it) was dirty in the extreme. His face he had painted perfectly black; his hair he had purposely disarranged, to the greatest degree. Thus he presented a striking contrast to the elaborately adorned warriors around him.

Many Lightnings was dressed with scrupulous care. He had been presented with an old uniform-coat, which he wore with the utmost complacency. We noticed the warriors were almost all young: we asked where were all their old men. Wabashaw said, they were all carried off by the small-pox, which had nearly destroyed their band some years before. Several of them, besides the chief, were deeply marked from this disease.

When we left Fort Snelling, Fire-face was still in confinement, but was soon to go to Dubuque for trial. I learned some months after, that he had escaped: I thought then, his long-cherished wish might still be gratified.

DEATH-SONG OF AN INDIAN PRISONER, FOR A LONG TIME CONFINED AT FORT SNELLING.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Here, in these hated walls
A prisoner I;
Vainly my young wife calls,
As night-winds sigh.
Brightly the white stars shine:
Upwards I gaze,
Seeking this soul of mine
From earth to raise.

Strong Wind, my comrade brave,
Looks sternly by,
Watching the death-film dim
His brother's eye.
Chained are these useless hands;
Cold is my heart;
Soon to the spirits' land
Must I depart.

Pacing my prison dark,
Arms do I see,--
While measured the sentry's step,--
Glance gleamingly.
Once, like the wild deer,
Or eagle, as free,--
Now, closely guarded here,
Prisoners we!

When has the red man felt
Woman's weak fears?
But from these wearied eyes
Fall warriors' tears.
Father of Waters, I
Ne'er shall see more,--
List to its waves pass by,
Beating the shore.

Sleeps my brave comrade now?--
Dreams he of home?
See, o'er his haughty brow
Dark shadows come.
Like me, he fain would be
Where, from the bow,
Piercing the wild deer's side,
Swift arrows go.

When from the waters bright
Fades the red sun,
Following the evening light,
Darkness comes on.
So has my spirit drooped,
Since from my home
Traced I my weary steps,
Ne'er to return.

Hark! in the evening air
Low voices come,--
Bring they to this sad heart
Breathings of home.
Now do the whispers rise,
Mighty the sound,
Like the thunder-bird,[16] from the skies
Hurled to the ground.

"Come to our hunting-lands!
Proudly we roam
Here, where the white man
Never may come.
From our forests on earth
Oft driven back,
We are free now, and follow
The buffalo's track.

"Here is the bright glance,
From maiden's dark eye;
While the song of the feast and dance
Rings through the sky.
Here do we wait thy step,
While soon, for thee,
Bursted the prison bars,
The warrior free!"

[Footnote 16: This is an allusion to the battles of the gods of the Dacotas. The Thunder (believed to be a bird) is sometimes conquered and cast to the earth by the god of the woods or the god of the waters.]

THE FALSE ALARM.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

"Yes," said We-har-ka, who had outlived children and grandchildren, whose face and neck were covered with wrinkles, but who still could walk with the youngest and strongest, "the old woman must pick up what she can get to eat. I hate the white people. Have I forgotten the death of my son? Do I not see him now as he fell dead by the gate of the Fort? What if the Dacotas had killed some Chippeways! The Dacotas have a right to kill their enemies. Enah! I hate the Chippeways too. If I were a warrior, I would ever be tracking them and shooting them down, and I would laugh when I saw their blood flow."

"The white people caused the death of your son," said Harpen.

"I hate them both," replied We-har-ka. "My son and two others killed some Chippeways, and they were taken, prisoners, to the Fort, because the long-knives had said we must not kill our enemies. Then the Chippeways wanted the Dacotas who murdered their friends, that their women might cut them in pieces. So the long-knives told the Dacotas they might start from the gate of the Fort, and run for their lives; but they told the Chippeways to be there too, and they might fire at them and kill them if they could. The Chippeways fired, and the three Dacotas fell. The Chippeways shouted and were glad, and the Dacota women wept. I lay on the ground many days, with my limbs bleeding. See the scars on my arms! With this very knife did I make these wounds. I, a widow, and childless, who has there been to give me food since?

"When Beloved Hail was killed," continued the old woman, "the white men would not let our warriors go to war against the Chippeways. Red-boy, too, was wounded by the Chippeways, and even he could not go out to fight them. Our warriors are like children before the white men."

"Red-boy was badly wounded," said Harpen.

"Yes, he was badly wounded: I saw him at the time. If I were Red-boy, I would only live to revenge myself on those who had tried to take my life."

