THE LEGEND OF THE FALLS.
Note: An-pe-tu Sa-pa—Clouded Day—was the name of the Dakota mother who committed suicide, as related in this legend, by plunging over the Falls of St. Anthony. Schoolcraft calls her "Ampata Sapa." Ampata is not Dakota. There are several versions of this legend, all agreeing in the main points.
[Read at the celebration of the Old Settlers of Hennepin County, at the Academy of Music, Minneapolis, July 4, 1879.]
(The numerals refer to notes in the Appendix.)
On the Spirit-Island [a] sitting under midnight's misty moon,
Lo I see the spirits flitting o'er the waters one by one!
Slumber wraps the silent city, and the droning mills are dumb;
One lone whippowil's shrill ditty calls her mate that ne'er will come.
Sadly moans the mighty river, foaming down the fettered falls,
Where of old he thundered ever o'er abrupt and lofty walls.
Great Unktèhee 69—god of waters—lifts no more his mighty head;—
Fled he with the timid otters?—lies he in the cavern dead?
[a] The small island of rock a few rods below the Falls, was called by the
Dakotas Wanagee We-ta-Spirit-Island. They say the spirit of Anpetu Sapa
sits upon that island at night and pours forth her sorrow in song. They
also say that from time out of mind, war-eagles nested on that island,
until the advent of white men frightened them away. This seems to be true.
Carver's Travels. London. 1778, p. 71.
Hark!—the waters hush their sighing, and the whippowil her call,
Through the moon-lit mists are flying dusky shadows silent all.
Lo from out the waters foaming—from the cavern deep and dread—
Through the glamour and the gloaming, comes a spirit of the dead.
Sad she seems, her tresses raven on her tawny shoulders rest;
Sorrow on her brow is graven, in her arms a babe is pressed.
Hark!—she chants the solemn story,—sings the legend sad and old,
And the river wrapt in glory listens while the tale is told.
Would you hear the legend olden, hearken while I tell the tale—
Shorn, alas, of many a golden, weird Dakota chant and wail.
Lo I see the spirits flitting o'er the waters one by one!
Slumber wraps the silent city, and the droning mills are dumb;
One lone whippowil's shrill ditty calls her mate that ne'er will come.
Sadly moans the mighty river, foaming down the fettered falls,
Where of old he thundered ever o'er abrupt and lofty walls.
Great Unktèhee 69—god of waters—lifts no more his mighty head;—
Fled he with the timid otters?—lies he in the cavern dead?
[a] The small island of rock a few rods below the Falls, was called by the
Dakotas Wanagee We-ta-Spirit-Island. They say the spirit of Anpetu Sapa
sits upon that island at night and pours forth her sorrow in song. They
also say that from time out of mind, war-eagles nested on that island,
until the advent of white men frightened them away. This seems to be true.
Carver's Travels. London. 1778, p. 71.
Hark!—the waters hush their sighing, and the whippowil her call,
Through the moon-lit mists are flying dusky shadows silent all.
Lo from out the waters foaming—from the cavern deep and dread—
Through the glamour and the gloaming, comes a spirit of the dead.
Sad she seems, her tresses raven on her tawny shoulders rest;
Sorrow on her brow is graven, in her arms a babe is pressed.
Hark!—she chants the solemn story,—sings the legend sad and old,
And the river wrapt in glory listens while the tale is told.
Would you hear the legend olden, hearken while I tell the tale—
Shorn, alas, of many a golden, weird Dakota chant and wail.
THE LEGEND.
Tall was young Wanâta, stronger than Heyóka's 16 giant form.
Laughed at flood and fire and hunger, faced the fiercest winter storm.
When Wakínyan 32 flashed and thundered, when Unktéhee raved and roared,
All but brave Wanâta wondered, and the gods with fear implored.
When the war-whoop wild resounded, calling friends to meet the foe,
From the teepee swift he bounded, armed with polished lance and bow.
In the battle's din and clangor fast his fatal arrows flew,
Flashed his fiery eyes with anger,—many a haughty foe he slew.
Hunter, swift was he and cunning, caught the beaver, slew the bear,
Overtook the roebuck running, dragged the panther from his lair.
Loved was he by many a maiden; many a dark eye glanced in vain;
Many a heart with sighs was laden for the love it might not gain.
So they called the brave "Ska Câpa"; [a] but the fairest of the band—
Moon-faced, meek Anpétu-Sâpa—won the hunter's heart and hand.
[a] Or Capa Ska—White beaver. White beavers are very rare, very cunning
and hard to catch.
From the wars with triumph burning, from the chase of bison fleet,
To his lodge the brave returning, spread his trophies at her feet.
Love and joy sat in the tepee; him a black-eyed boy she bore;
But alas, she lived to weep a love she lost forevermore.
For the warriors chose Wanâta first Itâncan [a] of the band.
At the council-fire he sat a leader loved a chieftain grand.
Proud was fair Anpétu-Sâpa, and her eyes were glad with joy;
Proud was she and very happy, with her chieftain and her boy.
But alas, the fatal honor that her brave Wanâta won,
Brought a bitter woe upon her,—hid with clouds the summer sun
For among the brave Dakotas, wives bring honor to the chief.
On the vine-clad Minnesota's banks he met the Scarlet Leaf.
Young and fair was Apè-dúta [b]—full of craft and very fair;
Proud she walked a queen of beauty with her wondrous flowing hair.
In her net of hair she caught him—caught Wanâta with her wiles;
All in vain his wife besought him—begged in vain his wonted smiles.
Apè-dúta ruled the teepee—all Wanâta's smiles were hers;
When the lodge was wrapped in sleep a star [c] beheld the mother's tears.
Long she strove to do her duty for the black-eyed babe she bore;
But the proud, imperious beauty made her sad forevermore.
Still she dressed the skins of beaver, bore the burdens, spread the fare;
Patient ever, murmuring never, while her cheeks were creased with care.
[a] E-tan-can—Chief.
Laughed at flood and fire and hunger, faced the fiercest winter storm.
When Wakínyan 32 flashed and thundered, when Unktéhee raved and roared,
All but brave Wanâta wondered, and the gods with fear implored.
When the war-whoop wild resounded, calling friends to meet the foe,
From the teepee swift he bounded, armed with polished lance and bow.
In the battle's din and clangor fast his fatal arrows flew,
Flashed his fiery eyes with anger,—many a haughty foe he slew.
Hunter, swift was he and cunning, caught the beaver, slew the bear,
Overtook the roebuck running, dragged the panther from his lair.
Loved was he by many a maiden; many a dark eye glanced in vain;
Many a heart with sighs was laden for the love it might not gain.
So they called the brave "Ska Câpa"; [a] but the fairest of the band—
Moon-faced, meek Anpétu-Sâpa—won the hunter's heart and hand.
[a] Or Capa Ska—White beaver. White beavers are very rare, very cunning
and hard to catch.
From the wars with triumph burning, from the chase of bison fleet,
To his lodge the brave returning, spread his trophies at her feet.
Love and joy sat in the tepee; him a black-eyed boy she bore;
But alas, she lived to weep a love she lost forevermore.
For the warriors chose Wanâta first Itâncan [a] of the band.
At the council-fire he sat a leader loved a chieftain grand.
Proud was fair Anpétu-Sâpa, and her eyes were glad with joy;
Proud was she and very happy, with her chieftain and her boy.
But alas, the fatal honor that her brave Wanâta won,
Brought a bitter woe upon her,—hid with clouds the summer sun
For among the brave Dakotas, wives bring honor to the chief.
On the vine-clad Minnesota's banks he met the Scarlet Leaf.
Young and fair was Apè-dúta [b]—full of craft and very fair;
Proud she walked a queen of beauty with her wondrous flowing hair.
In her net of hair she caught him—caught Wanâta with her wiles;
All in vain his wife besought him—begged in vain his wonted smiles.
Apè-dúta ruled the teepee—all Wanâta's smiles were hers;
When the lodge was wrapped in sleep a star [c] beheld the mother's tears.
Long she strove to do her duty for the black-eyed babe she bore;
But the proud, imperious beauty made her sad forevermore.
Still she dressed the skins of beaver, bore the burdens, spread the fare;
Patient ever, murmuring never, while her cheeks were creased with care.
[a] E-tan-can—Chief.
[b] A-pe—leaf,—duta—Scarlet,—Scarlet leaf.
[c] Stars, the Dakotas say, are the faces of departed friends and
relatives on earth.
In the moon Magâ-o-Kâda, 71 twice an hundred years ago—
Ere the "Black Robe's" [a] sacred shadow
stalked the prairies' pathless snow
Down the swollen, rushing river, in the sunset's golden hues,
From the hunt of bear and beaver came the band in swift canoes.
On the queen of fairy islands, on the Wita-Wâstè's [b] shore,
Camped Wanâta, on the highlands, just above the cataract's roar.
Many braves were with Wanâta; Apè-dúta, too, was there,
And the sad Anpétu-sâpa spread the lodge with wonted care.
