Part 9

Wista Waste--Nicollet Island.

Now a light, rustling wind from the South shakes his wings o'er the wide, wimpling waters; Up the dark winding river DuLuth follows fast in the wake of Tamdóka. On the slopes of the emerald shores leafy woodlands and prairies alternate; On the vine-tangled islands the flowers peep timidly out at the white men; In the dark-winding eddy the loon sits warily, watching and voiceless, And the wild goose, in reedy lagoon, stills the prattle and play of her children. The does and their sleek, dappled fawns prick their ears and peer out from the thickets, And the bison-calves play on the lawns, and gambol like colts in the clover. Up the still flowing Wákpa Wakán's winding path through the groves and the meadows. Now DuLuth's brawny boatmen pursue the swift gliding bark of Tamdóka; And hardly the red braves out-do the stout, steady oars of the white men.

Now they bend to their oars in the race --the ten tawny braves of Tamdóka; And hard on their heels in the chase ply the six stalwart oars of the Frenchmen. In the stern of his boat sits DuLuth, in the stern of his boat stands Tamdóka; And warily, cheerily, both urge the oars of their men to the utmost. Far-stretching away to the eyes, winding blue in the midst of the meadows, As a necklet of sapphires that lies unclaspt in the lap of a virgin, Here asleep in the lap of the plain lies the reed-bordered, beautiful river. Like two flying coursers that strain, on the track, neck and neck, on the home-stretch, With nostrils distended, and mane froth-flecked, and the neck and the shoulders, Each urged to his best by the cry and the whip and the rein of his rider, Now they skim o'er the waters and fly, side by side, neck and neck, through the meadows. The blue heron flaps from the reeds, and away wings her course up the river; Straight and swift is her flight o'er the meads, but she hardly outstrips the canoemen. See! the voyageurs bend to their oars till the blue veins swell out on their foreheads; And the sweat from their brawny breasts pours; but in vain their Herculean labor; For the oars of Tamdôka are ten, and but six are the oars of the Frenchmen, And the red warriors' burden of men is matched by the voyageur's luggage. Side by side, neck and neck, for a mile, still they strain their strong arms to the utmost, Till rounding a willowy isle, now ahead creeps the boat of Tamdóka, And the neighboring forests profound, and the far-stretching plain of the meadows To the whoop of the victors resound, while the panting French rest on their paddles.

With sable wings wide o'er the land, night sprinkles the dew of the heavens; And hard by the dark river's strand, in the midst of a tall, somber forest, Two camp-fires are lighted, and beam on the trunks and the arms of the pine-trees. In the fitful light darkle and gleam the swarthy-hued faces around them. And one is the camp of DuLuth, and the other the camp of Tamdóka, But few are the jests and uncouth of the voyageurs over their supper, While moody and silent the braves round their fire in a circle sit crouching; And low is the whisper of leaves and the sough of the wind in the branches; And low is the long-winding howl of the lone wolf afar in the forest; But shrill is the hoot of the owl, like a bugle blast blown in the pine-tops, And the half-startled voyageurs scowl at the sudden and saucy intruder. Like the eyes of the wolves are the eyes of the watchful and silent Dakotas; Like the face of the moon in the skies, when the clouds chase each other across it. Is Tamdóka's dark face in the light of the flickering flames of the camp fire. They have plotted red murder by night, and securely contemplate their victims. But wary and armed to the teeth are the resolute Frenchmen and ready, If need be, to grapple with death, and to die hand to hand in the desert. Yet skilled in the arts and the wiles of the cunning and crafty Algonkins, They cover their hearts with their smiles, and hide their suspicions of evil. Round their low, smouldering fire, feigning sleep, lie the watchful and wily Dakotas; But DuLuth and his voyageurs heap their fire that shall blaze till the morning, Ere they lay themselves snugly to rest, with their guns by their side on the blankets, As if there were none to molest but the ravening beasts of the forest.