While the woman talked, little Wanska sat by them, playing with her wooden doll. "Grandmother," said she, "may I take your canoe and go over to the village? You can come home with the others. I want to talk to my mother about Red-boy."

"Go, go," said We-har-ka, "our brave men may no longer do brave deeds, and by the time that you are a woman, there will be no more warriors. It has been five winters since Beloved Hail was killed and Red-boy wounded, and no one has avenged them yet."

The child entered the canoe and paddled towards the village, thinking all the while of what she had heard. "Grandmother says, by the time I am a woman, there will be no more warriors: what will I do then for a husband?" and thus divided between the disgrace of not being married, and the remembrance of Red-boy's wound, which she thought had occurred recently, she entered the village in a state of trepidation, which was yet exceeded by the condition in which her mother was thrown, on hearing the announcement that Red-boy was badly wounded by the Chippeways; that We-har-ka had seen the wound; that all the old women were very angry with the Chippeways and white people; then, bursting into tears, the girl of ten years added: "Mother, the Chippeways and white men are going to kill all the Dacota warriors, so that, when I am a woman, I can never have a husband!"

Up rose the eyes and hands of the mother, and down went the moccasins she was making to the ground; and up and down she made her way through the village, giving the alarm, that Red-boy was killed by the Chippeways!

Shall I tell of the scene that followed? Oh! for a pen of magic, to describe how Red-boy's relations cried, and how everybody's relations cried with them; how the children ran to their mothers, sheltering themselves under their _okendokendas_.[17] How the dogs yelped and howled, and sprung on the children's backs, ready to go wherever prudence might dictate. How the old men started from sleeping in the lazy summer's sun, and held their tomahawks as firmly as if time were made to be laughed at, and the young men throwing away the pebbles with which they were playing a game of chance, walked swiftly on, bent on avenging Red-boy.

How the wind all at once began to rise, and the very fish leaped out of the water, as if they would like to fight too; while already, Indian runners were far on their way to tell the news at Man-in-the-cloud's and Good-road's villages, and to give the word to those whom they might meet, who would take up the cry, and rush forward with revenge on their lips, and murder in their hearts.

On they went, until they reached the house of the Interpreter, near Fort Snelling, and then he went with them, to report to the officers at the Fort of the outrage; that Red-boy was killed, and that the Dacota warriors wished to go and avenge the death of their friend.

This was, of course, considered an infringement of the treaty of peace then existing between the two tribes; and the Chippeways had showed their daring by committing a murder so near the walls of the Fort. It was immediately determined to send a detachment of soldiers to arrest the offenders.

In ten minutes a number of men were on the parade-ground, ready to march, looking as fiercely at the officers' quarters as if they were about to enter into mortal combat with the doors and windows; obeying the word of command as quickly as it was reiterated, while the ringing noise of their ramrods sounded through the garrison.

The Dacotas were perfectly satisfied with the promise made them, that the Chippeways should be punished in a manner satisfactory to themselves, for the death of Red-boy.

We women felt quite solemn in the Fort. The Chippeways might resist: in fact, there was no saying what they might, or what they might not do. The command in garrison was very small: we felt as if we had been "through seven wars, and this was the worst of all."

Retreat, the assembling of the command at sundown, came--the evening gun was fired, and the flag was lowered--and nothing was heard of the war-party, white or Indian. Tattoo had come, the soldier's bedtime, and our anxieties were not at rest. Towards twelve o'clock the men returned with their officer, without having had even a show of fight. To their intense mortification and disappointment, Red-boy had been seen, and talked with, large as life. He had eaten a saddle of venison that day, without any assistance, and was, accordingly, in a good state of preservation, having received no wound since the one of five years' standing, the scar of which he showed.

Now, we know that among white people, as well as Indians, women have the credit of raising all the false reports, and circulating all the scandal that is going the rounds. Most unjust charge! and all men, red skins and pale faces, are defied to prove it. Among the Indians women have no chance whatever. Is an Indian charged with stealing pork from the traders? It was not the warrior who did it, but his wife. Has a party of Indians been admitted into the Fort, and some loaves of bread and pieces of meat been abstracted? Somehow or other the women are sure to be in fault. Has the garrison been alarmed, and a party of soldiers sent out uselessly? As usual, the women made the trouble.

Yet, with a sigh from my heart, I must confess that appearances are against the sex.

