Part 6

In the golden hued Wázu-pe-weé --the moon when the wild rice is gathered; When the leaves on the tall sugar-tree are as red as the breast of the robin, And the red-oaks that border the lea are aflame with the fire of the sunset, From the wide waving fields of wild-rice --from the meadows of Psin-ta-wak-pá-dan, Where the geese and the mallards rejoice, and grow fat on the bountiful harvest, Came the hunters with saddles of moose and the flesh of the bear and the bison, And the women in birchen canoes well laden with rice from the meadows, With the tall, dusky hunters, behold, came a marvelous man or a spirit, White-faced and so wrinkled and old, and clad in the robe of the raven. Unsteady his steps were and slow, and he walked with a staff in his right hand, And white as the first-falling snow were the thin locks that lay on his shoulders. Like rime-covered moss hung his beard, flowing down from his face to his girdle; And wan was his aspect and weird; and often he chanted and mumbled In a strange and mysterious tongue, as he bent o'er his book in devotion. Or lifted his dim eyes and sung, in a low voice, the solemn "Te Deum." Or Latin, or Hebrew, or Greek --all the same were his words to the warriors,-- All the same to the maids and the meek, wide-wondering-eyed, hazel-brown children.

Little Rice River. It bears the name of Rice Creek to-day and empties into the Mississippi from the east, a few miles above Minneapolis.

Father Renè Menard --it was he, long lost to his Jesuit brothers, Sent forth by an holy decree to carry the Cross to the heathen. In his old age abandoned to die, in the swamps, by his timid companions, He prayed to the Virgin on high, and she led him forth from the forest; For angels she sent him as men --in the forms of the tawny Dakotas, And they led his feet from the fen, --from the slough of despond and the desert. Half-dead in a dismal morass, as they followed the red-deer they found him, In the midst of the mire and the grass, and mumbling "Te Deum laudamus." "Unktómee --Ho!" muttered the braves, for they deemed him the black Spider-Spirit That dwells in the drearisome caves, and walks on the marshes at midnight, With a flickering torch in his hand, to decoy to his den the unwary. His tongue could they not understand, but his torn hands all shriveled with famine, He stretched to the hunters and said: "He feedeth his chosen with manna; And ye are the angels of God, sent to save me from death in the desert." His famished and woe-begone face, and his tones touched the hearts of the hunters; They fed the poor father apace, and they led him away to Ka-thá-ga.

See the account of Father Menard, his mission and disappearance in the wilderness, etc. Neill's Hist. Minnesota, pp 104 to 107 inc.

There little by little he learned the tongue of the tawny Dakotas; And the heart of the good father yearned to lead them away from their idols-- Their giants and dread Thunder-birds --their worship of stones and the devil. "Wakán-de!" they answered his words, for he read from his book in the Latin, Lest the Nazarene's holy commands by his tongue should be marred in translation; And oft with his beads in his hands, or the cross and the crucified Jesus, He knelt by himself on the sands, and his dim eyes uplifted to heaven. But the braves bade him look to the East --to the silvery lodge of Han-nán-na; And to dance with the chiefs at the feast --at the feast of the Giant Heyó-ka. They frowned when the good father spurned the flesh of the dog in the kettle, And laughed when his fingers were burned in the hot, boiling pot of the giant. "The Blackrobe" they called the poor priest, from the hue of his robe and his girdle; And never a game or a feast but the father must grace with his presence. His prayer book the hunters revered, --they deemed it a marvelous spirit; It spoke and the white father heard, --it interpreted visions and omens. And often they bade him to pray this marvelous spirit to answer, And tell where the sly Chippeway might be ambushed and slain in his forests. For Menard was the first in the land, proclaiming, like John in the desert-- "The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand; repent ye, and turn from your idols."-- The first of the brave brotherhood that, threading the fens and the forest, Stood afar by the turbulent flood at the falls of the Father of Waters.

It is wonderful.

The morning.

In the lodge of the Stranger he sat awaiting the crown of a martyr; His sad face compassion begat in the heart of the dark eyed Winona. Oft she came to the teepee and spoke; she brought him the tongue of the bison, Sweet nuts from the hazel and oak, and flesh of the fawn and the mallard. Soft hánpa she made for his feet and leggins of velvety fawn-skin,-- A blanket of beaver complete, and a hood of the hide of the otter. And oft at his feet on the mat, deftly braiding the flags and the rushes, Till the sun sought his teepee she sat, enchanted with what he related Of the white winged ships on the sea and the teepees far over the ocean, Of the love and the sweet charity of the Christ and the beautiful Virgin.

A lodge set apart for guests of the village.

Moccasins.

She listened like one in a trance when he spoke of the brave, bearded Frenchmen, From the green sun-lit valleys of France to the wild Hochelága transplanted, Oft trailing the deserts of snow in the heart of the dense Huron forests, Or steering the dauntless canoe through the waves of the fresh water ocean. "Yea, stronger and braver are they," said the aged Menard to Winona, "Than the head-chief, tall Wazi-kuté, but their words are as soft as a maiden's; Their eyes are the eyes of the swan, but their hearts are the hearts of the eagles; And the terrible Máza Wakán ever walks, by their side like a spirit. Like a Thunder-bird, roaring in wrath, flinging fire from his terrible talons, It sends to their enemies death, in the flash of the fatal Wakándee."