Then above the leafless prairie leaped the fat faced, laughing moon,
And the stars—the spirits fairy—walked the welkin one by one.
Swift and silent in the gloaming on the waste of waters blue,
Speeding downward to the foaming, shot Wanâta's birch canoe,
In it stood Anpétu-sâpa—in her arms her sleeping child;
Like a wailing Norse-land drapa [c] rose her death-song weird and wild:
Mihihna, [d] Mihihna, my heart is stone;
The light is gone from my longing eyes;
The wounded loon in the lake alone
Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.
Mihihna, Mihihna, the path is long.
The burden is heavy and hard to bear;
I sink,—I die, and my dying song
Is a song of joy to the false one's ear.
Mihihna, Mihihna, my young heart flew
Far away with my brave to the bison-chase;
To the battle it went with my warrior true,
And never returned till I saw his face.
Mihihna, Mihihna, my brave was glad
When he came from the chase of the roebuck fleet;
Sweet were the words that my hunter said,
As his trophies he laid at Anpétu's feet.
Mihihna, Mihihna, the boy I bore—
When the robin sang and my brave was true,
I can bear to look on his face no more.
For he looks, Mihihna, so much like you.
Mihihna, Mihihna, the Scarlet Leaf
Has robbed my boy of his father's love;
He sleeps in my arms—he will find no grief
In the star-lit lodge in the land above.
Mihihna, Mihihna, my heart is stone,
The light is gone from my longing eyes;
The wounded loon in the lake alone,
Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.
[a] The Dakotas called the Jesuit priests "Black Robes" from the color of
their vestments.
[b] Wee tah Wah-stay—Beautiful Island,—the Dakota name for Nicollet
Island just above the Falls.
[c] Drapa, a Norse funeral wail in which the virtues of the
deceased are recounted.
[d] Mee heen-yah—My husband.
Swiftly down the turbid torrent, as she sung her song she flew;
Like a swan upon the current, dancing rode the light canoe.
Hunters hurry in the gloaming, all in vain Wanâta calls;
Singing through the surges foaming, lo she plunges o'er the Falls.
Long they search the sullen river—searched for leagues along the shore,
Bark or babe or mother never saw the sad Dakotas more;
But at night or misty morning oft the hunters heard her song,
Oft the maidens heard her warning in their mellow mother-tongue.
On the bluffs they sat enchanted till the blush of beamy dawn;
Spirit Isle they say, is haunted, and they call the spot "Wakân." [a]
Many summers on the highland, in the full-moon's golden glow—
In the woods on Fairy Island, [b] walked a snow white fawn and doe
Spirits of the babe and mother sadly seeking evermore,
For a father's love another turned with evil charm and power.
[a] Pronounced Walk on—Sacred, inhabited by a Spirit.
[b] Fairy Island—Wita Waste—Nicollet Island.
Sometimes still when moonbeams shimmer through the maples on the lawn,
In the gloaming and the glimmer walk the silent doe and fawn;
And on Spirit-Isle or near it, under midnight's misty moon,
Oft is seen the mother's spirit, oft is heard her mournful tune.
[Illustration: SCENE ON THUNDER BAY, LAKE SUPERIOR.]
relatives on earth.
In the moon Magâ-o-Kâda, 71 twice an hundred years ago—
Ere the "Black Robe's" [a] sacred shadow
stalked the prairies' pathless snow
Down the swollen, rushing river, in the sunset's golden hues,
From the hunt of bear and beaver came the band in swift canoes.
On the queen of fairy islands, on the Wita-Wâstè's [b] shore,
Camped Wanâta, on the highlands, just above the cataract's roar.
Many braves were with Wanâta; Apè-dúta, too, was there,
And the sad Anpétu-sâpa spread the lodge with wonted care.
Then above the leafless prairie leaped the fat faced, laughing moon,
And the stars—the spirits fairy—walked the welkin one by one.
Swift and silent in the gloaming on the waste of waters blue,
Speeding downward to the foaming, shot Wanâta's birch canoe,
In it stood Anpétu-sâpa—in her arms her sleeping child;
Like a wailing Norse-land drapa [c] rose her death-song weird and wild:
Mihihna, [d] Mihihna, my heart is stone;
The light is gone from my longing eyes;
The wounded loon in the lake alone
Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.
Mihihna, Mihihna, the path is long.
The burden is heavy and hard to bear;
I sink,—I die, and my dying song
Is a song of joy to the false one's ear.
Mihihna, Mihihna, my young heart flew
Far away with my brave to the bison-chase;
To the battle it went with my warrior true,
And never returned till I saw his face.
Mihihna, Mihihna, my brave was glad
When he came from the chase of the roebuck fleet;
Sweet were the words that my hunter said,
As his trophies he laid at Anpétu's feet.
Mihihna, Mihihna, the boy I bore—
When the robin sang and my brave was true,
I can bear to look on his face no more.
For he looks, Mihihna, so much like you.
Mihihna, Mihihna, the Scarlet Leaf
Has robbed my boy of his father's love;
He sleeps in my arms—he will find no grief
In the star-lit lodge in the land above.
Mihihna, Mihihna, my heart is stone,
The light is gone from my longing eyes;
The wounded loon in the lake alone,
Her death-song sings to the moon and dies.
[a] The Dakotas called the Jesuit priests "Black Robes" from the color of
their vestments.
[b] Wee tah Wah-stay—Beautiful Island,—the Dakota name for Nicollet
Island just above the Falls.
[c] Drapa, a Norse funeral wail in which the virtues of the
deceased are recounted.
[d] Mee heen-yah—My husband.
Swiftly down the turbid torrent, as she sung her song she flew;
Like a swan upon the current, dancing rode the light canoe.
Hunters hurry in the gloaming, all in vain Wanâta calls;
Singing through the surges foaming, lo she plunges o'er the Falls.
Long they search the sullen river—searched for leagues along the shore,
Bark or babe or mother never saw the sad Dakotas more;
But at night or misty morning oft the hunters heard her song,
Oft the maidens heard her warning in their mellow mother-tongue.
On the bluffs they sat enchanted till the blush of beamy dawn;
Spirit Isle they say, is haunted, and they call the spot "Wakân." [a]
Many summers on the highland, in the full-moon's golden glow—
In the woods on Fairy Island, [b] walked a snow white fawn and doe
Spirits of the babe and mother sadly seeking evermore,
For a father's love another turned with evil charm and power.
[a] Pronounced Walk on—Sacred, inhabited by a Spirit.
[b] Fairy Island—Wita Waste—Nicollet Island.
Sometimes still when moonbeams shimmer through the maples on the lawn,
In the gloaming and the glimmer walk the silent doe and fawn;
And on Spirit-Isle or near it, under midnight's misty moon,
Oft is seen the mother's spirit, oft is heard her mournful tune.
[Illustration: SCENE ON THUNDER BAY, LAKE SUPERIOR.]
THE SEAGULL. 101
THE LEGEND OF THE PICTURED ROCKS OF LAKE SUPERIOR. OJIBWAY.
IN THE MEASURE OF HIAWATHA
(The numerals 1 2 etc., refer to Notes to Sea-Gull in Appendix.)
On the shore of Gitchee Gumee—102 Deep, mysterious, mighty waters—Where the mânitoes—the spirits—
Ride the storms and speak in thunder,
In the days of Neme-Shómis, 103 In the days that are forgotten,
Dwelt a tall and tawny hunter—
Gitchee Péz-ze-ú—the panther,
Son of Waub-Ojeeg, 104 the warrior,
Famous Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior.
Strong was he and fleet as roebuck,
Brave was he and very stealthy;
On the deer crept like a panther;
Grappled with Makwá, 105 the monster,
Grappled with the bear and conquered;
Took his black claws for a necklet,
Took his black hide for a blanket.
When the Panther wed the Sea-Gull,
Young was he and very gladsome;
Fair was she and full of laughter;
Like the robin in the spring time,
Sang from sunrise till the sunset;
For she loved the handsome hunter.
Deep as Gitchee Gumee's waters
Was her love—as broad and boundless;
And the wedded twain were happy—
Happy as the mated robins.
When their first born saw the sunlight
Joyful was the heart of Panther,
Proud and joyful was the mother.
All the days were full of sunshine;
All the nights were full of star light.
Nightly from the land of spirits
On them smiled the starry faces,—
Faces of their friends departed.
Little moccasins she made him,
Feathered cap and belt of wampum;
From the hide of fawn a blanket,
Fringed with feathers soft as sable;
Singing at her pleasant labor,
By her side the tekenâgun 106 And the little hunter in it.
Oft the Panther smiled and fondled,
Smiled upon the babe and mother,
Frolicked with the boy and fondled.
Tall he grew and like his father,
And they called the boy the Raven—
Called him Kâk-kâh-gè—the Raven.
Happy hunter was the Panther.