There were many threats of vengeance made against We-har-ka in the present instance, for the trouble which her longings for vengeance had occasioned; but she was not afraid: she had taken care of herself for nearly a hundred years, and would be apt to do so during the short remnant of her life.

Indian women will talk of their wrongs as long as they feel them, and that will be until the heart has ceased to beat, and the tongue is silent for ever.

We-har-ka lives on the memory of her sorrows. She holds them to her heart, as does the mother her child of a day old. They are dear to her as would be the hope of vengeance.

I say she lives, but I know not. Seasons have gone since I bade adieu to her home, and it may be, she is all unconscious that winter is gone, and that summer's breath is waving the green boughs of the forest trees as they lift up their branches to the heavens.

It must be soon, if not now, that her form, covered with garments of poverty and misery, and perhaps shielded from the gaze of passers-by by the tattered blanket of some friend poor as she, reposes quietly near the river bank.

Would you not like to have heard her talk of her amusements as a child, and her happiness when a maiden--of the scenes of pleasure she remembers, and of terror from which she has fled--of the pains, the hunger, the watchings she has endured--of the storms and sunshine of a life passed away?

[Footnote 17: An Okendokenda is a part of an Indian woman's dress, somewhat resembling the sack worn by ladies at the present time, more open, displaying the throat and chest. It is generally made of bright-coloured calico.]

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

INDIAN COURTSHIP]

INDIAN COURTSHIP.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Show me a brighter scene
On our beautiful earth, or where fairies dream!

* * * * *

Tell me where, rocked by the billows high,
The sea-bird pierces the gorgeous sky,
Where the moonbeams rest on the ocean wave--
Where dies the sun o'er the crystal cave.
Where the bell sounds sweet o'er the desert sand,
Like matins that ring in a far-off land.
Where the mountain heaves with its angry voice,
And the lava speeds with its fiercest course;
Where the glaciers glance by the sunbeam's ray,
And the avalanche bursts with resistless sway.
Yet show me a brighter, a fairer scene
On our beautiful earth, or where spirits dream,
Than here! where the leaves of the large trees lave,
As their boughs are bent to the river's wave;
Than here! where night and the white stars come,
Their watch to keep o'er the Indian's home.

Now o'er the waters bright
Glides his canoe,
Throbbing his warrior heart,
Maiden! for you.
Roused from your dreamy sleep,
Bend low and list;
Not once has his well-known tread
Your loving heart missed.

Not far from the wigwam door
Rests he awhile--
But from far has he journeyed
To meet your bright smile.
He speaks to your heart
By the flute's slightest sound,
And its low notes are echoed
By that heart's wildest bound.

He knows if you love him
You'll surely come forth,
And modestly plight him
A maiden's pure troth.
Then come! he will talk
Of his sweet forest home,
Which you will make brighter;
Come! maiden, come!

You move not. Ah! woman,
He will not despair:
He has medicine tied
In the braids of his hair.
Love-medicine, bound
In the white deer's soft breast,
'Twill charm you at last
On his bosom to rest.

Should he wait for your coming
This fair night in vain,
No faint heart has he--
He will charm you again.
A spell he will cast
On your slight graceful form;
Then, wrapped in your blanket-robe,
Maiden, you'll come.

To your parents he'll presents give:
Bright things and new--
Ah! young wives are bought and sold
Among Indians too.
Then, from the mother's side
You will go forth,
The star of a warrior's home,
The light of his hearth.

Come! ere the morning star
Lures him away;
He must meet with the wise men
When breaks the blue day.
Your soft voice must greet him
Ere homeward he turn,
Then close to his throbbing heart
Come, maiden, come!

THE SACRIFICE.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Far away in one of the fair valleys of the West, where dark forests frown alike in summer, when the richly clad boughs wave to the passing breeze, and in winter, when the bare maple and thick evergreens are covered with snow,--far away, just on the borders of the valley, close by the huge rocks which rear their heads above the bluffs that hang over the water,--an Indian village, with its many-sized lodges rising here and there, reposed, as it were, without fear from storm, or the sun's heat, or the aggressions of enemies. Sometimes, indeed, the mighty thunder rolled angrily towards it, and the streaked lightning called over and over again, to the many hills around, to rouse up the tardy storm-spirits; but they loved not to linger here. Their voices could be heard in angry murmurs, then they would pass on in the river's course, with many a wild shout, to seek some spot less lovely on which to spend their wrath.

