Part 5

Anon, to her loitering mate she cries "Flip, O Will!--trip, O Will!--skip, O Will!" And her merry mate from afar replies: "Flip I will,--skip I will,--trip I will;" And away on the wings of the wind he flies. And bright from her lodge in the skies afar Peeps the glowing face of the Virgin Star. The fox pups creep from the mother's lair And leap in the light of the rising moon; And loud on the luminous moonlit lake Shrill the bugle notes of the lover loon; And woods and waters and welkin break Into jubilant song,--it is joyful June.

But where is Wiwâstè? O where is she-- The Virgin avenged--the queenly queen-- The womanly woman--the heroine? Has she gone to the spirits and can it be That her beautiful face is the Virgin Star Peeping out from the door of her lodge afar, Or upward sailing the silver sea. Star-beaconed and lit like an avenue, In the shining stern of her gold canoe? No tidings came--nor the brave Chaskè: O, why did the lover so long delay? He promised to come with the robins in May, With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; But the fair May mornings have slipped away, And where is the lover--the brave Chaskè?

But what of the venomous Hârpstinà-- The serpent that tempted the proud Red Cloud, And kindled revenge in his savage soul? He paid for his crime with his false heart's blood, But his angry spirit has brought her dole; It has entered her breast and her burning head, And she raves and burns on her fevered bed. "He is dead! He is dead!" is her wailing cry. "And the blame is mine,--it was I,--it was I! I hated Wiwâstè, for she was fair, And my brave was caught in her net of hair. I turned his love to a bitter hate; I nourished revenge, and I pricked his pride; Till the Feast of the Virgins I bade him wait. He had his revenge, but he died,--he died! And the blame is mine,--it was I,--it was I! And his spirit burns me, I die,--I die!" Thus, alone in her lodge and her agonies, She wails to the winds of the night, and dies.

But where is Wiwâstè? Her swift feet flew To the somber shades of the tangled thicket. She hid in the copse like a wary cricket, And the fleetest hunters in vain pursue. Seeing unseen from her hiding place, She sees them fly on the hurried chase; She sees their fierce eyes glance and dart, As they pass and peer for a track or trace, And she trembles with fear in the copse apart. Lest her nest be betrayed by her throbbing heart.

Weary the hours; but the sun at last Went down to his lodge in the west, and fast The wings of the spirits of night were spread O'er the darkling woods and Wiwâstè's head. Then, slyly she slipped from her snug retreat, And guiding her course by Wazíya's star, That shone through the shadowy forms afar, She northward hurried with silent feet; And long ere the sky was aflame in the east, She was leagues from the place of the fatal feast. 'Twas the hoot of the owl that the hunters heard, And the scattering drops of the threat'ning shower, And the far wolf's cry to the moon preferred. Their ears were their fancies,--the scene was weird, And the witches dance at the midnight hour. She leaped the brook and she swam the river; Her course through the forest Wiwâstè wist By the star that gleamed through the glimmering mist That fell from the dim moon's downy quiver. In her heart she spoke to her spirit-mother: "Look down from your teepee, O starry spirit. The cry of Wiwâstè, O mother, hear it; And touch the heart of my cruel father. He hearkened not to a virgin's words; He listened not to a daughter's wail. O give me the wings of the thunder-birds, For his were-wolves follow Wiwâstè's trail; O, guide my flight to the far Hóhé-- The sheltering lodge of my brave Chaskè."

The shadows paled in the hazy east, And the light of the kindling morn increased. The pale-faced stars fled one by one, And hid in the vast from the rising sun. From woods and waters and welkin soon Fled the hovering mists of the vanished moon. The young robins chirped in their feathery beds, The loon's song shrilled like a winding horn, And the green hills lifted their dewy heads To greet the god of the rising morn.

She reached the rim of the rolling prairie-- The boundless ocean of solitude; She hid in the feathery hazel wood, For her heart was sick and her feet were weary; She fain would rest, and she needed food. Alone by the billowy, boundless prairies, She plucked the cones of the scarlet berries; In feathering copse and the grassy field She found the bulbs of the young Tipsânna, And the sweet medó that the meadows yield. With the precious gift of his priceless manna God fed his fainting and famished child.

At night again to the northward far She followed the torch of Wazíya's star. For leagues away o'er the prairies green, On the billowy vast, may a man be seen, When the sun is high and the stars are low; And the sable breast of the strutting crow Looms up like the form of the buffalo. The Bloody River she reached at last, And boldly walked in the light of day, On the level plain of the valley vast; Nor thought of the terrible Chippeway. She was safe from the wolves of her father's band, But she trode on the treacherous "Bloody Land." And lo--from afar o'er the level plain-- As far as the sails of a ship at sea May be seen as they lift from the rolling main-- A band of warriors rode rapidly. She shadowed her eyes with her sun browned hand; All backward streamed on the wind her hair, And terror spread o'er her visage fair, As she bent her brow to the far off band. For she thought of the terrible Chippeway-- The fiends that the babe and the mother slay; And yonder they came in their war-array! She hid like a grouse in the meadow-grass, And moaned--"I am lost!--I am lost! alas; And why did I fly my native land To die by the cruel Ojibway's hand?" And on rode the braves. She could hear the steeds Come galloping on o'er the level meads; And lowly she crouched in the waving grass, And hoped against hope that the braves would pass.