'Tis midnight. The rising moon gleams, weird and still o'er the dusky horizon; Through the hushed, somber forest she beams, and fitfully gloams on the meadows; And a dim, glimmering pathway she paves, at times, on the dark stretch of river. The winds are asleep in the caves --in the heart of the far-away mountains; And here on the meadows and there, the lazy mists gather and hover; And the lights of the Fen-Spirits flare and dance on the low-lying marshes, As still as the footsteps of death by the bed of the babe and its mother; And hushed are the pines, and beneath lie the weary limbed boatmen in slumber. Walk softly,--walk softly, O Moon, through the gray, broken clouds in thy pathway, For the earth lies asleep, and the boon of repose is bestowed on the weary. Toiling hands have forgotten their care; e'en the brooks have forgotten to murmur; But hark!--there's a sound on the air! --'tis the light-rustling robes of the Spirits. Like the breath of the night in the leaves, or the murmur of reeds on the river, In the cool of the mid-summer eves, when the blaze of the day has descended. Low-crouching and shadowy forms, as still as the gray morning's footsteps, Creep sly as the serpent that charms, on her nest in the meadow, the plover; In the shadows of pine-trunks they creep, but their panther-eyes gleam in the fire-light, As they peer on the white men asleep, in the glow of the fire, on their blankets. Lo, in each swarthy right hand a knife, in the left hand, the bow and the arrows! Brave Frenchmen! awake to the strife! --or you sleep in the forest forever. Nay, nearer and nearer they glide, like ghosts on the fields of their battles, Till close on the sleepers, they bide but the signal of death from Tamdóka. Still the sleepers sleep on. Not a breath stirs the leaves of the awe-stricken forest; The hushed air is heavy with death; like the footsteps of death are the moments. "Arise!"--At the word, with a bound, to their feet spring the vigilant Frenchmen; And the dark, dismal forests resound to the crack and the roar of their rifles; And seven writhing forms on the ground clutch the earth. From the pine-tops the screech owl Screams and flaps his wide wings in affright, and plunges away through the shadows; And swift on the wings of the night flee the dim, phantom forms of the spirit. Like cabris when white wolves pursue, fled the four yet remaining Dakotas; Through forest and fen-land they flew, and wild terror howled on their footsteps. And one was Tamdóka. DuLuth through the night sent his voice like a trumpet; "Ye are Sons of Unktéhee, forsooth! Return to your mothers, ye cowards!" His shrill voice they heard as they fled, but only the echoes made answer. At the feet of the brave Frenchmen, dead, lay seven swarthy Sons of Unktéhee; And there, in the midst of the slain, they found, as it gleamed in the fire light, The horn-handled knife from the Seine, where it fell from the hand of Tamdóka.

In the gray of the morn, ere the sun peeped over the dewy horizon, Their journey again was begun, and they toiled up the swift, winding river; And many a shallow they passed on their way to the Lake of the Spirits; But dauntless they reached it at last, and found Akee-pá-kee-tin's village, On an isle in the midst of the lake; and a day in his teepee they tarried.

see Hennepin's account of Aqui-pa-que-tin and his village. Shea's Hennepin 227.

Of the deed in the wilderness spake, to the brave Chief, the frank-hearted Frenchman. A generous man was the Chief and a friend of the fearless explorer; And dark was his visage with grief at the treacherous act of the warriors. "Brave Wazi-Kuté is a man, and his heart is as clear as the sun-light; But the head of a treacherous clan, and a snake in the bush is Tamdóka," Said the chief; and he promised Duluth, on the word of a friend and a warrior, To carry the pipe and the truth to his cousin, the chief at Kathága; For thrice at the Tânka Medé had he smoked in the lodge of the Frenchman; And thrice had he carried away the bountiful gifts of the trader.

When the chief could no longer prevail on the white men to rest in his teepee, He guided their feet on the trail to the lakes of the winding Rice-River. Now on speeds the light bark canoe, through the lakes to the broad Gitchee Seebee; And up the great river they row, --up the Big Sandy Lake and Savanna; And down through the meadows they go to the river of broad Gitchee Gumee.

Now called "Mud River"--it empties into the Mississippi at Aitkin.

Gitchee seebee--Big River--the Ojibway name for the Mississippi, which is a corruption of Gitchee Seebee--as Michigan is a corruption of Gitchee Gumee--Great Lake, the Ojibway name of Lake Superior.

The Ojibways call the St. Louis River Gitchee-Gumee See-bee--Great-lake River, i.e. the river of the Great Lake (Lake Superior).

Still onward they speed to the Dalles --to the roar of the white-rolling rapids, Where the dark river tumbles and falls down the ragged ravine of the mountains, And singing his wild jubilee to the low-moaning pines and the cedars, Rushes on to the unsalted sea o'er the ledges upheaved by volcanoes. Their luggage the voyageurs bore down the long, winding path of the portage, While they mingled their song with the roar of the turbid and turbulent waters. Down-wimpling and murmuring there, twixt two dewy hills winds a streamlet, Like a long, flaxen ringlet of hair on the breast of a maid in her slumber.

The route of Duluth above described--from the mouth of the Wild Rice Mud River to Lake Superior--was for centuries and still is, the Indians' canoe route. I have walked over the old portage from the foot of the Dalles to the St. Louis above--trod by the feet of half-breeds and voyageurs for more than two centuries, and by the Indians for, perhaps, a thousand years.

All safe at the foot of the trail, where they left it, they found their felucca, And soon to the wind spread the sail, and glided at ease through the waters, Through the meadows and lakelets and forth, round the point stretching south like a finger, From the mist-wreathen hill on the north, sloping down to the bay and the lake-side And behold, at the foot of the hill, a cluster of Chippewa wigwams, And the busy wives plying with skill their nets in the emerald waters. Two hundred white winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer Since DuLuth, on that wild, somber shore, in the unbroken forest primeval, From the midst of the spruce and the pines, saw the smoke of the wigwams up-curling, Like the fumes from the temples and shrines of the Druids of old in their forests. Ah, little he dreamed then, forsooth, that a city would stand on that hill-side, And bear the proud name of Duluth, the untiring and dauntless explorer. A refuge for ships from the storms, and for men from the bee-hives of Europe. Out-stretching her long, iron arms o'er an empire of Saxons and Normans.

The swift west-wind sang in the sails, and on flew the boat like a Sea-Gull, By the green, templed hills and the dales, and the dark rugged rocks of the North Shore; For the course of the brave Frenchman lay to his fort at the Gáh-mah-na-ték-wáhk, By the shore of the grand Thunder Bay, where the gray rocks loom up into mountains; Where the Stone Giant sleeps on the Cape, and the god of the storms makes the thunder, And the Makinak lifts his huge shape from the breast of the blue-rolling waters, And thence to the south-westward led his course to the Holy Ghost Mission. Where the Black Robes, the brave shepherds, fed their wild sheep on the isle Wau-ga-bá-mé.

In the enchanting Cha-quam-e-gon Bay, defended by all the Apostles; And thence by the Ké-we-naw, lay his course to the Mission Sainte Marie. Now the waves drop their myriad hands, and streams the white hair of the surges; DuLuth at the steady helm stands, and he hums as he bounds o'er the billows:

O sweet is the carol of bird, And sweet is the murmur of streams, But sweeter the voice that I heard-- In the night--in the midst of my dreams.

The Apostle Islands.

At the Saut St. Marie.

'Tis the moon of the sere, falling leaves. From the heads of the maples the west-wind Plucks the red-and-gold plumage and grieves on the meads for the rose and the lily; Their brown leaves the moaning oaks strew, and the breezes that roam on the prairies, Low-whistling and wanton pursue the down of the silk weed and thistle. All sere are the prairies and brown, in the glimmer and haze of the Autumn; From the far northern marshes flock down, by thousands, the geese and the mallards. From the meadows and wide-prairied plains, for their long southward journey preparing, In croaking flocks gather the cranes, and choose with loud clamor their leaders. The breath of the evening is cold, and lurid along the horizon The flames of the prairies are rolled, on the somber skies flashing their torches. At noontide a shimmer of gold, through the haze, pours the sun from his pathway. The wild-rice is gathered and ripe, on the moors, lie the scarlet po-pán-ka; Michabo is smoking his pipe, --'tis the soft, dreamy Indian Summer, When the god of the South as he flies from Wazíya, the god of the Winter, For a time turns his beautiful eyes, and backward looks over his shoulder.

Cranberries.