A very few miles below the village, an Indian might be seen, slowly paddling his canoe over the placid waters. The dark lines of his face were fixed in deep thought. His countenance was pale, though the hue of his race was there; his nostrils large, and quivering with the remains of passion; his eyes bright and lustrous, as if with fever; but around his mouth might be traced an expression which seemed to indicate that grief as well as passion was struggling with him. As he slowly touched with his paddle the passive waters, he looked around him with a bewildered air.

Suddenly, he started, as his eye fell upon something that lay in the bottom of the canoe; he raised it: 'twas the arrow of his child. How came it there? and why should the father, forgetting all, as he dropped unconsciously the paddle into the waters, cover his face with both his hands, and while the tears forced their way through his fingers, tremble with remembrances too strong even for him, the Iron Heart, to bear?

All was quiet and peace. Not a voice was heard; even nature's was still. No human eye looked upon the warrior as he wept. Silence and solitude surrounded him. The vast prairie that stretched abroad might have recalled to his mind the unending future, which he was to spend in the society of the honoured dead. The soft vapoury clouds of evening that hung over him, might have told him, as they have told many, that it is not far from the wretched to the land of spirits. The waters, on which his canoe rested almost motionless, might have called to his remembrance, that life was a sea, sometimes troubled and sometimes calm, over which the mortal must pass to reach immortality.

But no such tranquillizing thoughts calmed the tempest which was raging in his bosom; his bare chest heaved with emotion; but at length he raised his head, and taking another paddle from the bottom of his canoe in his right hand, with the other he threw the small arrow that had occasioned him so many painful thoughts, and watching till the waters closed over it, he made his way towards the bend in the river, where lowlands and prairies were no more to be seen, and an hour's time brought him in sight of the village, and soon he was clambering over the rocks towards it.

When he met his friends, there was a stern coldness in his manner, and he replied fiercely to the greeting salutations of his younger wives, and called for his daughter Wenona, whose mother had long since been dead, to prepare him some food.

Wenona obeyed with alacrity her father's commands, at the same time glancing uneasily towards her two step-mothers, whose smothered wrath she knew would break forth at some future time. They sat silent on the ground in seeming submission to the will that wrested from them their rights, in favour of the child of a dead rival; but those accustomed to read the writing on a woman's countenance, could see they were rebelliously inclined, but were forced to conceal their vexation under a calm demeanour.

It was in August, "the moon that corn is gathered." Wenona had during the long day paid the penalty of her father's love; she had toiled unceasingly, though the sun scorched her face and bosom; the watchful eyes of her father's wives were upon her, and when he was absent, they hardly allowed her a moment's rest. Her young companions wondered at the little spirit she showed; but Wenona was of a peace-making disposition, and preferred submission to contention. The large bundles of corn she had gathered during the day were hanging outside the wigwam to dry. Not even had she allowed herself time to join the other girls, who were diving at noon in the cool waters, and raising their heads up to call Wenona, looking like mermaids as the water flowed from their long, unbraided hair.

It was not long before she placed before Iron Heart his evening meal, venison and boiled corn--while her face was so good-humoured, and her motions so easy and graceful, that one would suppose the wrath of the evil spirits themselves would have been disarmed, much less the anger of those to whose children she so often sung sweet lullabies. Iron Heart did not relish his food; but tasting the venison, then lighting his pipe, he appeared lost to what passed before him: he often looked in Wenona's face, with a strange repentant look, as if he had done her an injury, but sought to conceal it in his own bosom.

After a while he rose, and joined a group of warriors, who were seated without the wigwam, Wenona following in his protecting shadow, out of the reach of complaint or reproof.

The group that Iron Heart joined was composed of the principal men of the band, who were listening to the words of one of their wisest men. No one interrupted him, as he boasted of the feathers he had won, as he told of the bears and buffaloes he had destroyed; no one showed impatience as he dwelt upon the time when he was young, and all admired his feats of valour and strength. Respect and attention were on every countenance, as the white hair of the old man was lifted from his brow by the evening breeze.

He told them they had long been at peace with the Chippeways; their young men were becoming like women, without the ennobling and exciting employment of war. That the edge of the tomahawk was blunted for want of use. He said the Chippeways had again intruded on their hunting-grounds, and it was time that the war-cry of the Dacotas should be heard, to show their enemies their power.

The old man, who had lived nearly a century, ceased speaking, and The Buffalo, who leaned against a tree near the others, turned towards them, as if he, too, would speak.

"My words are not good, like the words of the aged; my voice is low, like the sound of the waters in a small stream, but the wise speak, and the sound of the Father of many Waters is in your ears. But our brave men say they are at peace with the Chippeways: they promised they would bury the hatchet deeper than the roots of our tallest trees; they said we would live together like friends, and that the war-cry only should be heard when we joined together against our enemies."

