Part 3

Mah-pí-ya Dú-ta the tall Red Cloud, A hunter swift and a warrior proud, With many a scar and many a feather, Was a suitor bold and a lover fond. Long had he courted Wiwâstè's father, Long had he sued for the maiden's hand. Aye, brave and proud was the tall Red Cloud, A peerless son of a giant race, And the eyes of the panther were set in his face. He strode like a stag, and he stood like a pine: Ten feathers he wore of the great Wanmdeè; With crimsoned quills of the porcupine His leggins were worked to his brawny knee. The bow he bent was a giant's bow; The swift red elk could he overtake, And the necklace that girdled his brawny neck Was the polished claws of the great Mató He grappled and slew in the northern snow.

Wiwâstè looked on the warrior tall; She saw he was brawny and brave and great, But the eyes of the panther she could but hate, And a brave Hóhé loved she better than all. Loved was Mahpíya by Hârpstinà, But the warrior she never could charm or draw; And bitter indeed was her secret hate For the maiden she reckoned so fortunate.

HEYÓKA WACÍPEE --THE GIANT'S DANCE.

The night-sun sails in his gold canoe, The spirits walk in the realms of air With their glowing faces and flaming hair, And the shrill, chill winds o'er the prairies blow. In the Tee of the Council the Virgins light The Virgin-fire for the feast to-night; For the Sons of Heyóka will celebrate The sacred dance to the giant great. The kettle boils on the blazing fire, And the flesh is done to the chief's desire. With his stoic face to sacred East, He takes his seat at the Giant's Feast.

For the feast of Heyóka the braves are dressed With crowns from the bark of the white-birch trees, And new skin leggins that reach the knees; With robes of the bison and swarthy bear, And eagle-plumes in their coal-black hair, And marvelous rings in their tawny ears, Which were pierced with the points of their shining spears. To honor Heyóka, Wakâwa lifts His fuming pipe from the Red-stone Quarry. The warriors follow. The white cloud drifts From the Council-lodge to the welkin starry, Like a fog at morn on the fir-clad hill, When the meadows are damp and the winds are still.

They dance to the tune of their wild "Ha-ha!" A warrior's shout and a raven's caw-- Circling the pot and the blaming fire To the tom-tom's bray and the rude bassoon; Round and round to their heart's desire, And ever the same wild chant and tune-- A warrior's shout and a raven's caw-- "Ha-ha,--ha-ha,--ha-ha,--ha!" They crouch, they leap, and their burning eyes Flash fierce in the light of the flaming fire, As fiercer and fiercer and higher and higher The rude, wild notes of their chant arise. They cease, they sit, and the curling smoke Ascends again from their polished pipes, And upward curls from their swarthy lips To the God whose favor their hearts invoke.

Then tall Wakâwa arose and said: "Brave warriors, listen, and give due heed. Great is Heyóka, the magical god; He can walk on the air; he can float on the flood. He's a worker of magic and wonderful wise; He cries when he laughs and he laughs when he cries; He sweats when he's cold, and he shivers when hot, And the water is cold in his boiling pot. He hides in the earth and he walks in disguise, But he loves the brave and their sacrifice. We are sons of Heyóka. The Giant commands In the boiling water to thrust our hands; And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire Heyóka will crown with his hearts desire."

They thrust their hands in the boiling pot; They swallow the bison meat steaming hot, Not a wince on their stoical faces bold. For the meat and the water, they say, are cold, And great is Heyóka and wonderful wise; He floats on the flood and he walks in the skies, And ever appears in a strange disguise; But he loves the brave and their sacrifice; And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire Heyóka will crown with his heart's desire.

Proud was the chief of his warriors proud, The sinewy sons of the Giant's race; But the bravest of all was the tall Red Cloud; The eyes of the panther were set in his face; He strode like a stag and he stood like a pine; Ten feathers he wore at the great Wanmdeé; With crimsoned quills of the porcupine His leggins were worked to his brawny knee. Blood-red were the stripes on his swarthy cheek, And the necklace that girdled his brawny neck Was the polished claws of the great Mató He grappled and slew in the northern snow.

Proud Red Cloud turned to the braves and said, As he shook the plumes on his haughty head:

"Ho! the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire Heyóka will crown with his heart's desire!" He snatched from the embers a red-hot brand, And held it aloft in his naked hand. He stood like a statue in bronze or stone,-- Not a muscle moved, and the braves looked on. He turned to the chieftain,--"I scorn the fire,-- Ten feathers I wear of the great Wanmdeé; Then grant me, Wakâwa, my heart's desire; Let the sunlight shine in my lonely tee. I laugh at red death and I laugh at red fire; Brave Red Cloud is only afraid of fear; But Wiwâstè is fair to his heart and dear; Then grant him, Wakâwa, his heart's desire."