From the woods he brought the pheasant,
Brought the red deer and the rabbit,
Brought the trout from Gitchee Gumee—
Brought the mallard from the marshes,—
Royal feast for boy and mother:
Brought the hides of fox and beaver,
Brought the skins of mink and otter,
Lured the loon and took his blanket,
Took his blanket for the Raven.
Winter swiftly followed winter,
And again the tekenâgun
Held a babe—a tawny daughter,
Held a dark-eyed, dimpled daughter;
And they called her Waub-omeé-meé,—
Thus they named her—the White-Pigeon.
But as winter followed winter
Cold and sullen grew the Panther;
Sat and smoked his pipe in silence;
When he spoke he spoke in anger;
In the forest often tarried
Many days, and homeward turning,
Brought no game unto his wigwam:
Only brought his empty quiver,
Brought his dark and sullen visage.
Sad at heart and very lonely
Sat the Sea-Gull in the wigwam;
Sat and swung the tekenâgun,
Sat and sang to Waub-omeé-meé;
Thus she sang to Waub-omeé-meé,
Thus the lullaby she chanted:
Wâ-wa, wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà;
Kah-wéen, nee-zhéka kè-diaus-âi,
Ke-gâh nau-wâi, ne-mé-go s'wéen,
Ne-bâun, ne-bâun, ne-dâun-is-âis,
Wâ-wa, wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà;
Ne-bâun, ne-bâun, ne-dâun-is-âis,
E-we wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà,
E-we wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà,
[TRANSLATION]
Swing, swing little one, lullaby;
Thou'rt not left alone to weep;
Mother cares for you,—she is nigh;
Sleep, my little one, sweetly sleep;
Swing, swing, little one, lullaby;
Mother watches you—she is nigh;
Gently, gently, wee one swing;
Gently, gently, while I sing
E-we wâ-wa—lullaby,
E-we wâ-wa-lullaby.
Ride the storms and speak in thunder,
In the days of Neme-Shómis, 103 In the days that are forgotten,
Dwelt a tall and tawny hunter—
Gitchee Péz-ze-ú—the panther,
Son of Waub-Ojeeg, 104 the warrior,
Famous Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior.
Strong was he and fleet as roebuck,
Brave was he and very stealthy;
On the deer crept like a panther;
Grappled with Makwá, 105 the monster,
Grappled with the bear and conquered;
Took his black claws for a necklet,
Took his black hide for a blanket.
When the Panther wed the Sea-Gull,
Young was he and very gladsome;
Fair was she and full of laughter;
Like the robin in the spring time,
Sang from sunrise till the sunset;
For she loved the handsome hunter.
Deep as Gitchee Gumee's waters
Was her love—as broad and boundless;
And the wedded twain were happy—
Happy as the mated robins.
When their first born saw the sunlight
Joyful was the heart of Panther,
Proud and joyful was the mother.
All the days were full of sunshine;
All the nights were full of star light.
Nightly from the land of spirits
On them smiled the starry faces,—
Faces of their friends departed.
Little moccasins she made him,
Feathered cap and belt of wampum;
From the hide of fawn a blanket,
Fringed with feathers soft as sable;
Singing at her pleasant labor,
By her side the tekenâgun 106 And the little hunter in it.
Oft the Panther smiled and fondled,
Smiled upon the babe and mother,
Frolicked with the boy and fondled.
Tall he grew and like his father,
And they called the boy the Raven—
Called him Kâk-kâh-gè—the Raven.
Happy hunter was the Panther.
From the woods he brought the pheasant,
Brought the red deer and the rabbit,
Brought the trout from Gitchee Gumee—
Brought the mallard from the marshes,—
Royal feast for boy and mother:
Brought the hides of fox and beaver,
Brought the skins of mink and otter,
Lured the loon and took his blanket,
Took his blanket for the Raven.
Winter swiftly followed winter,
And again the tekenâgun
Held a babe—a tawny daughter,
Held a dark-eyed, dimpled daughter;
And they called her Waub-omeé-meé,—
Thus they named her—the White-Pigeon.
But as winter followed winter
Cold and sullen grew the Panther;
Sat and smoked his pipe in silence;
When he spoke he spoke in anger;
In the forest often tarried
Many days, and homeward turning,
Brought no game unto his wigwam:
Only brought his empty quiver,
Brought his dark and sullen visage.
Sad at heart and very lonely
Sat the Sea-Gull in the wigwam;
Sat and swung the tekenâgun,
Sat and sang to Waub-omeé-meé;
Thus she sang to Waub-omeé-meé,
Thus the lullaby she chanted:
Wâ-wa, wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà;
Kah-wéen, nee-zhéka kè-diaus-âi,
Ke-gâh nau-wâi, ne-mé-go s'wéen,
Ne-bâun, ne-bâun, ne-dâun-is-âis,
Wâ-wa, wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà;
Ne-bâun, ne-bâun, ne-dâun-is-âis,
E-we wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà,
E-we wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà,
[TRANSLATION]
Swing, swing little one, lullaby;
Thou'rt not left alone to weep;
Mother cares for you,—she is nigh;
Sleep, my little one, sweetly sleep;
Swing, swing, little one, lullaby;
Mother watches you—she is nigh;
Gently, gently, wee one swing;
Gently, gently, while I sing
E-we wâ-wa—lullaby,
E-we wâ-wa-lullaby.
Homeward to his lodge returning
Kindly greeting found the hunter,
Fire to warm and food to nourish,
Golden trout from Gitchee Gumee,
Caught by Kâk-kâh-gè—the Raven.
With a snare he caught the rabbit—
Caught Wabóse, the furry footed, 107 Caught Penây, the forest drummer; 107 Sometimes with his bow and arrows,
Shot the red deer in the forest.
Shot the squirrel in the pine top,
Shot Ne-kâ, the wild goose, flying.
Proud as Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior,
To the lodge he bore his trophies
So when homeward turned the Panther
Ever found he food provided,
Found the lodge-fire brightly burning,
Found the faithful Sea-Gull waiting.
"You are cold," she said, "and famished;
Here are fire and food, my husband."
Not by word or look he answered;
Only ate the food provided,
Filled, his pipe and pensive puffed it,
Smoked and sat in sullen silence.
Once—her dark eyes full of hunger—
Thus she spoke and thus besought him:
"Tell me, O my silent Panther,
Tell me, O beloved husband,
What has made you sad and sullen?
Have you met some evil spirit—
Met some goblin in the forest?
Has he put a spell upon you—
Filled your heart with bitter waters,
That you sit so sad and sullen,
Sit and smoke, but never answer,
Only when the storm is on you?"
Gruffly then the Panther answered:
"Brave among the brave is Panther,
Son of Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior,
And the brave are ever silent;
But a whining dog is woman,
Whining ever like a coward."
Forth into the tangled forest,
Threading through the thorny thickets,
Treading, trails on marsh and meadow,
Sullen strode the moody hunter.
Saw he not the bear or beaver,
Saw he not the elk or roebuck;
From his path the red fawn scampered,
But no arrow followed after;
From his den the sly wolf listened,
But no twang of bow-string heard he.
Like one walking in his slumber,
Listless, dreaming walked the Panther;
Surely had some witch bewitched him,
Some bad spirit of the forest.
When the Sea-Gull wed the Panther,
Fair was she and full of laughter;
Like the robin in the spring-time,
Sang from sunrise till the sunset;
But the storms of many winters
Sifted frost upon her tresses,
Seamed her tawny face with wrinkles.
Not alone the storms of winters
Seamed her tawny face with wrinkles.
Twenty winters for the Panther
Had she ruled the humble wigwam;
For her haughty lord and master
Borne the burdens on the journey,
Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire,
Tanned the skins of bear and beaver,
Tanned the hides of moose and red deer;
Made him moccasins and leggings,
Decked his hood with quills and feathers—
Colored quills of Kaug, the thorny, 108 Feathers from Kenéw—the eagle. 108 For a warrior brave was Panther;
Often had he met the foemen,
Met the bold and fierce Dakotas;
Westward on the war-path met them;
And the scalps he won were numbered,
Numbered seven by Kenéw-feathers.
Sad at heart was Sea-Gull waiting,
Watching, waiting in the wigwam;
Not alone the storms of winters
Sifted frost upon her tresses.
Ka-be-bón-ík-ka, the mighty, 109 He that sends the cruel winter,
He that turned to stone the Giant,
From the distant Thunder-mountain,
Far across broad Gitchee Gumee,
Sent his warning of the winter,
Sent the white frost and Kewâydin, 1010 Sent the swift and hungry North-wind.
Homeward to the South the Summer
Turned and fled the naked forests.
With the Summer flew the robin,
Flew the bobolink and blue-bird.
Flock wise following chosen leaders,
Like the shaftless heads of arrows
Southward cleaving through the ether,
Soon the wild geese followed after.
One long moon the Sea-Gull waited,
Watched and waited for her husband,
Till at last she heard his footsteps,
Heard him coming through the thicket.
Forth she went to meet her husband,
Joyful went to greet her husband.