The old man prepared to answer him: his limbs shook with rage and excitement; he raised his finger, and pointed towards The Buffalo, then, when the crimson blood dyed his cheeks, he said, "Shame on the coward who fears his enemies: go gather corn with the women, and the old and feeble man will die with his tomahawk raised against those who hate his nation."

In vain The Buffalo essayed to speak: they would not hear him; and he left the council amid the sneers of all.

War was decided upon; and night was fast approaching when Wenona, with pale and agitated looks, pressed forward among the warriors. "My father," said she, "where is my brother?"

Iron Heart started; but recovering himself, he replied, "I know not. Seek him yourself, if you would find him."

"I have sought him," she said, "but the old woman, Flying Cloud, tells me I may seek him no more, for she saw his body floating down the river, as she came up in her canoe. She laughed, too, and said I would see him one day in the land of spirits."

All looked towards Iron Heart, but he made his way among them, and returned to the wigwam. In vain Wenona wept, and besought him to go in search of her brother; not even would he inquire of Flying Cloud.

"I will go, then, and look for him myself," said the girl. "Is he not my brother, my mother's son?"

"Cease your noise," said her father, sternly. "If the Great Spirit have called my son, is he not already a brave warrior in the city of spirits?"

Wenona was quiet at her father's rebuke, but her heart was ill at ease. She hoped he would return in the night. She remembered that Flying Cloud was always bitter and ill-tempered; and besides, was not her brother at home on the water? Could he not swim as easily as he could tread down the grass on the prairie? She reasoned herself into the hope that Chaské had been tired, and had laid down to rest; and she fell asleep with the expectation that his merry voice would arouse her at break of day.

And how did he sleep in whose heart lay the secret of the death of his son? in whose ear was sounding the voice of that son's blood?

* * * * *

In vain might we seek to follow Wenona in her untiring search for her brother--she knew all his accustomed haunts--at one time making her way over rock and crag, to find out the eagle's home; at another, pushing her small canoe up the stream, where the beavers made their houses; weeping, yet hoping too.

Day after day passed thus: and ever as she returned to the village would Flying Cloud tell her she must go beyond the clouds to seek him.

Iron Heart neither assisted in the search for the boy, nor spoke of his loss. He was calm as usual: yet in the last four days he seemed to have lived as many years.

He employed himself sharpening the instruments he was soon to use against the Chippeways, while hanging near the medicine-sack, which was attached to a pole outside the wigwam, was a knife which glittered in the sun, which was only touched or moved by himself.

Days and weeks passed by: Wenona ceased to look for her brother, or hope for his return; yet still she wept. The heart of the motherless girl clung ever in thought to him who had been not only her companion, but her charge from his birth. She had taken him from her mother's bosom when dying; she had watched his childish sports, and sung to him the legends of her people. Could she have closed his eyes, and wept at his feet, her grief would not have been so hopeless. It often occurred to her that her father was not unacquainted with the circumstances of his death.

* * * * *

Strange and solemn was the secret of the death of the Indian boy. Dearly loved by his father, they stood together one day by the river's side. "Did you not say, my father," said the boy, "that we would go to the forest for the deer? Let us go now; my arrows are swift and strong, and to-morrow the girls will come and help us drag them in. Come, my father, your looks have been sad for many days, but you will laugh when you see the red deer fall as we strike them. The old woman, Flying Cloud," continued the boy, "says she knows what is going to happen to me. She says I will never go to war against the Chippeways; that my knife shall never sever the scalps from the head of my enemy; that my voice shall not be heard in the council, nor shall my wife ever stand at the door of her lodge to wait my coming. But I laughed at her: she is old and poor; she loves not the young and happy. See her now, my father, as she stands upon that high rock, waving her arms to me. What have you done to her that she hates you so? She says she has cast a spell upon our race."

"Flying Cloud is not of our clan, my son," replied Iron Heart; "her son died, and she says my mother caused his death. She says she cannot die till my mother is childless like herself. But come, before the night we must kill many deer."

"Is your knife sharp?" said the boy; "you know we must draw the skins off while they are warm. My sister will work our moccasins and leggins. She says she is never so happy as when she is sewing for me."

Shall we follow them--shall we penetrate the deep forests to see the father raise his knife to pierce from side to side the strong, healthy frame of his son!