The warriors applauded with loud "Ho! Ho!" And he flung the brand to the drifting snow. Three times Wakâwa puffed forth the smoke From his silent lips; then he slowly spoke: "Mâhpíya is strong as the stout-armed oak That stands on the bluff by the windy plain, And laughs at the roar of the hurricane. He has slain the foe and the great Mató With his hissing arrow and deadly stroke. My heart is swift but my tongue is slow. Let the warrior come to my lodge and smoke; He may bring the gifts; but the timid doe May fly from the hunter and say him no."

Wiwâstè sat late in the lodge alone, Her dark eyes bent on the glowing fire. She heard not the wild winds shrill and moan; She heard not the tall elms toss and groan; Her face was lit like the harvest moon; For her thoughts flew far to her heart's desire. Far away in the land of the Hóhé dwelt The warrior she held in her secret heart; But little he dreamed of the pain she felt, For she hid her love with a maiden's art. Not a tear she shed, not a word she said, When the fair young chief from the lodge departed; But she sat on the mound when the day was dead, And gazed at the full moon mellow hearted. Fair was the chief as the morning-star; His eyes were mild and his words were low, But his heart was stouter than lance or bow; And her young heart flew to her love afar O'er his trail long covered with drifted snow. But she heard a warrior's stealthy tread, And the tall Wakâwa appeared, and said-- "Is Wiwâstè afraid of the spirit dread That fires the sky in the fatal north? Behold the mysterious lights. Come forth Some evil threatens,--some danger nears, For the skies are pierced with the burning spears."

The warriors rally beneath the moon; They shoot their shafts at the evil spirit. The spirit is slain and the flame is gone, And his blood lies red on the snow fields near it. But again from the dead will the spirit rise, And flash his spears in the northern skies.

Then the chief and the queenly Wiwâstè stood Alone in the moon-lit solitude, And she was silent and he was grave. "And fears not my daughter the evil spirit? The strongest warriors and bravest fear it The burning spears are an evil omen; They threaten the wrath of a wicked woman, Or a treacherous foe; but my warriors brave, When danger nears, or the foe appears, Are a cloud of arrows,--a grove of spears."

"My Father," she said, and her words were low, "Why should I fear? for I soon will go To the broad, blue lodge in the Spirit land, Where my dark eyed mother went long ago, And my dear twin sisters walk hand in hand. My Father, listen,--my words are true," And sad was her voice as the whippowil When she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill, "Wiwâstè lingers alone with you, The rest are sleeping on yonder hill,-- Save one--and he an undutiful son,-- And you, my Father, will sit alone When Sisóka sings and the snow is gone. I sat, when the maple leaves were red, By the foaming falls of the haunted river; The night sun was walking above my head, And the arrows shone in his burnished quiver; And the winds were hushed and the hour was dread With the walking ghosts of the silent dead. I heard the voice of the Water-Fairy; I saw her form in the moon-lit mist, As she sat on a stone with her burden weary, By the foaming eddies of amethyst. And robed in her mantle of mist the sprite Her low wail poured on the silent night. Then the spirit spake, and the floods were still-- They hushed and listened to what she said, And hushed was the plaint of the whippowil In the silver-birches above her head: 'Wiwâstè,--the prairies are green and fair, When the robin sings and the whippowil; But the land of the Spirits is fairer still, For the winds of winter blow never there; And forever the songs of the whippowils And the robins are heard on the leafy hills. Thy mother looks from her lodge above,-- Her fair face shines in the sky afar, And the eyes of thy sisters are bright with love, As they peep from the tee of the mother-star. To her happy lodge in the spirit-land She beckons Wiwâstè with shining hand.'

"My Father,--my Father, her words were true; And the death of Wiwâstè will rest on you. You have pledged me as wife to the tall Red Cloud; You will take the gifts of the warrior proud; But I, Wakâwa,--I answer--never! I will stain your knife in my heart's red blood, I will plunge and sink in the sullen river, Ere I will be wife to the fierce Red Cloud!"

