Part 11

Lake Pepin; by Hennepin called Lake of Tears--Called by the Dakotas Remnee-chah-Mday--Lake of the Mountains.

Pah hin--the porcupine--the quill of which are greatly prized for ornamental work.

From the tees rose the smoke of good cheer, curling blue through the tops of the maples, Near the foot of a cliff that arose, like the battle-scarred walls of a castle. Up-towering, in rugged repose, to a dizzy height over the waters.

But the man-wolf still followed his prey, and the step-mother ruled in the tepee; Her will must Winona obey, by the custom and law of Dakotas. The gifts to the teepee were brought --the blankets, and beads of the White men, And Winona, the orphaned, was bought by the crafty relentless Tamdóka. In the Spring-time of life, in the flush of the gladsome mid-May days of Summer, When the bobolink sang and the thrush, and the red robin chirped in the branches, To the tent of the brave must she go; she must kindle the fire in his tepee; She must sit in the lodge of her foe, as a slave at the feet of her master. Alas for her waiting! the wings of the East-wind have brought her no tidings; On the meadow the meadow-lark sings but sad is her song to Winona, For the glad warblers melody brings but the memory of voices departed.

The Day-Spirit walked in the west to his lodge in the land of the shadows; His shining face gleamed on the crest of the oak-hooded hills and the mountains, And the meadow-lark hied to her nest, and the mottled owl peeped from her cover. But hark! from the teepees a cry! Hear the shouts of the hurrying warriors! Are the steps of the enemy nigh, --of the crafty and creeping Ojibways? Nay; look on the dizzy cliff high! --on the brink of the cliff stands Winona! Her sad face up-turned to the sky. Hark! I hear the wild chant of her death-song:

My Father's Spirit, look down, look down-- From your hunting-grounds in the shining skies; Behold, for the light of my soul is gone,-- The light is gone and Winona dies.

I looked to the East, but I saw no star; The face of my White Chief was turned away. I harked for his footsteps in vain; afar His bark sailed over the Sunrise-sea.

Long have I watched till my heart is cold; In my breast it is heavy and cold as stone. No more shall Winona his face behold, And the robin that sang in her heart is gone.

Shall I sit at the feet of the treacherous brave? On his hateful couch shall Winona lie? Shall she kindle his fire like a coward slave? No!--a warrior's daughter can bravely die.

My Father's Spirit, look down, look down-- From your hunting-grounds in the shining skies; Behold, for the light of my soul is gone,-- The light is gone and Winona dies.

Swift the strong hunters clomb as she sang, and the foremost of all was Tamdóka; From crag to crag upward he sprang; like a panther he leaped to the summit. Too late! on the brave as he crept turned the maid in her scorn and defiance; Then swift from the dizzy height leaped. Like a brant arrow-pierced in mid-heaven. Down-whirling and fluttering she fell, and headlong plunged into the waters. Forever she sank mid the wail, and the wild lamentation of women. Her lone spirit evermore dwells in the depths of the Lake of the Mountains, And the lofty cliff evermore tells to the years as they pass her sad story. In the silence of sorrow the night o'er the earth spread her wide, sable pinions; And the stars hid their faces, and light on the lake fell the tears of the spirits. As her sad sisters watched on the shore for her spirit to rise from the waters, They heard the swift dip of an oar, and a boat they beheld like a shadow, Gliding down through the night in the gray, gloaming mists on the face of the waters. 'Twas the bark of DuLuth on his way from the Falls to the Games at Keóza.

The Dakotas say that the spirit of Winona forever haunts the lake. They say that it was many, many winters ago when Winona leaped from the rock--that the rock was then perpendicular to the water's edge and she leaped into the lake, but now the rock has worn away, or the water has receded, so that it does not reach the foot of the rock.

THE LEGEND OF THE FALLS.

Note: An-pe-tu Sa-pa--Clouded Day--was the name of the Dakota mother who committed suicide, as related in this legend, by plunging over the Falls of St. Anthony. Schoolcraft calls her "Ampata Sapa." Ampata is not Dakota. There are several versions of this legend, all agreeing in the main points.

(The numerals refer to notes in the Appendix.)

On the Spirit-Island sitting under midnight's misty moon, Lo I see the spirits flitting o'er the waters one by one! Slumber wraps the silent city, and the droning mills are dumb; One lone whippowil's shrill ditty calls her mate that ne'er will come. Sadly moans the mighty river, foaming down the fettered falls, Where of old he thundered ever o'er abrupt and lofty walls. Great Unktèhee --god of waters--lifts no more his mighty head;-- Fled he with the timid otters?--lies he in the cavern dead?