Not in anger did he take the life that was dearer to him than his own. Was the burden of his sins lying heavily against his heart? Who shall tell his agony when he saw the blood flow! Who shall say how his soul was wrung with grief as the reproachful face of his much-loved child was turned towards him in death!

The wild deer flew past, but he saw them not. The serpent glided by as it did in Paradise, but its stealthy motion was unobserved. The sweet song-birds raised their notes to the sky, but they all fell unheeded on the ear of the father who had taken the life of his son.

Raising the form of the boy in his arms, he bore it carefully to the shore, and casting it where the current hurried impetuously on, the dead boy was borne along to share the lot of many who will rest in their ocean grave, till the land and the sea shall alike give up their dead.

When I reflect on the tradition of the Sioux, that once only has human life been offered in sacrifice, and then a father took the life of his son--when in the quiet night I mind me of those whose destiny seems now to be in our power for good or evil, I remember that when the world was new, Abraham, in holy faith, yet with a breaking heart, led his much-loved child--the child of hope and promise, to sacrifice his life in obedience to the command of God. Can you not see his lip quiver and his cheek turn pale as he lays him on the altar? Can you not hear the throbbings of his heart as he binds him to the wood?

Abraham's son was spared, but I mind me of another sacrifice, where God spared not his own Son, but yielded him, the pure and sinless, a sacrifice for the guilt of all.

A LULLABY.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Lo! by the river-shore Wenona weeping,
Lashed to its cradle-bed her young child sleeping,
While 'neath the forest trees the dead leaves lying,
Mournful, and sad, and low, the autumn winds are sighing.
Lists she to hear his footstep proud advancing?
Gazes, to see his tomahawk brightly glancing?
Watching the tossing waves, weary and lonely,
Faithful her breaking heart, loving him only.
Raising her drooping form, hearing her infant cry,
Pressing him to her breast, sings she a lullaby.

Sleep on, my warrior son!
Ne'er to his childhood's home,
Waiting our greeting smile,
Will thy brave father come.

Shouting the loud death-cry
With the grim warrior band,
Singing the giant's songs,
Dwells he in spirit land.
Turning from brave to brave,
See his keen eye
As he glances around him,
And smiles scornfully.

I knew when he left me,
(The strawberries grew
On the prairies green,
And the wild pigeon flew
Swift o'er the spirit lakes,)
Then o'er my heart
Came a dark shadow
Ne'er to depart.

I watched, from the door
Of my tupee,[18] the band
As they turned from their home
To the Chippeways' land.
I watched and I wept,
As thy father, the last
Of the many tall braves,
From my tearful gaze passed.

Wake not, my young son,
For thy father sleeps sound,
And his stiffened corse lies
On his enemy's ground.
Wake not, my brave child,
Thou wilt wrestle, too soon,
With the miseries of life,--
'Tis the red man's dark doom.

O'er the fate of the Indian
The Great Spirit has cast
The spell of the white man--
His glory is past.
Like the day that is dying
As fades the bright sun,
Like the warrior expiring
When the battle is done.

Soon no more will our warriors
Meet side by side,
To talk of their nation,
Its power and pride.
'Tis the white man who rules us
And tramples us down;
We are slaves, and must crouch
When our enemies frown.

Sleep on, my young son,
I'd fain have thee know
As the warrior departs
Did thy brave father go.
He feared not the white man,
While the Chippeway knew
He could boast when he scalped
The Dacota he slew.

Sleep on, to our desolate
Tupee we go;
Soon the winter winds come,
And the cold and the snow.
He is gone who would bring
To us covering warm,
Would supply us with food,
And would shield us from harm.

I have listened full oft,
As the white woman told
Of the city of life,
Where the bright waters rolled;
Where tears never come,
Where the night turns to day,--
I gladly would go there,
But know not the way.

Ah! ye who have taken
From the red man his lands,
Who have crushed his proud spirit,
And bound his strong hands;
If ye see our sad race
In ignorance bowed down,
And care not to see it,
Ye have hearts made of stone.

Sleep on, my young son,
For soon will we know
If to the heaven of the white man
The Dacota may go.
We are children of earth,
We must meekly toil on
'Till the Great Spirit call us,
My warrior son!

[Footnote 18: Tupee is the Dacota word for house or wigwam.]

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

SOUNDING WIND. The Chippewa Brave.]

SOUNDING WIND; OR, THE CHIPPEWAY BRAVE.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Hast thou mourned! oh mourn no longer:
Death is strong, but love is stronger.