Lo behind the haughty hunter,
Closely following in his footsteps,
Walked a young and handsome woman,
Walked the Red Fox from the island—
Gitchee Ménis—the Grand Island,—
Followed him into the wigwam,
Proudly took her seat beside him.
On the Red Fox smiled the hunter,
On the hunter smiled the woman.
Old and wrinkled was the Sea-Gull,
Good and true, but old and wrinkled.
Twenty winters for the Panther
Had she ruled the humble wigwam,
Borne the burdens on the journey,
Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire,
Tanned the skins of bear and beaver,
Tanned the hides of moose and red deer,
Made him moccasins and leggings,
Decked his hood with quills and feathers,
Colored quills of Kaug, the thorny,
Feathers from the great war-eagle;
Ever diligent and faithful,
Ever patient, ne'er complaining.
but like all brave men the Panther
Loved a young and handsome woman;
So he dallied with the danger,
Dallied with the fair Algónkin, 1011 Till a magic mead she gave him,
Brewed of buds of birch and cedar. 1012Madly then he loved the woman;
Then she ruled him, then she held him
Tangled in her raven tresses,
Tied and tangled in her tresses.
Ah, the tail and tawny Panther!
Ah, the brave and brawny Panther!
Son of Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior!
With a slender hair she led him,
With a slender hair he drew him,
Drew him often to her wigwam;
There she bound him, there she held him
Tangled in her raven tresses,
Tied and tangled in her tresses.
Ah, the best of men are tangled—
Sometime tangled in the tresses
Of a fair and crafty woman.
So the Panther wed the Red Fox,
And she followed to his wigwam.
Young again he seemed and gladsome,
Glad as Raven when the father
Made his first bow from the elm-tree,
From the ash tree made his arrows,
Taught him how to aim his arrows,
How to shoot Wabóse—the rabbit.
Then again the brawny hunter
Brought the black bear and the beaver,
Brought the haunch of elk and red-deer,
Brought the rabbit and the pheasant—
Choicest bits of all for Red Fox.
For her robes he brought the sable,
Brought the otter and the ermine,
Brought the black-fox tipped with silver.
But the Sea-Gull murmured never,
Not a word she spoke in anger,
Went about her work as ever,
Tanned the skins of bear and beaver,
Tanned the hides of moose and red deer,
Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire,
Gathered rushes from the marches;
Deftly into mats she wove them;
Kept the lodge as bright as ever.
Only to herself she murmured,
All alone with Waub-omeé-meé,
On the tall and toppling highland,
O'er the wilderness of waters;
Murmured to the murmuring waters,
Murmured to the Nébe-nâw-baigs—
To the spirits of the waters;
On the wild waves poured her sorrow,
Save the infant on her bosom
With her dark eyes wide with wonder,
None to hear her but the spirits,
And the murmuring pines above her.
Thus she cast away her burdens,
Cast her burdens on the waters;
Thus unto the Mighty Spirit,
Made her lowly lamentation:
"Wahonówin!—Wahonówin!" 1013 Gitchee Mânito, benâ nin!
Nah, Ba-bâ, showâin neméshin!
"Wahonówin!—Wahonówin!"
Ka-be-bón-ík-ka, the mighty, 109 He that sends the cruel winter,
From the distant Thunder-mountain,
On the shore of Gitchee Gumee—
On the rugged northern limit,
Sent his solemn, final warning,
Sent the white wolves of the Nor'land 1014 Like the dust of stars in ether—
In the Pathway of the Spirits. 1015 Like the sparkling dust of diamonds,
Fell the frost upon the forest,
On the mountains and the meadows,
On the wilderness of woodland.
On the wilderness of waters.
All the lingering fowls departed—
All that seek the South in winter,
All but Shingebís, the diver. 1016 He defies the Winter-maker,
Sits and laughs at Winter-maker.
Ka-be-bón-ík-ka, the mighty,
From his wigwam called Kewáydin,—
From his home among the ice-bergs,
From the sea of frozen waters,
Called the swift and hungry North-wind.
Then he spread his mighty pinions
Over all the land and shook them,
Like the white down of Wâubésè 1017 Fell the feathery snow and covered,
All the marshes and the meadows,
All the hill-tops and the highlands.
Then old Péboân—the winter—1018 Laughed along the stormy waters,
Danced upon the windy headlands,
On the storm his white hair streaming,—
And his steaming breath, ascending,
On the pine-tops and the cedars
Fell in frosty mists refulgent,
Sprinkling somber shades with silver,
Sprinkling all the woods with silver.
By the lodge-fire all the winter
Sat the Sea-Gull and the Red Fox,
Sat and kindly spoke and chatted,
Till the twain seemed friends together.
Friends they seemed in word and action,
But within the breast of either
Smouldered still the baneful embers—
Fires of jealousy and hatred,—
Like a camp-fire in the forest
Left by hunters and deserted;
Only seems a bed of ashes,
But the East-wind, Wâbun noódin,
Scatters through the woods the ashes,
Fans to flame the sleeping embers,
And the wild-fire roars and rages,
Roars and rages through the forest.
So the baneful embers smouldered,
Smouldered in the breast of either.
From the far-off Sunny Islands,
From the pleasant land of Summer,
Where the spirits of the blessèd
Feel no more the fangs of hunger,
Or the cold breath of Kewâydin,
Came a stately youth and handsome,
Came Según the foe of Winter. 1019 Like the rising sun his face was,
Like the shining stars his eyes were,
Light his footsteps as the Morning's.
In his hand were buds and blossoms,
On his brow a blooming garland.
Straightway to the icy wigwam
Of old Péboân, the Winter,
Strode Según and quickly entered.
There old Péboân sat and shivered,
Shivered o'er his dying lodge-fire.
"Ah, my son, I bid you welcome;
Sit and tell me your adventures;
I will tell you of my power;
We will pass the night together."
Thus spake Péboân—the Winter;
Then he filled his pipe and lighted;
Then by sacred custom raised it
To the spirits in the ether;
To the spirits in the caverns
Of the hollow earth he lowered it.
Thus he passed it to the spirits,
And the unseen spirits puffed it.
Next himself old Péboân honored;
Thrice he puffed his pipe and passed it,
Passed it to the handsome stranger.
"Lo I blow my breath," said Winter,
"And the laughing brooks are silent;
Hard as flint become the waters,
And the rabbit runs upon them."
Then Según, the fair youth, answered:
"Lo I breathe upon the hill-sides,
On the valleys and the meadows,
And behold, as if by magic—
By the magic of the Spirits,
Spring the flowers and tender grasses."
Then old Péboân replying:
"Nah! 1020 I breathe upon the forests,
And the leaves fall sere and yellow;
Then I shake my locks and snow falls,
Covering all the naked landscape."
Then Según arose and answered:
"Nashké! 1020—see!—I shake my ringlets;
On the earth the warm rain falleth,
And the flowers look up like children
Glad-eyed from their mother's bosom.
Lo my voice recalls the robin,
Brings the bobolink and blue-bird,
And the woods are full of music.
With my breath I melt their fetters,
And the brooks leap laughing onward."
Then old Péboân looked upon him,
Looked and knew Según, the Summer,
From his eyes the big tears started
And his boastful tongue was silent.
Now Keezís 1021—the great life-giver,
From his wigwam in Waubú-nong 1021 Rose and wrapped his shining blanket
Round his giant form and started;
Westward started on his journey,
Striding on from hill to hill-top.
Upward then he climbed the ether—
On the Bridge of Stars 1022 he traveled,
Westward traveled on his journey
To the far-off Sunset Mountains—
To the gloomy land of shadows.
Kindly greeting found the hunter,
Fire to warm and food to nourish,
Golden trout from Gitchee Gumee,
Caught by Kâk-kâh-gè—the Raven.
With a snare he caught the rabbit—
Caught Wabóse, the furry footed, 107 Caught Penây, the forest drummer; 107 Sometimes with his bow and arrows,
Shot the red deer in the forest.
Shot the squirrel in the pine top,
Shot Ne-kâ, the wild goose, flying.
Proud as Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior,
To the lodge he bore his trophies
So when homeward turned the Panther
Ever found he food provided,
Found the lodge-fire brightly burning,
Found the faithful Sea-Gull waiting.
"You are cold," she said, "and famished;
Here are fire and food, my husband."
Not by word or look he answered;
Only ate the food provided,
Filled, his pipe and pensive puffed it,
Smoked and sat in sullen silence.
Once—her dark eyes full of hunger—
Thus she spoke and thus besought him:
"Tell me, O my silent Panther,
Tell me, O beloved husband,
What has made you sad and sullen?
Have you met some evil spirit—
Met some goblin in the forest?
Has he put a spell upon you—
Filled your heart with bitter waters,
That you sit so sad and sullen,
Sit and smoke, but never answer,
Only when the storm is on you?"
Gruffly then the Panther answered:
"Brave among the brave is Panther,
Son of Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior,
And the brave are ever silent;
But a whining dog is woman,
Whining ever like a coward."
Forth into the tangled forest,
Threading through the thorny thickets,
Treading, trails on marsh and meadow,
Sullen strode the moody hunter.
Saw he not the bear or beaver,
Saw he not the elk or roebuck;
From his path the red fawn scampered,
But no arrow followed after;
From his den the sly wolf listened,
But no twang of bow-string heard he.
Like one walking in his slumber,
Listless, dreaming walked the Panther;
Surely had some witch bewitched him,
Some bad spirit of the forest.
When the Sea-Gull wed the Panther,
Fair was she and full of laughter;
Like the robin in the spring-time,
Sang from sunrise till the sunset;
But the storms of many winters
Sifted frost upon her tresses,
Seamed her tawny face with wrinkles.
Not alone the storms of winters
Seamed her tawny face with wrinkles.
Twenty winters for the Panther
Had she ruled the humble wigwam;
For her haughty lord and master
Borne the burdens on the journey,
Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire,
Tanned the skins of bear and beaver,
Tanned the hides of moose and red deer;
Made him moccasins and leggings,
Decked his hood with quills and feathers—
Colored quills of Kaug, the thorny, 108 Feathers from Kenéw—the eagle. 108 For a warrior brave was Panther;
Often had he met the foemen,
Met the bold and fierce Dakotas;
Westward on the war-path met them;
And the scalps he won were numbered,
Numbered seven by Kenéw-feathers.
Sad at heart was Sea-Gull waiting,
Watching, waiting in the wigwam;
Not alone the storms of winters
Sifted frost upon her tresses.
Ka-be-bón-ík-ka, the mighty, 109 He that sends the cruel winter,
He that turned to stone the Giant,
From the distant Thunder-mountain,
Far across broad Gitchee Gumee,
Sent his warning of the winter,
Sent the white frost and Kewâydin, 1010 Sent the swift and hungry North-wind.
Homeward to the South the Summer
Turned and fled the naked forests.
With the Summer flew the robin,
Flew the bobolink and blue-bird.
Flock wise following chosen leaders,
Like the shaftless heads of arrows
Southward cleaving through the ether,
Soon the wild geese followed after.
One long moon the Sea-Gull waited,
Watched and waited for her husband,
Till at last she heard his footsteps,
Heard him coming through the thicket.
Forth she went to meet her husband,
Joyful went to greet her husband.
Lo behind the haughty hunter,
Closely following in his footsteps,
Walked a young and handsome woman,
Walked the Red Fox from the island—
Gitchee Ménis—the Grand Island,—
Followed him into the wigwam,
Proudly took her seat beside him.
On the Red Fox smiled the hunter,
On the hunter smiled the woman.
Old and wrinkled was the Sea-Gull,
Good and true, but old and wrinkled.
Twenty winters for the Panther
Had she ruled the humble wigwam,
Borne the burdens on the journey,
Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire,
Tanned the skins of bear and beaver,
Tanned the hides of moose and red deer,
Made him moccasins and leggings,
Decked his hood with quills and feathers,
Colored quills of Kaug, the thorny,
Feathers from the great war-eagle;
Ever diligent and faithful,
Ever patient, ne'er complaining.
but like all brave men the Panther
Loved a young and handsome woman;
So he dallied with the danger,
Dallied with the fair Algónkin, 1011 Till a magic mead she gave him,
Brewed of buds of birch and cedar. 1012Madly then he loved the woman;
Then she ruled him, then she held him
Tangled in her raven tresses,
Tied and tangled in her tresses.
Ah, the tail and tawny Panther!
Ah, the brave and brawny Panther!
Son of Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior!
With a slender hair she led him,
With a slender hair he drew him,
Drew him often to her wigwam;
There she bound him, there she held him
Tangled in her raven tresses,
Tied and tangled in her tresses.
Ah, the best of men are tangled—
Sometime tangled in the tresses
Of a fair and crafty woman.
So the Panther wed the Red Fox,
And she followed to his wigwam.
Young again he seemed and gladsome,
Glad as Raven when the father
Made his first bow from the elm-tree,
From the ash tree made his arrows,
Taught him how to aim his arrows,
How to shoot Wabóse—the rabbit.
Then again the brawny hunter
Brought the black bear and the beaver,
Brought the haunch of elk and red-deer,
Brought the rabbit and the pheasant—
Choicest bits of all for Red Fox.
For her robes he brought the sable,
Brought the otter and the ermine,
Brought the black-fox tipped with silver.
But the Sea-Gull murmured never,
Not a word she spoke in anger,
Went about her work as ever,
Tanned the skins of bear and beaver,
Tanned the hides of moose and red deer,
Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire,
Gathered rushes from the marches;
Deftly into mats she wove them;
Kept the lodge as bright as ever.
Only to herself she murmured,
All alone with Waub-omeé-meé,
On the tall and toppling highland,
O'er the wilderness of waters;
Murmured to the murmuring waters,
Murmured to the Nébe-nâw-baigs—
To the spirits of the waters;
On the wild waves poured her sorrow,
Save the infant on her bosom
With her dark eyes wide with wonder,
None to hear her but the spirits,
And the murmuring pines above her.
Thus she cast away her burdens,
Cast her burdens on the waters;
Thus unto the Mighty Spirit,
Made her lowly lamentation:
"Wahonówin!—Wahonówin!" 1013 Gitchee Mânito, benâ nin!
Nah, Ba-bâ, showâin neméshin!
"Wahonówin!—Wahonówin!"
Ka-be-bón-ík-ka, the mighty, 109 He that sends the cruel winter,
From the distant Thunder-mountain,
On the shore of Gitchee Gumee—
On the rugged northern limit,
Sent his solemn, final warning,
Sent the white wolves of the Nor'land 1014 Like the dust of stars in ether—
In the Pathway of the Spirits. 1015 Like the sparkling dust of diamonds,
Fell the frost upon the forest,
On the mountains and the meadows,
On the wilderness of woodland.
On the wilderness of waters.
All the lingering fowls departed—
All that seek the South in winter,
All but Shingebís, the diver. 1016 He defies the Winter-maker,
Sits and laughs at Winter-maker.
Ka-be-bón-ík-ka, the mighty,
From his wigwam called Kewáydin,—
From his home among the ice-bergs,
From the sea of frozen waters,
Called the swift and hungry North-wind.
Then he spread his mighty pinions
Over all the land and shook them,
Like the white down of Wâubésè 1017 Fell the feathery snow and covered,
All the marshes and the meadows,
All the hill-tops and the highlands.
Then old Péboân—the winter—1018 Laughed along the stormy waters,
Danced upon the windy headlands,
On the storm his white hair streaming,—
And his steaming breath, ascending,
On the pine-tops and the cedars
Fell in frosty mists refulgent,
Sprinkling somber shades with silver,
Sprinkling all the woods with silver.
By the lodge-fire all the winter
Sat the Sea-Gull and the Red Fox,
Sat and kindly spoke and chatted,
Till the twain seemed friends together.
Friends they seemed in word and action,
But within the breast of either
Smouldered still the baneful embers—
Fires of jealousy and hatred,—
Like a camp-fire in the forest
Left by hunters and deserted;
Only seems a bed of ashes,
But the East-wind, Wâbun noódin,
Scatters through the woods the ashes,
Fans to flame the sleeping embers,
And the wild-fire roars and rages,
Roars and rages through the forest.
So the baneful embers smouldered,
Smouldered in the breast of either.
From the far-off Sunny Islands,
From the pleasant land of Summer,
Where the spirits of the blessèd
Feel no more the fangs of hunger,
Or the cold breath of Kewâydin,
Came a stately youth and handsome,
Came Según the foe of Winter. 1019 Like the rising sun his face was,
Like the shining stars his eyes were,
Light his footsteps as the Morning's.
In his hand were buds and blossoms,
On his brow a blooming garland.
Straightway to the icy wigwam
Of old Péboân, the Winter,
Strode Según and quickly entered.
There old Péboân sat and shivered,
Shivered o'er his dying lodge-fire.
"Ah, my son, I bid you welcome;
Sit and tell me your adventures;
I will tell you of my power;
We will pass the night together."
Thus spake Péboân—the Winter;
Then he filled his pipe and lighted;
Then by sacred custom raised it
To the spirits in the ether;
To the spirits in the caverns
Of the hollow earth he lowered it.
Thus he passed it to the spirits,
And the unseen spirits puffed it.
Next himself old Péboân honored;
Thrice he puffed his pipe and passed it,
Passed it to the handsome stranger.
"Lo I blow my breath," said Winter,
"And the laughing brooks are silent;
Hard as flint become the waters,
And the rabbit runs upon them."
Then Según, the fair youth, answered:
"Lo I breathe upon the hill-sides,
On the valleys and the meadows,
And behold, as if by magic—
By the magic of the Spirits,
Spring the flowers and tender grasses."
Then old Péboân replying:
"Nah! 1020 I breathe upon the forests,
And the leaves fall sere and yellow;
Then I shake my locks and snow falls,
Covering all the naked landscape."
Then Según arose and answered:
"Nashké! 1020—see!—I shake my ringlets;
On the earth the warm rain falleth,
And the flowers look up like children
Glad-eyed from their mother's bosom.
Lo my voice recalls the robin,
Brings the bobolink and blue-bird,
And the woods are full of music.
With my breath I melt their fetters,
And the brooks leap laughing onward."
Then old Péboân looked upon him,
Looked and knew Según, the Summer,
From his eyes the big tears started
And his boastful tongue was silent.
Now Keezís 1021—the great life-giver,
From his wigwam in Waubú-nong 1021 Rose and wrapped his shining blanket
Round his giant form and started;
Westward started on his journey,
Striding on from hill to hill-top.
Upward then he climbed the ether—
On the Bridge of Stars 1022 he traveled,
Westward traveled on his journey
To the far-off Sunset Mountains—
To the gloomy land of shadows.
On the lodge-poles sang the robin,—
And the brooks began to murmur.
On the South wind floated fragrance
Of the early buds and blossoms.
From old Péboân's eyes the teardrops
Down his pale face ran in streamlets;
Less and less he grew in stature
Till he melted doun to nothing;
And behold, from out the ashes,
From the ashes of his lodge-fire,
Sprang the Miscodeed 1023 and, blushing,
Welcomed Según to the North-land.
So from Sunny Isles returning,
From the Summer-Land of spirits,
On the poles of Panther's wigwam
Sang Opeé-chee—sang the robin.
In the maples cooed the pigeons—
Cooed and wooed like silly lovers.
"Hah!—hah!" laughed the crow derisive,
In the pine-top, at their folly,—
Laughed and jeered the silly lovers.
Blind with love were they, and saw not;
Deaf to all but love, and heard not;
So they cooed and wooed unheeding,
Till the gray hawk pounced upon them,
And the old crow shook with laughter.
On the tall cliff by the sea-shore
Red Fox made a swing. She fastened
Thongs of moose-hide to the pine-tree,
To the strong arm of the pine-tree.
like a hawk, above the waters,
There she swung herself and fluttered,
Laughing at the thought of danger,
Swung and fluttered o'er the waters.
Then she bantered Sea-Gull, saying,
"See!—I swing above the billows!
Dare you swing above the billows,—
Swing like me above the billows?"
To herself said Sea-Gull—"Surely
I will dare whatever danger
Dares the Red Fox—dares my rival;
She shall never call me coward."
So she swung above the waters—
Dizzy height above the waters,
Pushed and aided by her rival,
To and fro with reckless daring,
Till the strong tree rocked and trembled,
Rocked and trembled with its burden.
As above the yawning billows
Flew the Sea-Gull like a whirlwind,
Red Fox, swifter than red lightning,
Cut the cords, and headlong downward,
Like an osprey from the ether,
Like a wild-goose pierced with arrows,
Fluttering fell the frantic woman,
Fluttering fell into the waters—
Plunged and sank beneath the waters!
Hark!—the wailing of the West-wind!
Hark!—the wailing of the waters,
And the beating of the billows!
But no more the voice of Sea-Gull.
In the wigwam sat the Red Fox,
Hushed the wail of Waub-omeé-meé,
Weeping for her absent mother.
With the twinkling stars the hunter
From the forest came and Raven.
"Sea-Gull wanders late" said Red Fox,
"Late she wanders by the sea-shore,
And some evil may befall her."
In the misty morning twilight
Forth went Panther and the Raven,
Searched the forest and the marshes,
Searched for leagues along the lake-shore,
Searched the islands and the highlands;
But they found no trace or tidings,
Found no track in marsh or meadow,
Found no trail in fen or forest,
On the shore sand found no foot-prints.
Many days they sought and found not.
Then to Panther spoke the Raven:
"She is in the Land of Spirits—
Surely in the Land of Spirits.
High at midnight I beheld her—
Like a flying star beheld her—
To the waves of Gitchee Gumee,
Downward flashing through the ether.
Thus she flashed that I might see her,
See and know my mother's spirit;
Thus she pointed to the waters,
And beneath them lies her body,
In the wigwam of the spirits—
In the lodge of Nébe-nâw-baigs." 1024
Then spoke Panther to the Raven:
"On the tall cliff by the waters
Wait and watch with Waub-omeé-meé.
If the Sea-Gull hear the wailing
Of her infant she will answer."
On the tall cliff by the waters
So the Raven watched and waited;
All the day he watched and waited,
But the hungry infant slumbered,
Slumbered by the side of Raven,
Till the pines' gigantic shadows
Stretched and pointed to Waubú-Nong—1021 To the far off land of Sunrise;
Then the wee one woke and famished,
Made a long and piteous wailing.
From afar where sky and waters
Meet in misty haze and mingle,
Straight toward the rocky highland,
Straight as flies die feathered arrow,
Straight to Raven and the infant
Swiftly flew a snow white sea-gull.—
Flew and touched the earth a woman.
And behold, the long-lost mother
Caught her wailing child and nursed her,
Sang a lullaby and nursed her.
Thrice was wound a chain of silver
Round her waist and strongly fastened.
Far away into the waters—
To the wigwam of the spirits,—
To the lodge of Nébe-nâw-baigs,—
Stretched the magic chain of silver.
Spoke the mother to the Raven:
"O my son—my brave young hunter,
Feed my tender little orphan;
Be a father to my orphan;
Be a mother to my orphan,—
For the Crafty Red Fox robbed us,—
Robbed the Sea-Gull of her husband,
Robbed the infant of her mother.
From this cliff the treacherous woman
Headlong into Gitchee Gumee
Plunged the mother of my orphan.
Then a Nébe-nâw-baig caught me,—
Chief of all the Nébe-nâw-baigs—
Took me to his shining wigwam,
In the cavern of the waters,
Deep beneath the might waters.
All below is burnished copper,
All above is burnished silver
Gemmed with amethyst and agates.
As his wife the Spirit holds me;
By this silver chain he holds me.
When my little one is famished,
When with long and piteous wailing
Cries the orphan for her mother,
Hither bring her, O my Raven;
I will hear her,—I will answer.
Now the Nébe-nâw-baig calls me,—
Pulls the chain,—I must obey him."
Thus she spoke and in the twinkling
Of a star the spirit-woman
Changed into a snow-white sea-gull,
Spread her wings and o'er the waters
Swiftly flew and swiftly vanished.
Then in secret to the Panther
Raven told his tale of wonder.
Sad and sullen was the hunter;
Sorrow gnawed his heart like hunger;
All the old love came upon him,
And the new love was a hatred.
Hateful to his heart was Red Fox,
But he kept from her the secret—
Kept his knowledge of the murder.
Vain was she and very haughty—-
Oge-mâ-kwa 1025 of the wigwam.
All in vain her fond caresses
On the Panther now she lavished;
When she smiled his face was sullen,
When she laughed he frowned upon her;
In her net of raven tresses
Now no more she held him tangled.
Now through all her fair disguises
Panther saw an evil spirit,
Saw the false heart of the woman.
On the tall cliff o'er the waters
Raven sat with Waub-omeé-meé,
Sat and watched again and waited,
Till the wee one faint and famished,
Made a long and piteous wailing.
Then again the snow-white Sea-Gull
From afar where sky and waters
Meet in misty haze and mingle,
Straight toward the rocky highland,
Straight as flies the feathered arrow,
Straight to Raven and the infant,
With the silver chain around her,
Flew and touched the earth a woman.
In her arms she caught her infant—
Caught the wailing Waub-omeé-meé,
Sang a lullaby and nursed her.
Sprang the Panther from the thicket—
Sprang and broke the chain of silver!
With his tomahawk he broke it.
Thus he freed the willing Sea-Gull—
From the Water-Spirit freed her,
From the Chief of Nébe-nâw-baigs.
Very angry was the Spirit;
When he drew the chain of silver,
Drew and found that it was broken,
Found that he had lost the woman,
Very angry was the Spirit.
Then he raged beneath the waters,
Raged and smote the mighty waters,
Till the big sea boiled and bubbled,
Till the white-haired, bounding billows
Roared around the rocky head-lands,
Roared and plashed upon the shingle.
To the wigwam happy Panther,
As when first he wooed and won her,
Led his wife—as young and handsome.
For the waves of Gitchee Gumee
Washed away the frost and wrinkles,
And the Spirits by their magic
Made her young and fair forever.
In the wigwam sat the Red Fox,
Sat and sang a song of triumph,
For she little dreamed of danger,
Till the haughty hunter entered,
Followed by the happy mother,
Holding in her arms her infant.
Then the Red Fox saw the Sea-Gull—
Saw the dead a living woman,
One wild cry she gave despairing,
One wild cry as of a demon.
Up she sprang and from the wigwam
To the tall cliff flew in terror;
Frantic sprang upon the margin,
Frantic plunged into the water,
Headlong plunged into the waters.