They have passed, she is safe,--she is safe! Ah, no, They have struck her trail and the hunters halt. Like wolves on the track of the bleeding doe, That grappled breaks from the dread assault, Dash the warriors wild on Wiwâstè's trail. She flies,--but what can her flight avail? Her feet are fleet, but the flying feet Of the steeds of the prairie are fleeter still; And where can she fly for a safe retreat?

But hark to the shouting:--"Ihó!--Ihó!" Rings over the wide plain sharp and shrill. She halts, and the hunters come riding on; But the horrible fear from her heart is gone, For it is not the shout of the dreaded foe; 'Tis the welcome shout of her native land!

Up galloped the chief of the band, and lo-- The clutched knife dropped from her trembling hand; She uttered a cry and she swooned away; For there; on his steed in the blaze of day, On the boundless prairie, so far away, With his burnished lance and his feathers gay, Sat the manly form of her own Chaskè!

There's a mote in my eye or a blot on the page, And I cannot tell of the joyful greeting; You may take it for granted and I will engage, There were kisses and tears at the strange, glad meeting; For aye since the birth of the swift-winged years, In the desert drear, in the field of clover, In the cot, and the palace, and all the world over,-- Yea, away on the stars to the ultimate spheres, The language of love to the long sought lover,-- Is tears and kisses and kisses and tears.

But why did the lover so long delay? And whitherward rideth the chief to-day? As he followed the trail of the buffalo, From the tees of Kapóza a maiden, lo, Came running in haste o'er the drifted snow. She spoke to the chief of the tall Hóhé: "Wiwâstè requests that the brave Chaskè Will abide with his band and his coming delay 'Till the moon when the strawberries are ripe and red, And then will the chief and Wiwâstè wed-- When the Feast of the Virgins is past," she said. Wiwâstè's wish was her lover's law; And so his coming the chief delayed Till the mid-May blossoms should bloom and fade,-- But the lying runner was Hârpstinà. And now with the gifts for the bridal day And his chosen warriors he took his way, And followed his heart to his moon-faced maid, And thus was the lover so long delayed; And so as he rode with his warriors gay, On that bright and beautiful summer day, His bride he met on the trail mid-way, By the haunts of the treacherous Chippeway.

God arms the innocent. He is there-- In the desert vast, in the wilderness, On the bellowing sea, in the lion's lair, In the midst of battle, and everywhere. In his hand he holds with a father's care The tender hearts of the motherless; The maid and the mother in sore distress He shields with his love and his tenderness; He comforts the widowed--the comfortless, And sweetens her chalice of bitterness; He clothes the naked--the numberless,-- His charity covers their nakedness,-- And he feeds the famished and fatherless With the hand that feedeth the birds of air. Let the myriad tongues of the earth confess His infinite love and his holiness; For his pity pities the pitiless, His wayward children his bounties bless, And his mercy flows to the merciless; And the countless worlds in the realms above, Revolve in the light of his boundless love.

And what of the lovers? you ask, I trow. She told him all ere the sun was low,-- Why she fled from the Feast to a safe retreat. She laid her heart at her lover's feet, And her words were tears and her lips were slow. As she sadly related the bitter tale His face was aflame and anon grew pale, And his dark eyes flashed with a brave desire, Like the midnight gleam of the sacred fire. "Mitâwin," he said, and his voice was low, "Thy father no more is the false Little Crow; But the fairest plume shall Wiwâstè wear Of the great Wanmdeè in her midnight hair. In my lodge, in the land of the tall Hóhé, The robins will sing all the long summer day To the beautiful bride of the brave Chaskè."

Aye, love is tested by stress and trial Since the finger of time on the endless dial Began its rounds, and the orbs to move In the boundless vast, and the sunbeams clove The chaos; but only by fate's denial Are fathomed the fathomless depths of love. Man is the rugged and wrinkled oak, And woman the trusting and tender vine-- That clasps and climbs till its arms entwine The brawny arms of the sturdy stoke. The dimpled babes are the flowers divine That the blessing of God on the vine and oak With their cooing and blossoming lips invoke.

To the pleasant land of the brave Hóhé Wiwâstè rode with her proud Chaskè. She ruled like a queen in his bountiful tee, And the life of the twain was a jubilee. Their wee ones climbed on the father's knee, And played with his plumes of the great Wanmdeè. The silken threads of the happy years They wove into beautiful robes of love That the spirits wear in the lodge above; And time from the reel of the rolling spheres His silver threads with the raven wove; But never the stain of a mother's tears Soiled the shining web of their happy years.