The amnesties that have been made between the Sioux and Chippeways for many years have been of short duration: it appears now that the two nations will be friendly only when the lion and the lamb shall lie down together, should the two nations exist at that happy period. The sight of each other's blood is as precious to a Chippeway or Sioux as would be the secret of perpetual youth to an octogenarian, who eagerly grasps his tenure for life, loving, and fearing to lose it to the last. At the time of my story, a longer peace than usual had existed between the two nations. They hunted and danced, and even married together. Many a child, that had never trembled at hearing the war-whoop, wondered at the old men's stories, that invariably closed with the triumph of the Dacota tomahawk over the weaker blade of the enemy: but that child grew to be a man only to hate a Chippeway, as his father had done in youth; one offence had brought on another, and the slumbering spirit of vengeance that had reposed in the hearts of the red men was roused up, and with a double vengeance foe sought foe. In vain were the women and children hidden in the holes of the earth at night for safety; they were hunted out, as the starving wolf scents its prey: after the desperate fight was over, when the strong were laid low, then were the aged and the infants dragged from their hiding-places.

The red morning sun, parting the sullen clouds, hid again from the sight of the blood that was covering the ground, and dyeing the very stream where but yesterday the village belle, seated by its fair banks, listened to the words that every maiden loves to hear.

A sad scene was presented at the village of Gray Eyes: the old chief lay helpless among those who had obeyed his slightest word, the glaze of death dimming an eye that for more than eighty winters had watched the snow, as it drifted from vale to vale. Life had not yet departed: you could feel the pulse still flutter, and the heart faintly beat, but the thoughts of the chief were in spirit-land, and his soul hasted to burst its prison bars, that it might renew the combat where the Dacotas would aye be the victors.

A gleam of life and consciousness passed over his faded features, as an Indian girl advanced towards him: it was a child he dearly loved, soon to be left without a protector.

"My daughter," said the old man feebly, as the maiden threw herself on the ground beside him, and covered with her tears his cold hands; then raising herself, as she saw the wound still bleeding, she tore a piece from her okendokenda, and endeavoured to staunch it. "It is too late, my child; the soul of your father longs to join the warriors who live in the land of spirits. Where are your brothers?"

"There!" said the weeping girl, pointing to the dead bodies that lay across each other.

"And your mother?"

"There too," she answered; "all are gone, my father, but you and me. I knew how the rocks lay, and where I could hide myself, and there I stayed, hearing my mother's cries, and my brothers' shouts, as they died. I saw, too, the Chippeways, as they carried away the scalps. When you are gone what will become of me? Who will care for Wenona?"

"Not Wenona," said her father, "but 'The Lonely One.' That will be your name when you will have neither father nor brother left. But see," continued the old man, "our enemies' blood! Your brothers fought well: they have already passed the warriors' road to the City of Spirits."

His breath came quickly--big drops stood on his forehead--another struggle--a last sigh--and Wenona was indeed "the lonely one."

The attack of the night before had not been unexpected. The Sioux had placed pickets around their village, and a guard had been kept; but their enemies were too wily for them. The violent storm that raged during the battle was favourable to the Chippeways; they were upon the Sioux ere the watches had heard the slightest sound, except the wind, and the peals of thunder that shook the earth. Some escaped with their families from the lower end of the village, but almost all who remained to fight for their families were massacred with them.

While Wenona awaited the struggle, she was overcome with fear and excitement; but now she was as one without hope. The blow had been struck. Chippeway and Sioux had fallen in the death-struggle, locked in the embrace which bound foe to foe. She had given her heart's devoted love to one whom she must now consider as her enemy. Sounding Wind, a noble young Chippeway, handsome in person, and already favoured among his own people, had promised to take her to his wigwam when the two nations were at peace, though there were many then who foreboded the strife that would rend the ties of friendship between the nations. Even after hostilities had commenced, Sounding Wind had sworn to himself the woman he loved should be his wife, though every brave in the nation might stand between him and the accomplishment of his vow.

Wenona, as she rose from her father's body, gazing upon the scene of terror before her, looked like the flower beside her, which still reared its head, though its fair companions were all crushed to the earth by the storm of the night. Silence and death reigned here--nature was as tranquil as the hearts of her children. Near by swept the lake of the thousand isles: undisturbed were its waters; there was no requiem for the dead, even in the passing breeze.