Dead she tossed upon the billows;
For the Nébe-nâw-baigs knew her,
Knew the crafty, wicked woman,
And they cast her from the waters,
Spurned her from their shining wigwams;
Far away upon the shingle
With the roaring waves they cast her.
There upon her bloated body
Fed the cawing crows and ravens,
Fed the hungry wolves and foxes.
On the shore of Gitchee Gumee,
Ever young and ever handsome,
Long and happy lived the Sea-Gull,
Long and happy with the Panther.
Evermore the happy hunter
Loved the mother of his children.
Like a red star many winters
Blazed their lodge-fire on the sea-shore.
O'er the Bridge of Souls together 1026 Walked the Sea-Gull and the Panther.
To the far-off Sunny Islands—
To the Summer-Land of Spirits,
Where no more the happy hunter
Feels the fangs of frost or famine,
Or the keen blasts of Kewâydin.
Where no pain or sorrow enters,
And no crafty, wicked woman,
Sea-Gull journeyed with her husband.
There she rules his lodge forever,
And the twain are very happy,
On the far-off Sunny Islands,
In the Summer-Land of Spirits.
On the rocks of Gitchee Gumee—
On the Pictured Rocks—the Legend
Long ago was traced and written,
Pictured by the Water Spirits;
But the storms of many winters
Have bedimmed the pictured story,
So that none can read the legend
But the Jossakeeds, the prophets. 1027
[Illustration: CRYSTAL BAY, LAKE MINNETONKA.]
And the brooks began to murmur.
On the South wind floated fragrance
Of the early buds and blossoms.
From old Péboân's eyes the teardrops
Down his pale face ran in streamlets;
Less and less he grew in stature
Till he melted doun to nothing;
And behold, from out the ashes,
From the ashes of his lodge-fire,
Sprang the Miscodeed 1023 and, blushing,
Welcomed Según to the North-land.
So from Sunny Isles returning,
From the Summer-Land of spirits,
On the poles of Panther's wigwam
Sang Opeé-chee—sang the robin.
In the maples cooed the pigeons—
Cooed and wooed like silly lovers.
"Hah!—hah!" laughed the crow derisive,
In the pine-top, at their folly,—
Laughed and jeered the silly lovers.
Blind with love were they, and saw not;
Deaf to all but love, and heard not;
So they cooed and wooed unheeding,
Till the gray hawk pounced upon them,
And the old crow shook with laughter.
On the tall cliff by the sea-shore
Red Fox made a swing. She fastened
Thongs of moose-hide to the pine-tree,
To the strong arm of the pine-tree.
like a hawk, above the waters,
There she swung herself and fluttered,
Laughing at the thought of danger,
Swung and fluttered o'er the waters.
Then she bantered Sea-Gull, saying,
"See!—I swing above the billows!
Dare you swing above the billows,—
Swing like me above the billows?"
To herself said Sea-Gull—"Surely
I will dare whatever danger
Dares the Red Fox—dares my rival;
She shall never call me coward."
So she swung above the waters—
Dizzy height above the waters,
Pushed and aided by her rival,
To and fro with reckless daring,
Till the strong tree rocked and trembled,
Rocked and trembled with its burden.
As above the yawning billows
Flew the Sea-Gull like a whirlwind,
Red Fox, swifter than red lightning,
Cut the cords, and headlong downward,
Like an osprey from the ether,
Like a wild-goose pierced with arrows,
Fluttering fell the frantic woman,
Fluttering fell into the waters—
Plunged and sank beneath the waters!
Hark!—the wailing of the West-wind!
Hark!—the wailing of the waters,
And the beating of the billows!
But no more the voice of Sea-Gull.
In the wigwam sat the Red Fox,
Hushed the wail of Waub-omeé-meé,
Weeping for her absent mother.
With the twinkling stars the hunter
From the forest came and Raven.
"Sea-Gull wanders late" said Red Fox,
"Late she wanders by the sea-shore,
And some evil may befall her."
In the misty morning twilight
Forth went Panther and the Raven,
Searched the forest and the marshes,
Searched for leagues along the lake-shore,
Searched the islands and the highlands;
But they found no trace or tidings,
Found no track in marsh or meadow,
Found no trail in fen or forest,
On the shore sand found no foot-prints.
Many days they sought and found not.
Then to Panther spoke the Raven:
"She is in the Land of Spirits—
Surely in the Land of Spirits.
High at midnight I beheld her—
Like a flying star beheld her—
To the waves of Gitchee Gumee,
Downward flashing through the ether.
Thus she flashed that I might see her,
See and know my mother's spirit;
Thus she pointed to the waters,
And beneath them lies her body,
In the wigwam of the spirits—
In the lodge of Nébe-nâw-baigs." 1024
Then spoke Panther to the Raven:
"On the tall cliff by the waters
Wait and watch with Waub-omeé-meé.
If the Sea-Gull hear the wailing
Of her infant she will answer."
On the tall cliff by the waters
So the Raven watched and waited;
All the day he watched and waited,
But the hungry infant slumbered,
Slumbered by the side of Raven,
Till the pines' gigantic shadows
Stretched and pointed to Waubú-Nong—1021 To the far off land of Sunrise;
Then the wee one woke and famished,
Made a long and piteous wailing.
From afar where sky and waters
Meet in misty haze and mingle,
Straight toward the rocky highland,
Straight as flies die feathered arrow,
Straight to Raven and the infant
Swiftly flew a snow white sea-gull.—
Flew and touched the earth a woman.
And behold, the long-lost mother
Caught her wailing child and nursed her,
Sang a lullaby and nursed her.
Thrice was wound a chain of silver
Round her waist and strongly fastened.
Far away into the waters—
To the wigwam of the spirits,—
To the lodge of Nébe-nâw-baigs,—
Stretched the magic chain of silver.
Spoke the mother to the Raven:
"O my son—my brave young hunter,
Feed my tender little orphan;
Be a father to my orphan;
Be a mother to my orphan,—
For the Crafty Red Fox robbed us,—
Robbed the Sea-Gull of her husband,
Robbed the infant of her mother.
From this cliff the treacherous woman
Headlong into Gitchee Gumee
Plunged the mother of my orphan.
Then a Nébe-nâw-baig caught me,—
Chief of all the Nébe-nâw-baigs—
Took me to his shining wigwam,
In the cavern of the waters,
Deep beneath the might waters.
All below is burnished copper,
All above is burnished silver
Gemmed with amethyst and agates.
As his wife the Spirit holds me;
By this silver chain he holds me.
When my little one is famished,
When with long and piteous wailing
Cries the orphan for her mother,
Hither bring her, O my Raven;
I will hear her,—I will answer.
Now the Nébe-nâw-baig calls me,—
Pulls the chain,—I must obey him."
Thus she spoke and in the twinkling
Of a star the spirit-woman
Changed into a snow-white sea-gull,
Spread her wings and o'er the waters
Swiftly flew and swiftly vanished.
Then in secret to the Panther
Raven told his tale of wonder.
Sad and sullen was the hunter;
Sorrow gnawed his heart like hunger;
All the old love came upon him,
And the new love was a hatred.
Hateful to his heart was Red Fox,
But he kept from her the secret—
Kept his knowledge of the murder.
Vain was she and very haughty—-
Oge-mâ-kwa 1025 of the wigwam.
All in vain her fond caresses
On the Panther now she lavished;
When she smiled his face was sullen,
When she laughed he frowned upon her;
In her net of raven tresses
Now no more she held him tangled.
Now through all her fair disguises
Panther saw an evil spirit,
Saw the false heart of the woman.
On the tall cliff o'er the waters
Raven sat with Waub-omeé-meé,
Sat and watched again and waited,
Till the wee one faint and famished,
Made a long and piteous wailing.
Then again the snow-white Sea-Gull
From afar where sky and waters
Meet in misty haze and mingle,
Straight toward the rocky highland,
Straight as flies the feathered arrow,
Straight to Raven and the infant,
With the silver chain around her,
Flew and touched the earth a woman.
In her arms she caught her infant—
Caught the wailing Waub-omeé-meé,
Sang a lullaby and nursed her.
Sprang the Panther from the thicket—
Sprang and broke the chain of silver!
With his tomahawk he broke it.
Thus he freed the willing Sea-Gull—
From the Water-Spirit freed her,
From the Chief of Nébe-nâw-baigs.
Very angry was the Spirit;
When he drew the chain of silver,
Drew and found that it was broken,
Found that he had lost the woman,
Very angry was the Spirit.
Then he raged beneath the waters,
Raged and smote the mighty waters,
Till the big sea boiled and bubbled,
Till the white-haired, bounding billows
Roared around the rocky head-lands,
Roared and plashed upon the shingle.
To the wigwam happy Panther,
As when first he wooed and won her,
Led his wife—as young and handsome.
For the waves of Gitchee Gumee
Washed away the frost and wrinkles,
And the Spirits by their magic
Made her young and fair forever.