The small island of rock a few rods below the Falls, was called by the Dakotas Wanagee We-ta—-Spirit-Island. They say the spirit of Anpetu Sapa sits upon that island at night and pours forth her sorrow in song. They also say that from time out of mind, war-eagles nested on that island, until the advent of white men frightened them away. This seems to be true. Carver's Travels. London. 1778, p. 71.

Hark!--the waters hush their sighing, and the whippowil her call, Through the moon-lit mists are flying dusky shadows silent all. Lo from out the waters foaming--from the cavern deep and dread-- Through the glamour and the gloaming, comes a spirit of the dead. Sad she seems, her tresses raven on her tawny shoulders rest;

Sorrow on her brow is graven, in her arms a babe is pressed. Hark!--she chants the solemn story,--sings the legend sad and old, And the river wrapt in glory listens while the tale is told. Would you hear the legend olden, hearken while I tell the tale-- Shorn, alas, of many a golden, weird Dakota chant and wail.

THE LEGEND.

Tall was young Wanâta, stronger than Heyóka's giant form. Laughed at flood and fire and hunger, faced the fiercest winter storm. When Wakínyan flashed and thundered, when Unktéhee raved and roared, All but brave Wanâta wondered, and the gods with fear implored. When the war-whoop wild resounded, calling friends to meet the foe, From the teepee swift he bounded, armed with polished lance and bow.

In the battle's din and clangor fast his fatal arrows flew, Flashed his fiery eyes with anger,--many a haughty foe he slew. Hunter, swift was he and cunning, caught the beaver, slew the bear, Overtook the roebuck running, dragged the panther from his lair. Loved was he by many a maiden; many a dark eye glanced in vain; Many a heart with sighs was laden for the love it might not gain. So they called the brave "Ska Câpa"; but the fairest of the band-- Moon-faced, meek Anpétu-Sâpa--won the hunter's heart and hand.

Or Capa Ska--White beaver. White beavers are very rare, very cunning and hard to catch.

From the wars with triumph burning, from the chase of bison fleet, To his lodge the brave returning, spread his trophies at her feet. Love and joy sat in the tepee; him a black-eyed boy she bore; But alas, she lived to weep a love she lost forevermore. For the warriors chose Wanâta first Itâncan of the band. At the council-fire he sat a leader loved a chieftain grand. Proud was fair Anpétu-Sâpa, and her eyes were glad with joy; Proud was she and very happy, with her chieftain and her boy. But alas, the fatal honor that her brave Wanâta won, Brought a bitter woe upon her,--hid with clouds the summer sun For among the brave Dakotas, wives bring honor to the chief. On the vine-clad Minnesota's banks he met the Scarlet Leaf. Young and fair was Apè-dúta --full of craft and very fair; Proud she walked a queen of beauty with her wondrous flowing hair. In her net of hair she caught him--caught Wanâta with her wiles; All in vain his wife besought him--begged in vain his wonted smiles. Apè-dúta ruled the teepee--all Wanâta's smiles were hers; When the lodge was wrapped in sleep a star beheld the mother's tears. Long she strove to do her duty for the black-eyed babe she bore; But the proud, imperious beauty made her sad forevermore. Still she dressed the skins of beaver, bore the burdens, spread the fare; Patient ever, murmuring never, while her cheeks were creased with care.

E-tan-can--Chief.

A-pe--leaf,--duta--Scarlet,--Scarlet leaf.

Stars, the Dakotas say, are the faces of departed friends and relatives on earth.

In the moon Magâ-o-Kâda, twice an hundred years ago-- Ere the "Black Robe's" sacred shadow stalked the prairies' pathless snow Down the swollen, rushing river, in the sunset's golden hues, From the hunt of bear and beaver came the band in swift canoes. On the queen of fairy islands, on the Wita-Wâstè's shore, Camped Wanâta, on the highlands, just above the cataract's roar. Many braves were with Wanâta; Apè-dúta, too, was there, And the sad Anpétu-sâpa spread the lodge with wonted care. Then above the leafless prairie leaped the fat faced, laughing moon, And the stars--the spirits fairy--walked the welkin one by one. Swift and silent in the gloaming on the waste of waters blue, Speeding downward to the foaming, shot Wanâta's birch canoe, In it stood Anpétu-sâpa--in her arms her sleeping child; Like a wailing Norse-land drapa rose her death-song weird and wild: