Part 21

One was a Ricara boy, And one was a Ricara girl, And one was a Ricara dog. My brother hears. The boy and the girl were lovers, And the dog loved both, They loved each other more Than the soul of an Indian loves his home; The lodge of his wife and babes, Or the graves, The mossy graves, The green and grass-covered graves, Of his fathers mouldered and gone; They loved each other more Than the warrior loves the shout of his foe, Or the festival of scalps, Or the hunter to see the wing, Of a plover beating the air.

Their fathers were friends; They dwelt together in one cabin; They hunted the woods together; They warred together, Raising the self-same shout of onset, Waking the self-same song of triumph: Their mothers were sisters; They dwelt together in one cabin; Together they wrought in the field of maize; Each bent her back to the bison's flesh, Load and load alike; And they went to the wild wood together, To bring home the food for the fire; Kind were these sisters to each other; There was always a clear sky in their cabins:-- My brother hears.

One Ricara father said to his friend, While these babes yet swung In their baskets of bark From the bough of the oak, Listen! I have a young eagle in my eyrie, Thou hast a young dove in thy nest, Let us mate them. Though now they be but squabs, There will be but twice eight chills of the lake; And twice eight fails of the maple leaf; And twice eight bursts of the earth from frosts; The corn will ripen bat twice eight times, Tall, sweet corn; The rose will bloom but twice eight times, Beautiful rose! The vine will give but twice eight times Its rich black clusters, Sweet ripe clusters, Grapes of the land of the Ricaras, Ere thy squab shall be an eagle, Ere my little dove shall wear The feathers and plumes of a full-grown bird. Let us pledge them now To each other, That when thy son has become a man, And painted his face as a brave man paints, Red on the cheek, Red on the brow, And wears but the single lock, That is graced with the plumes of the Warrior-bird, And has stolen thy bow for the field of strife, And run away with thy spear, And thou findest thy sheaf of arrows gone, And nearest his shout as he follows the steps Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge, And my little dove, My beautiful dove, Sings in the grove, in the hour of eve, All alone, soft songs. Maiden's songs of the restless hour, When the full heart sings, it knows not why: My son shall build himself a lodge, And thy daughter shall light his fires.

Then said his friend, 'Tis well; Nor hast thou a forked tongue: My son is pledged to thee, And to thy little daughter. When he has become a warrior-man, And painted his face with the ochre of wrath, Red on the cheek, Red on the brow, And wears but a scalp-lock, Decked with the plumes of the warrior-bird, And has stolen my bow for the field of strife, And run away with my spear, And I find my sheaf of arrows gone, And hear his shout as he follows the step Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge, And thy dove Sings in the grove in the hour of eve, All alone, soft songs, Maiden songs, songs of the unquiet hour, Songs that gush out of the swelling soul, As the river breaks over its banks: My son shall build himself a cabin, And thy daughter shall light his fires.

When these two Ricara babes were grown, To know the meaning of words, And to read the language of eyes, And to guess by the throbs of the heart, It was said to them, To the girl, he will build thee a lodge, And bring thee a good fat deer of the glade; To the boy, she will light thy fires, and be The partner of thy lot. And knowing this they loved: No more were they seen apart, They went together to pluck the grape, To look for the berry which grew on the moor, To fright the birds from the maize; They hunted together the lonely copse, To search for the bittern's eggs, And they wandered together to pluck from the waste The first blue flower of the budding moon; And, when the village children were come, Where the rope of grass, Or the twisted thong of bison-hide, Hung from the bough, To swing in childish sport, These two did always swing each other, And if by chance they found themselves apart, Then tears bedew'd their little cheeks, And the gobs of grief came thick and fast, Till they found each other's arms again, And so they grew:-- My brother hears.

The maiden grew up beautiful, Tall as the chin of a lofty man, Bright as the star that shines, To guide the Indian hunter through The pathless wilds to his home. Her hair was like the grape-clustered vine; Her neck was the neck of the swan; Her eyes were the eyes of the dove; Her hand was as small as the red oak's leaf; Her foot was the length of the lark's spread wing; Her step was the step of the antelope's child; Her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song: Oh, how beautiful was the Ricara girl! How worthy to be the wife of the man, And to light-the fires of a Brave! How fit-to be the mother Of stout warriors and expert hunters!