"Wiwâstè," he said, and his voice was low, "Let it be as you will, for Wakâwa's tongue Has spoken no promise;--his lips are slow, And the love of a father is deep and strong. Be happy, Micúnksee , the flames are gone,-- They flash no more in the Northern sky. See the smile on the face of the watching moon; No more will the fatal red arrows fly; For the singing shafts of my warriors sped To the bad spirit's bosom and laid him dead, And his blood on the snow of the North lies red. Go,--sleep in the robe that you won to-day, And dream of your hunter--the brave Chaskè."

Light was her heart as she turned away; It sang like the lark in the skies of May. The round moon laughed, but a lone red star, As she turned to the teepee and entered in, Fell flashing and swift in the sky afar, Like the polished point of a javelin. Nor chief nor daughter the shadow saw Of the crouching listener--Hârpstinà.

Wiwâstè, wrapped in her robe and sleep Heard not the storm-sprites wail and weep, As they rode on the winds in the frosty air; But she heard the voice of her hunter fair; For a shadowy spirit with fairy fingers The curtains drew from the land of dreams; And lo in her teepee her lover lingers; The light of love in his dark eye beams, And his voice is the music of mountain streams.

And then with her round, brown arms she pressed His phantom form to her throbbing breast, And whispered the name, in her happy sleep, Of her Hóhé hunter so fair and far. And then she saw in her dreams the deep Where the spirit wailed, and a falling star; Then stealthily crouching under the trees, By the light of the moon, the Kan-ó-ti-dan, The little, wizened, mysterious man, With his long locks tossed by the moaning breeze. Then a flap of wings, like a thunder-bird, And a wailing spirit the sleeper heard; And lo, through the mists of the moon, she saw The hateful visage of Hârpstinà.

But waking she murmured--"And what are these-- The flap of wings and the falling star, The wailing spirit that's never at ease, The little man crouching under the trees, And the hateful visage of Hârpstinà? My dreams are like feathers that float on the breeze, And none can tell what the omens are-- Save the beautiful dream of my love afar In the happy land of the tall Hóhé -- My beautiful hunter--my brave Chaskè."

"Ta-tânka! Ta-tânka!" the hunters cried, With a joyous shout at the break of dawn; And darkly lined on the white hill-side, A herd of bison went marching on Through the drifted snow like a caravan. Swift to their ponies the hunters sped, And dashed away on the hurried chase. The wild steeds scented the game ahead, And sprang like hounds to the eager race. But the brawny bulls in the swarthy van Turned their polished horns to the charging foes, And reckless rider and fleet foot-man Were held at bay in the drifted snows, While the bellowing herd o'er the hill-tops ran, Like the frightened beasts of a caravan On the Sahara's sands when the simoon blows. Sharp were the twangs of the hunters' bows, And swift and humming the arrows sped, Till ten huge bulls on the bloody snows Lay pierced with arrows and dumb and dead. But the chief with the flankers had gained the rear, And flew on the trail of the flying herd. The shouts of the riders rang loud and clear, As their frothing steeds to the chase they spurred. And now like the roar of an avalanche Rolls the sullen wrath of the maddened bulls. They charge on the riders and runners stanch, And a dying steed in the snow-drift rolls, While the rider, flung to the frozen ground Escapes the horns by a panther's bound. But the raging monsters are held at bay, While the flankers dash on the swarthy rout. With lance and arrow they slay and slay; And the welkin rings to the gladsome shout-- To the loud Inâs and the wild Ihós, -- And dark and dead, on the bloody snows, Lie the swarthy heaps of the buffaloes.

All snug in the teepee Wiwâstè lay, All wrapped in her robe, at the dawn of day,-- All snug and warm from the wind and snow, While the hunters followed the buffalo. Her dreams and her slumber their wild shouts broke; The chase was afoot when the maid awoke; She heard the twangs of the hunter's bows, And the bellowing bulls and the loud Ihós, And she murmured--"My hunter is far away In the happy land of the tall Hóhé-- My beautiful hunter, my brave Chaskè; But the robins will come and my warrior too, And Wiwâstè will find her a way to woo."

And long she lay in a reverie, And dreamed, wide-awake, of her brave Chaskè, Till a trampling of feet on the crispy snow She heard, and the murmur of voices low;-- Then the hunters' greeting--Ihó! Ihó! And behold, in the blaze of the risen day, With the hunters that followed the buffalo,-- Came her beautiful hunter--her brave Chaskè. Far south has he followed the bison-trail With his band of warriors so brave and true. Right glad is Wakâwa his friend to hail, And Wiwâstè will find her a way to woo.

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

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

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