The Ottawa name for the region of the St. Lawrence River.

"Mysterious metal"--or metal having a spirit in it. This is the common name applied by the Dakotas to all fire arms.

Lightning.

The Autumn was past and the snow lay drifted and deep on the prairies; From his teepee of ice came the foe --came the storm-breathing god of the winter. Then roared in the groves,--on the plains, --on the ice-covered lakes and the river-- The blasts of the fierce hurricanes blown abroad from the breast of Wazíya. The bear cuddled down in his den, and the elk fled away to the forest; The pheasant and gray prairie-hen made their beds in the heart of the snow-drift; The bison-herds huddled and stood in the hollows and under the hill-sides; Or rooted the snow for their food in the lee of the bluffs and the timber; And the mad winds that howled from the north, from the ice-covered seas of Wazíya, Chased the gray wolf and red fox and swarth to their dens in the hills of the forest.

Poor Father Menard,--he was ill; in his breast burned the fire of the fever; All in vain was the magical skill of Wicásta Wakán with his rattle; Into soft child-like slumber he fell, and awoke in the land of the blessèd-- To the holy applause of "Well done!" and the harps in the hands of the angels. Long he carried the cross, and he won the coveted crown of a martyr.

In the land of the heathen he died, meekly following the voice of his Master, One mourner alone by his side --Ta-té-psin's compassionate daughter. She wailed the dead father with tears, and his bones by her kindred she buried. Then winter followed winter. The years sprinkled frost on the head of her father; And three weary winters she dreamed of the fearless and fair-bearded Frenchmen; In her sweet sleep their swift paddles gleamed on the breast of the broad Mississippi, And the eyes of the brave strangers beamed on the maid in the midst of her slumber.

She lacked not admirers; the light of the lover oft burned in her teepee-- At her couch in the midst of the night, --but she never extinguished the flambeau. The son of Chief Wazi-kuté --a fearless and eagle plumed warrior-- Long sighed for Winona, and he --was the pride of the band of Isántees. Three times, in the night, at her bed, had the brave held the torch of the lover, And thrice had she covered her head and rejected the handsome Tamdóka.

Tah-mdo-kah--literally the buck deer.

'Twas Summer. The merry voiced birds trilled and warbled in woodland and meadow; And abroad on the prairies the herds cropped the grass in the land of the lilies,-- And sweet was the odor of rose wide-wafted from hillside and heather; In the leaf-shaded lap of repose lay the bright, blue eyed babes of the summer; And low was the murmur of brooks and low was the laugh of the Ha-Ha; And asleep in the eddies and nooks lay the broods of magá and the mallard. 'Twas the moon of Wasúnpa. The band lay at rest in the tees at Ka-thá-ga, And abroad o'er the beautiful land walked the spirits of Peace and of Plenty-- Twin sisters, with bountiful hand, wide scatt'ring wild rice and the lilies. An-pé-tu-wee walked in the west --to his lodge in the midst of the mountains, And the war eagle flew to her nest in the oak on the Isle of the Spirit. And now at the end of the day, by the shore of the Beautiful Island, A score of fair maidens and gay made joy in the midst of the waters. Half-robed in their dark, flowing hair, and limbed like the fair Aphroditè, They played in the waters, and there they dived and they swam like the beavers,-- Loud-laughing like loons on the lake when the moon is a round shield of silver, And the songs of the whippowils wake on the shore in the midst of the maples.

The Dakotas say that for many years in olden times a war-eagle made her nest in an oak tree on Spirit island--Wanagi-wita just below the Falls till frightened away by the advent of white men.

The Dakotas called Nicollet Island "Wi-ta Waste"--the Beautiful Island.

But hark!--on the river a song, --strange voices commingled in chorus; On the current a boat swept along with DuLuth and his hardy companions; To the stroke of their paddles they sung, and this the refrain that they chanted:

"Dans mon chemin j'ai recontré Deux cavaliers bien monteés. Lon, lon, laridon daine, Lon, lon, laridon dai."

"Deux cavaliers bien monteés; L'un a cheval, et l'autre a pied. Lon, lon, laridon daine, Lon, lon, laridon dai."

Like the red, dappled deer in the glade, alarmed by the footsteps of hunters, Discovered, disordered, dismayed, the nude nymphs fled forth from the waters, And scampered away to the shade, and peered from the screen of the lindens.

A part of one of the favorite songs of the French voyageurs.

A bold and and adventuresome man was DuLuth, and a dauntless in danger, And straight to Kathága he ran, and boldly advanced to the warriors, Now gathering, a cloud, on the strand, and gazing amazed on the strangers; And straightway he offered his hand unto Wázi-kuté, the Itáncan. To the Lodge of the Stranger were led DuLuth and his hardy companions; Robes of beaver and bison were spread, and the Peace pipe was smoked with the Frenchman.