When the wrinkled mask of the years they wore, And the raven hair of their youth was gray, Their love grew deeper, and more and more; For he was a lover for aye and aye, And ever her beautiful, brave Chaskè. Through the wrinkled mask of the hoary years To the loving eyes of the lover aye The blossom of beautiful youth appears.

At last, when their locks were as white as snow, Beloved and honored by all the band, They silently slipped from their lodge below, And walked together, and hand in hand, O'er the Shining Path to the Spirit-land; Where the hills and the meadows for aye and aye Are clad with the verdure and flowers of May, And the unsown prairies of Paradise Yield the golden maize and the sweet wild rice. There ever ripe in the groves and prairies Hang the purple plums and the luscious berries. And the swarthy herds of bison feed On the sun-lit slope and the waving mead; The dappled fawns from their coverts peep, And countless flocks on the waters sleep; And the silent years with their fingers trace No furrows for aye on the hunter's face.

WINONA.

When the meadow-lark trilled o'er the leas and the oriole piped in the maples, From my hammock, all under the trees, by the sweet scented field of red-clover, I harked to the hum of the bees, as they gathered the mead of the blossoms, And caught from their low melodies the rhythm of the song of Winona.

(In pronouncing Dakota words give "a" the sound of "ah,"--"e" the sound of "a,"--"i" the sound of "e" and "u" the sound of "oo." Sound "ee" the same as in English. The numerals 1-2 etc. refer to notes in the appendix).

Two hundred white Winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer, Since here on the oak shaded shore of the dark winding swift Mississippi, Where his foaming floods tumble and roar, on the falls and white rolling rapids, In the fair, fabled center of Earth, sat the Indian town of Ka-thá-ga. Far rolling away to the north, and the south, lay the emerald prairies, Alternate with woodlands and lakes, and above them the blue vast of ether. And here where the dark river breaks into spray and the roar of the Ha-Ha, Were gathered the bison-skin tees of the chief tawny tribe of Dakotas; For here, in the blast and the breeze, flew the flag of the chief of Isantees, Up-raised on the stem of a lance --the feathery flag of the eagle. And here to the feast and the dance, from the prairies remote and the forests, Oft gathered the out-lying bands, and honored the gods of the nation. On the islands and murmuring strands they danced to the god of the waters, Unktéhee, who dwelt in the caves deep under the flood of the Ha-Ha; And high o'er the eddies and waves hung their offerings of fur and tobacco. And here to the Master of life --Anpé-tu-wee, god of the heavens, Chief, warrior, and maiden, and wife, burned the sacred green sprigs of the cedar. And here to the Searcher-of-hearts --fierce Tá-ku Skan-skán, the avenger, Who dwells in the uttermost parts --in the earth and the blue, starry ether, Ever watching, with all-seeing eyes, the deeds of the wives and the warriors, As an osprey afar in the skies, sees the fish as they swim in the waters, Oft spread they the bison-tongue feast, and singing preferred their petitions, Till the Day-Spirit rose in the East --in the red, rosy robes of the morning, To sail o'er the sea of the skies, to his lodge in the land of the shadows, Where the black winged tornadoes arise --rushing loud from the mouths of their caverns. And here with a shudder they heard, flying far from his tee in the mountains, Wa-kin-yan, the huge Thunder-Bird, --with the arrows of fire in his talons.

See Hennepin's Description of Louisiana by Shea pp 243 and 256. Parkman's Discovery p. 246--and Carver's Travels, p. 67

The Dakotas like the ancient Romans and Greeks think the home of the winds is in the caverns of the mountains, and their great Thunder bird resembles in many respects the Jupiter of the Romans and the Zeus of the Greeks. The resemblance of the Dakota mythology to that of the older Greeks and Romans is striking.

Two hundred white Winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer, Since here by the cataract's roar, in the moon of the red blooming lilies, In the tee of Ta-té-psin was born Winona --wild-rose of the prairies. Like the summer sun peeping, at morn, o'er the hills was the face of Winona; And here she grew up like a queen --a romping and lily-lipped laughter, And danced on the undulant green, and played in the frolicsome waters, Where the foaming tide tumbles and twirls o'er the murmuring rocks in the rapids; And whiter than foam were the pearls that gleamed in the midst of her laughter. Long and dark was her flowing hair flung, like the robe of the night to the breezes; And gay as the robin she sung, or the gold-breasted lark of the meadows. Like the wings of the wind were her feet, and as sure as the feet of Ta-tó-ka; And oft like an antelope fleet o'er the hills and the prairies she bounded, Lightly laughing in sport as she ran, and looking back over her shoulder, At the fleet footed maiden or man, that vainly her flying steps followed. The belle of the village was she, and the pride of the aged Ta-té-psin, Like a sunbeam she lighted his tee, and gladdened the heart of her father.

Ta te--Wind, Psin--Wild Rice,--wild rice wind.

The Mountain Antelope.