"My heart weeps," murmured the girl; "but shall the bodies of my friends remain until night brings the wolves and hungry birds? Sounding Wind has forgotten the maiden who loves him. He told me our village should be safe; that he would talk like a wise man; that he would lead the Chippeways far away from us: that, as the little islands sleep peacefully in the lake through the long summer's day, so might I rest from fear for myself and for my friends.

"I will go alone and find our people, that they may come and help me bury our dead. Why should I fear, when all who have loved me are gone, and he who once loved me would take my life as he would pierce the deer on the prairie?"

Wearily she turned her steps, intending to go to the nearest village, avoiding the dead bodies at every step: yet her moccasins were red with blood, which, as she pursued her way, crimsoned the earth at her feet. The reverence that every Indian woman feels for all things connected with death, gave her courage to undertake the task before her. Every change in the scene brought with it some reminiscence: grief for the dead were connected with each, but there were thoughts of the living hard to bear.

_Here_ had she sat with her mother, working with porcupine quills gay garments for her brothers. _Here_ had she stood and watched the canoe of her lover; here had he given her the charm which she still wore about her neck: it was to secure her from any accident till she had left her friends, and until the gods that the Chippeways worshipped were hers.

She pursued her way; but as the waters became bright with the warm rays of the sun, and the pleasant breezes were wafted to the shore, a sense of oppression and fatigue overcame her.

In vain she essayed to rouse herself to the task before her: it was, indeed, in vain, for at last she threw herself under a large tree, and yielded to the repose which exhausted nature demanded. She slept on for hours as calmly as if she could only remember and look forward to joy. Bright eyes were glancing before her--laughter greeted her ears, she was a child again in her dreams, and passing over the gay waters with her boy lover by her side.

Sounding Wind, we have said, was already a man of consequence in his tribe; but he had refused to accompany the war-party of the preceding night, nor did he seek to hide his reasons. They had lived peaceably with the band that lived near the Lake of the Thousand Isles. While he was willing to resent the aggressions of the band that by treacherous acts had broken their faith, he would not assail those who had given them no cause of offence.

A better reason was in his heart: the love he bore to Wenona was strong, even stronger than death; and could he raise a murderous tomahawk against her family? He was anxious to know the result of the attack on the Sioux. He met the Chippeways as, taking the trail by the river, they were on their way home.

Shortly after he joined them, they seated themselves by the great tree whose branches sheltered Wenona. They were resting and eating. Sounding Wind stood by them: no one interfered with his gloomy mood--there was that in him that kept them in control. They were all silent, when suddenly a sigh of grief and fatigue was uttered near them. Startled by it, each warrior rose to his feet and grasped his knife and tomahawk. Sounding Wind sprung over the bushes that were between them and the spot from whence the sigh issued.

At his feet, just rousing from slumber, was the girl who was dearer to him than home or friends. One gleam of joy at seeing her again, one shade of terror at her probable fate, and the young man, placing himself between her and the Chippeways who had followed him, showed himself ready to protect her so long as his arm could wield the tomahawk that glistened in the sun.

"Come not towards her," he said to them, for they had recognised her by her dress, "she is my prisoner. I first touched her--I claim her before you all. I am your chief. I have led you against the Sacs and Foxes, and I will lead you against the Dacotas, who have become our enemies, but this girl's life shall be spared, for she is to be my wife.

"I have taken her prisoner: I shall spare her life. Am I not a Chippeway? and shall I forget my promise to her, to make her my wife?"

Wenona had covered her face with her hands, every moment expecting the blow that would terminate her sorrows; but no one offered to touch her. They were many and strong in the love of revenge. Sounding Wind was but one; but stronger than a host was the love that made him brave the stern spirits before him.

She arose at the bidding of her lover. She eat of their food, and pursued, without fear of harm, her journey to her new home. There, amid the struggles of the Sioux and Chippeways, she was ever safe. And happy, too, save when the remembrance of the fate of her family came between her and the bright visions that cheer and gladden even an Indian woman's home, when the love of her husband and children hallow it.

AN INDIAN BALLAD.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

"Take me away," said one they called the "Drooping Eye,"
"Bear me where stoops the deer to drink at eve."
She would behold the clouds of heaven float gently by,
And hear the birds' sweet song ere earth to leave.

Close is the wigwam,--oh! give her light and air;
Say, can her spirit wing itself for flight,
Losing the perfume borne from flowers fair,
As comes on them and her the gloom of night?

On them and her,--but they will bloom again,
When breaks the day on earth, by sleep spellbound,--
Refreshed by morning winds, or summer's rain,
Gilding with colours bright the dewy ground.