In the wigwam sat the Red Fox,
Sat and sang a song of triumph,
For she little dreamed of danger,
Till the haughty hunter entered,
Followed by the happy mother,
Holding in her arms her infant.
Then the Red Fox saw the Sea-Gull—
Saw the dead a living woman,
One wild cry she gave despairing,
One wild cry as of a demon.
Up she sprang and from the wigwam
To the tall cliff flew in terror;
Frantic sprang upon the margin,
Frantic plunged into the water,
Headlong plunged into the waters.
Dead she tossed upon the billows;
For the Nébe-nâw-baigs knew her,
Knew the crafty, wicked woman,
And they cast her from the waters,
Spurned her from their shining wigwams;
Far away upon the shingle
With the roaring waves they cast her.
There upon her bloated body
Fed the cawing crows and ravens,
Fed the hungry wolves and foxes.
On the shore of Gitchee Gumee,
Ever young and ever handsome,
Long and happy lived the Sea-Gull,
Long and happy with the Panther.
Evermore the happy hunter
Loved the mother of his children.
Like a red star many winters
Blazed their lodge-fire on the sea-shore.
O'er the Bridge of Souls together 1026 Walked the Sea-Gull and the Panther.
To the far-off Sunny Islands—
To the Summer-Land of Spirits,
Where no more the happy hunter
Feels the fangs of frost or famine,
Or the keen blasts of Kewâydin.
Where no pain or sorrow enters,
And no crafty, wicked woman,
Sea-Gull journeyed with her husband.
There she rules his lodge forever,
And the twain are very happy,
On the far-off Sunny Islands,
In the Summer-Land of Spirits.
On the rocks of Gitchee Gumee—
On the Pictured Rocks—the Legend
Long ago was traced and written,
Pictured by the Water Spirits;
But the storms of many winters
Have bedimmed the pictured story,
So that none can read the legend
But the Jossakeeds, the prophets. 1027
[Illustration: CRYSTAL BAY, LAKE MINNETONKA.]
MINNETONKA
Note: The Dakota name for this beautiful lake is Me-ne-a-tan-ka—Broad Water. By dropping the a before tánka, we have changed the name to Big Water.
I sit once more on breezy shore, at sunset in this glorious June.
I hear the dip of gleaming oar. I list the singer's merry tune.
Beneath my feet the waters beat and ripple on the polished stones.
The squirrel chatters from his seat: the bag-pipe beetle hums and drones.
The pink and gold in blooming wold,—the green hills mirrored in the lake!
The deep, blue waters, zephyr-rolled, along the murmuring pebbles break.
The maples screen the ferns, and lean the leafy lindens o'er the deep;
The sapphire, set in emerald green, lies like an Orient gem asleep.
The crimsoned west glows like the breast of Rhuddin [a]
when he pipes in May,
As downward droops the sun to rest, and shadows gather on the bay.
[a] The Welsh name for the robin.
In amber sky the swallows fly, and sail and circle o'er the deep;
The light-winged night-hawks whir and cry; the silver pike and salmon leap.
The rising moon, the woods aboon, looks laughing down on lake and lea;
Weird o'er the waters shrills the loon; the high stars twinkle in the sea.
From bank and hill the whippowil sends piping forth his flute-like notes,
And clear and shrill the answers trill from leafy isles and silver throats.
The twinkling light on cape and height; the hum of voices on the shores;
The merry laughter on the night; the dip and plash of frolic oars,—
These tell the tale. On hill and dale the cities pour their gay and fair;
Along the sapphire lake they sail, and quaff like wine the balmy air.
'Tis well. Of yore from isle and shore
the smoke of Indian teepees [a] rose;
The hunter plied the silent oar; the forest lay in still repose.
The moon-faced maid, in leafy glade, her warrior waited from the chase;
The nut-brown, naked children played, and chased the gopher on the grass.
The dappled fawn, on wooded lawn, peeped out upon the birch canoe,
Swift-gliding in the gray of dawn along the silent waters blue.
In yonder tree the great Wanm-dee [b] securely built her spacious nest;
The blast that swept the land-locked sea [c]
but rocked her clamorous babes to rest.
By grassy mere the elk and deer gazed on the hunter as he came;
Nor fled with fear from bow or spear;—"so wild were they that they were
tame."
[a] Lodges.
[b] Wanm-dee—the war-eagle of the Dakotas.
[c] Lake Superior.
Ah, birch canoe, and hunter, too, have long forsaken lake and shore:
He bade his father's bones adieu and turned away forevermore.
But still, methinks, on dusky brinks the spirit of the warrior moves;
At crystal springs the hunter drinks, and nightly haunts the spot he loves.
For oft at night I see the light of lodge-fires on the shadowy shores,
And hear the wail some maiden's sprite above her slaughtered warrior pours.
I hear the sob on Spirit Knob [a] of Indian mother o'er her child;
And on the midnight waters throb her low yun-he-he's [b] weird and wild.
And sometimes, too, the light canoe glides like a shadow o'er the deep
At midnight, when the moon is low, and all the shores are hushed in sleep.
[a] Spirit Knob is a small hill up on a point in the lake in full view
from Wayzata. The spirit of a Dakota mother whose only child was drowned
in the lake during a storm, many, many years ago often wails at midnight
(so the Dakotas say), on this hill. So they called it Wa-na-gee
Pa-ze-dan—Spirit Knob. (Literally—little hill of the spirit.)
[b] Pronounced Yoon-hay-hay—the exclamation used by Dakota women
in their lament for the dead, and equivalent to "woe is me."
Alas—Alas!—for all things pass; and we shall vanish, too, as they;
We build our monuments of brass, and granite, but they waste away.
I hear the dip of gleaming oar. I list the singer's merry tune.
Beneath my feet the waters beat and ripple on the polished stones.
The squirrel chatters from his seat: the bag-pipe beetle hums and drones.
The pink and gold in blooming wold,—the green hills mirrored in the lake!
The deep, blue waters, zephyr-rolled, along the murmuring pebbles break.
The maples screen the ferns, and lean the leafy lindens o'er the deep;
The sapphire, set in emerald green, lies like an Orient gem asleep.
The crimsoned west glows like the breast of Rhuddin [a]
when he pipes in May,
As downward droops the sun to rest, and shadows gather on the bay.
[a] The Welsh name for the robin.
In amber sky the swallows fly, and sail and circle o'er the deep;
The light-winged night-hawks whir and cry; the silver pike and salmon leap.
The rising moon, the woods aboon, looks laughing down on lake and lea;
Weird o'er the waters shrills the loon; the high stars twinkle in the sea.
From bank and hill the whippowil sends piping forth his flute-like notes,
And clear and shrill the answers trill from leafy isles and silver throats.
The twinkling light on cape and height; the hum of voices on the shores;
The merry laughter on the night; the dip and plash of frolic oars,—
These tell the tale. On hill and dale the cities pour their gay and fair;
Along the sapphire lake they sail, and quaff like wine the balmy air.
'Tis well. Of yore from isle and shore
the smoke of Indian teepees [a] rose;
The hunter plied the silent oar; the forest lay in still repose.
The moon-faced maid, in leafy glade, her warrior waited from the chase;
The nut-brown, naked children played, and chased the gopher on the grass.
The dappled fawn, on wooded lawn, peeped out upon the birch canoe,
Swift-gliding in the gray of dawn along the silent waters blue.
In yonder tree the great Wanm-dee [b] securely built her spacious nest;
The blast that swept the land-locked sea [c]
but rocked her clamorous babes to rest.
By grassy mere the elk and deer gazed on the hunter as he came;
Nor fled with fear from bow or spear;—"so wild were they that they were
tame."
[a] Lodges.
[b] Wanm-dee—the war-eagle of the Dakotas.
[c] Lake Superior.
Ah, birch canoe, and hunter, too, have long forsaken lake and shore:
He bade his father's bones adieu and turned away forevermore.
But still, methinks, on dusky brinks the spirit of the warrior moves;
At crystal springs the hunter drinks, and nightly haunts the spot he loves.
For oft at night I see the light of lodge-fires on the shadowy shores,
And hear the wail some maiden's sprite above her slaughtered warrior pours.
I hear the sob on Spirit Knob [a] of Indian mother o'er her child;
And on the midnight waters throb her low yun-he-he's [b] weird and wild.
And sometimes, too, the light canoe glides like a shadow o'er the deep
At midnight, when the moon is low, and all the shores are hushed in sleep.
[a] Spirit Knob is a small hill up on a point in the lake in full view
from Wayzata. The spirit of a Dakota mother whose only child was drowned
in the lake during a storm, many, many years ago often wails at midnight
(so the Dakotas say), on this hill. So they called it Wa-na-gee
Pa-ze-dan—Spirit Knob. (Literally—little hill of the spirit.)
[b] Pronounced Yoon-hay-hay—the exclamation used by Dakota women
in their lament for the dead, and equivalent to "woe is me."
Alas—Alas!—for all things pass; and we shall vanish, too, as they;
We build our monuments of brass, and granite, but they waste away.