And how grew the Ricara boy?-- Does my brother listen? He does, it is well.-- He grew to be fair to the eye, Like a tree that hath smooth bark, But is rotten or hollow at core; A vine that cumbers the earth With the weight of leaves and flowers, But never brings forth fruit: He did not become a man: He painted not as a warrior paints, Red on the cheek, Red on the brow, Nor wore the gallant scalp-lock, Black with the plumes of the warrior-bird, Nor stole his father's bow, Nor ran away with his spear, Nor took down the barbed sheaf, Nor raised his shout as he followed the step Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge. He better loved to sit by the fire, While the women were spinning the mulberry-bark(2) Or to lie at his length by the stream, To watch the nimble salmon's sport, Or, placed by the leafy perch of the bird, To snare the poor simple thing; He better loved to rove with girls In search of early flowers.

The Ricara father said to the maid, "Listen to me, my dove, When I gave thee away, I deem'd that I gave My child to one who would gain renown, By the deeds which had given his sires renown, To a boy who would snatch, ere his limbs were grown, The heaviest bow of the strongest man, And hie to the strife with a painted face, And a shout that should ring in the lonely glades, Like a spirit's among the hills; I did not deem I had given my dove To a youth with the heart of a doe; A gatherer-in of flowers, A snarer of simple birds, A weeder with women of maize, A man with the cheek of a girl-- Dost thou listen?

"Now, since thy lover is weak in heart, A woman in mind and soul, Nor boasts, nor wishes to boast, Of deeds in battle done, Nor sings, nor wishes to sing, Of men by his arm laid low, Nor tells how he bore the flames, his foes Did kindle around his fettered limbs; And, since he finds more joy in flowers, And had rather work in the maize-clad field, Than wend to the glorious strife With the warriors of his tribe, I will not keep my faith.-- My daughter hears.-- I bid thee see the youth once more, And then behold his face no more. Tell him, the child of the Red Wing weds With none but the fierce and bold, Tell him, the man, whose fires she lights, Must be strong of soul, and stout of arm, Able to send a shaft to the heart Of him who would quench that fire, Able to bend a warrior's bow, Able to poise a warrior's spear, Able to bear, without a groan, The torments devised by hungry foes, The pincers rending his flesh, The hot stones searing his eye-balls.-- Dost thou hear?"

Then down the daughter's beauteous cheeks Ran drops like the plenteous summer rain. "I hear, my father, Yet, hard thy words weigh on my heart; Thou gav'st me to him, while we lay, Unknowing the pledge, in our willow cage(3), When first we opened our eyes on the world, And saw the bright and twinkling stars, And the dazzling sun, and the moon alive(4), And the fields bespread with blooming flowers, And we breath'd the balmy winds of spring; The old men said, to one another, 'Dost thou know, brother, Thar, when his years are the years of a man, And his deeds are the deeds of the good and true, The son of the Yellow Pine Shall marry the Red Wing's daughter?' And the women took up the tale, And the boys and girls, when met to play, Told in our ears the pleasing words, That I was to be his wife.

"And, knowing this, we loved, And 'tis hard to break the chains of love; Thou may'st sooner rive the flinty oak, With the alder spear of a sickly boy, Than chase him away from my soul. Twice eight bright years have our hearts been wed. And thou hast look'd on and smiled; And now thou com'st, with a frowning brow, And bid'st me chase him from my soul. I know his arm is weak, I know his heart is the heart of a deer, And his soul is the soul of a dove; Yet hath he won my virgin heart, And I cannot drive him hence." But the father would not hear, And he bade his daughter think no more Of the Ricara youth for her mate; And he said, ere the Moon of Harvest passed, She should light the fires of a Brave.

What said the Ricara youth, When he heard the stern command, Which broke his being's strongest bond, As ye break an untwisted rope of grass? Sorrow o'erwhelm'd his soul, And grief gush'd out at his eyes. With an aching heart he left his lodge, When evening gray-mist walk'd out of the earth, And wandered forth with his dog-- To the woods he went, To the lonely, dim, and silent woods, To weep and sigh: Whom saw he there?-- Does my brother hear?-- He saw the maiden, so long beloved, Her with hair like the grape-cluster'd vine, Whose neck was the neck of the swan, Whose eyes were the eyes of the dove, Whose hand was as small as the red-oak's leaf, Whose foot was the length of the lark's spread wwig, Whose step was the step of the antelope's child. Whose voice was the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song; But oh, how chang'd! Beaming eye and bounding foot, Laughing lip and placid brow, Hath the beauteous maid no more. Slow is her step as a crippled bird's, And mournful her voice as the dying note Of a thunder-cloud that hath passed; And yet she joys to meet the youth. Into his arms she flies, Like a fawn that escapes from the hunter's shaft, And reaches its dam unhurt. Lock'd in a soft and fond embrace, The lovers recline on the flowery bank, And pledge their faith anew;

And loudly they call on the host of stars, And the cold and dimly shining moon, And the spirits, that watch by night in the air, Or chirp in the hollow oak, to see The plighting of their hands: They married themselves, And man and wife Became in the wilderness.

But love alone could not keep alive The Ricara boy and girl; The woods were scarce of game, No berries were on the heath, The winds had shaken the grapes from the vine, And hunger assail'd the pair. What did they then? They knelt and pray'd to the Master of Life-- Him of the terrible voice in the cloud-- To send them food, or call Their spirits away to the happy lands Beyond the vale of death. Did the Master hear? Brother he always hears When mortals go in clay(5)

The Master sat on the crest of the world, Sat at the door of his mighty lodge, Tossing bright stars at the waning moon, When there came on the winds the woes of the pair, And pity filled his soul, And grief weighed down his heart. He called to his side the spirit that guards The warlike Indian race, The spirit of courage, and wisdom, and strength, And the fearless spirit came. "Dost thou see," said he, "the Ricara pair, Caltacotah and Miskwa, the Red, They have married themselves in the wilderness, And now they die for food. Look at the husband, note him well? He hath never dared to look on a foe, Nor paints his face as a warrior paints, Nor wears the gallant scalp-lock, Nor hath he a hunter's eye; Unable is he to strike a deer: The white and fringed skin of the goat, Which covers the breast of the maiden, conceals A manlier heart than his. Go, and end their woes." The spirit answered, "I hear."

The shadows of evening fell on the earth, And the mists were out, And the bat was abroad. The Ricara pair were joyful now, For they had found a vine of grapes. On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream, The shallow and turbid stream, And, though the grapes were shrivell'd and sour, These two were joyful now, When all at once, ere their lips had touch'd, The Manitou stood at their side, And trembling shook their limbs. He saw the woes of the pair, And he bade them cease to be; He bade them become a thing to show The mercy and goodness of Him that rules-- The flintiness of her father's heart-- Their own tried constancy; And he bade them remain in the wilderness, Till the rivers should cease to flow, And the stars should cease to shine.

And they became the Idols, The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone, That stood on the willow bank. 'Tis thither the tribes of the land resort, To make their offerings; Thither the warrior carries his bow, His arrow, and his spear, And the hunter, the juicy flesh of the elk; The priest, the shaggy skins of the bear, And she of the fair and youthful form, The gifts of the favour'd Brave. All bear thither a valued gift, And lay it at their feet; No Ricara takes his bow, till he Has oft besought their aid, No Ricara paints as a warrior paints, Red on the cheek, Red on the brow, Till he has thrice before them bow'd, And said to them, "Make me strong!" And the maiden and the priest Petition there for aid.

NOTES.

(1) Okkis.--p. 175.

The particular object of the devotion of an Indian is termed his "Okkis," or "Medicine," or "Manitou," all meaning the same thing, which is neither more nor less than a "household God." The latter, however, may mean a spirit of the air; the former is tied to one predicament. It is selected by himself, sometimes at a very early age, but generally at the period when he enters the duties of life, and is some invisible being, or, more commonly, some animal, which thenceforward becomes his protector or intercessor with the Great Spirit. The Indians place unbounded confidence in these Okkis, and always carry them wherever they go, being persuaded that they take upon them the office of sentinels. Hence, they sleep in perfect security, convinced of the entire good faith of the guardian. There is no possible form which they have not permitted these "medicines" to take. Birds, beasts, and especially of the carnivorous species, are most frequently the adopted sentinels; but sticks, trees, stones, &c., have been known to be selected for that responsible office. If they prove treacherous, and permit any disaster to happen to their charge, they are frequently soundly whipped, and sometimes committed to the flames.

Not only are inanimate objects elected to take the guardianship of individuals--they sometimes become protectors of the national interests. There is a large, fiat rock, about ten miles from Plymouth, Massachusetts, which continues to receive tribute from the Indians, probably from having, at a former period, been their tutelary genius. It is called, if I mistake not, by the white people resident in the neighbourhood, "The Sacrifice Rock," and is still deeply venerated by the few Indians spared by the cupidity of the Pilgrims and their descendants.

Lewis and Clarke, in the account of their Travels across the Rocky Mountains, (vol. i. p. 163) speaking of the national great Memahopa, or "Medicine Stone," of the Mandans, remarks: "This Medicine Stone is the great oracle of the Mandans, and, whatever it announces, is received with the most implicit confidence. Every spring, and on some occasions during the summer, a deputation visits the sacred spot, where there is a thick porous stone, twenty feet in circumference, with a smooth surface. Having reached the place, the ceremony of smoking to it is performed by the deputies, who alternately take a, whiff themselves, and then present the pipe to the stone; after this, they retire to the adjoining wood for the night, during which it may be safely presumed, that all the embassy do not sleep. In the morning, they read the destinies of the nation in the white marks on the stone."

(2) The mulberry bark.--p. 187.

The Dress of the Indian women.--The dress of the Indian females is regulated, of course, by the nature of the climate. The Southern Indians, by which I mean those occupying the tract of country which is now parcelled out into the States of Louisiana, Florida, Missouri, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia, at the period of its first settlement by the whites, wore cloaks of the bark of the mulberry tree, or of the feathers of swans, turkeys, &c. The bark they procured from the young mulberry shoots that came up from the roots of the trees which had been cut down. After it was dried in the sun, they beat it to make all the woody part fall off; and then gave the threads that remained a handsome beating; after which, they bleached them by exposing them to the dew. When they were well whitened, they spun them about the coarseness of pack-thread, and wove them in the following manner: two stakes were set in the ground about a yard and a half asunder; having stretched a cord from one to the other, they fastened their threads of bark, double, to this cord, and then interlaced them in a curious manner into a cloak of about a yard square, with a wrought border round the edges. Such is nearly the description given by Du Pratz in his history of Louisiana.

(3) Willow cage.--p. 189.

Indian children, instead of being placed in cradles, are suspended from the boughs of trees beyond the reach of wild animals, in baskets woven of twigs of the willow, when they can be easily procured: the motion, which is a kind of circular swing, is far more pleasant than that of the cradle in use among civilized nations.

(4) Moon alive.--p. 189.

The astronomical knowledge of the Indians is very small, and they entertain singular ideas respecting the heavenly, bodies. When the sun sets they imagine it goes under water. When the moon does not shine, they suppose she it dead; and some call the three last days before the new moon, the naked days. Her first appearance after her last quarter is hailed with great joy. If either sun or moon is eclipsed, they say the sun or moon is in a swoon. I have mentioned before their opinion of the cause of shooting-stars. Adair, who was acquainted only with the Florida Indians, says that when it thundered and blew sharp for a considerable time, they believed that the beloved or holy people were at war above the clouds; and they believed that the war was hot or moderate, in proportion to the noise or violence of the storm. Of all the writers who have ever written on the Indians, Adair, with the usual exception of La Hontan, is the worst. He wrote with a preconceived determination to make them a portion, or "the remnant," of the ten tribes of Israel, to whom they bear about the same resemblance that an Englishman bears to an Otaheitean.