It is noon. From his path in the skies the red sun looks down on Kathága, Asleep in the valley it lies, for the swift hunters follow the bison. Ta-té-psin, the aged brave, bends as he walks by the side of Winona; Her arm to his left hand she lends, and he feels with his staff for the pathway; On his slow, feeble footsteps attends his gray dog, the watchful Wicháka; For blind in his years is the chief of a fever that followed the Summer, And the days of Ta-té-psin are brief. Once more by the dark-rolling river Sits the Chief in the warm, dreamy haze of the beautiful Summer in Autumn; And the faithful dog lovingly lays his head at the feet of his master. On a dead, withered branch sits a crow, down-peering askance at the old man; On the marge of the river below romp the nut-brown and merry-voiced children, And the dark waters silently flow, broad and deep, to the plunge of the Ha-ha.

Wee-chah kah--literally "Faithful".

By his side sat Winona. He laid his thin, shriveled hand on her tresses, "Winona my daughter," he said, "no longer thy father beholds thee; But he feels the long locks of thy hair, and the days that are gone are remembered, When Sisóka sat faithful and fair in the lodge of swift footed Ta-té-psin. The white years have broken my spear; from my bow they have taken the bow-string; But once on the trail of the deer, like a gray wolf from sunrise till sunset, By woodland and meadow and mere, ran the feet of Ta-té-psin untiring. But dim are the days that are gone, and darkly around me they wander, Like the pale, misty face of the moon when she walks through the storm of the winter; And sadly they speak in my ear. I have looked on the graves of my kindred. The Land of the Spirits is near. Death walks by my side like a shadow. Now open thine ear to my voice, and thy heart to the wish of thy father, And long will Winona rejoice that she heeded the words of Ta-té-psin. The cold, cruel winter is near, and famine will sit in the teepee. What hunter will bring me the deer, or the flesh of the bear or the bison? For my kinsmen before me have gone; they hunt in the land of the shadows. In my old age forsaken, alone, must I die in my teepee of hunger? Winona, Tamdóka can make my empty lodge laugh with abundance; For thine aged and blind father's sake, to the son of the Chief speak the promise. For gladly again to my tee will the bridal gifts come for my daughter. A fleet-footed hunter is he, and the good spirits feather his arrows; And the cold, cruel winter will be a feast-time instead of a famine."

The Robin--the name of Winona's Mother.

"My father," she said, and her voice was filial and full of compassion, "Would the heart of Ta-té-psin rejoice at the death of Winona, his daughter? The crafty Tamdóka I hate. Must I die in his teepee of sorrow? For I love the White Chief, and I wait his return to the land of Dakotas. When the cold winds of winter return, and toss the white robes of the prairies, The fire of the White Chief will burn, in his lodge, at the Meeting-of-Waters. Winona's heart followed his feet far away to the land of the morning, And she hears in her slumber his sweet, kindly voice call the name of thy daughter. My father, abide, I entreat, the return of the brave to Kathága. The wild-rice is gathered, the meat of the bison is stored in the teepee; Till the Coon-Moon enough and to spare; and if then the white warrior return not, Winona will follow the bear, and the coon, to their dens in the forest. She is strong; she can handle the spear; she can bend the stout bow of the hunter; And swift on the trail of the deer will she run o'er the snow on her snow-shoes. Let the step-mother sit in the tee, and kindle the fire for my father; And the cold, cruel winter shall be a feast-time instead of a famine." "The White Chief will never return," half angrily muttered Ta-té-psin;

"His camp-fire will nevermore burn in the land of the warriors he slaughtered. I grieve, for my daughter has said that she loves the false friend of her kindred; For the hands of the White Chief are red with the blood of the trustful Dakotas." Then warmly Winona replied, "Tamdóka himself is the traitor, And the white-hearted stranger had died by his treacherous hand in the forest, But thy daughter's voice bade him beware of the sly death that followed his footsteps. The words of Tamdóka are fair, but his heart is the den of the serpents. When the braves told their tale, like a bird sang the heart of Winona rejoicing, But gladlier still had she heard of the death of the crafty Tamdóka. The Chief will return, he is bold, and he carries the fire of Wakínyan; To our people the truth will be told, and Tamdóka will hide like a coward." His thin locks the aged brave shook; to himself half inaudibly muttered; To Winona no answer he spoke --only moaned he "Micunksee! Micunksee! In my old age forsaken and blind! Yun! He he! Micúnksee! Micúnksee!" And Wicháka, the pitying dog, whined, as he looked on the face of his master.