The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems

[AV]

Wita Waste—"Beautiful Island"; the Dakota name for Nicollet Island.

[AW]

Ojibways.

[AX]

Mille Lacs

[AY]

See Hennepin's account of "Aqui-pa-que-tin," and his village. Shea's Hennepin, 225.

[AZ]

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

[BA]

Gitchee See-bee—Big River—is 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.

[BB]

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

[BC]

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.

[BD]

The Apostle Islands.

[BE]

At the Sault Ste. Marie.

[BF]

Cranberries.

[BG]

Wee-chah kah—literally "Faithful".

[BH]

The Robin—the name of Winona's Mother.

[BI]

My Daughter; My Daughter.

[BJ]

Alas, O My Daughter,—My Daughter!

Wild-goose

Medicine-men.

January.

February.

The pheasant feeds on birch-buds in winter. Indians eat them when very hungry.

[BP]

Wazíya's Star is the North-star.

[BQ]

A strap used in carrying burdens.

[BR]

Wolves sometimes attack people at night, but rarely, if ever, in the day time. If they have followed a hunter all night, and "treed" him, they will skulk away as soon as the sun rises.

[BS]

Lake Superior,—The Gitchee Gumee of the Chippewas.

[BT]

The Dakota name for the Mississippi, see note 76 in Appendix.

[BU]

Wild Geese.

[BV]

Lake Pepin, by Hennepin called Lake of Tears—Called by the Dakotas Remnee-chah-Mday—Lake of the Mountains.

[BW]

Pah-hin—the porcupine—the quills of which are greatly prized for ornamental work.

[BX]

The Dakotas say that the spirit of Winona forever haunts the lake. They say that it was many, many winters ago when Winona leaped from the rock,—that the rock was then perpendicular to the water's edge and she leaped into the lake, but now the rock has partly crumbled down and the waters have also receded, so that they do not now reach, the foot of the perpendicular rock as of old.

SPRING

Et nunc omnis ager, mine omms parturit arbos;
Nunc frondent sylvæ, nunc formostssimus annus.
—Virgil.

Delightful harbinger of joys to come,
Of summer's verdure and a fruitful year,
Who bids thee o'er our northern snow-fields roam,
And make all gladness in thy bright career?
Lo from the Indian Isle thou dost appear,
And dost a thousand pleasures with thee bring:
But why to us art thou so ever dear?
Bearest thou the hope—upon thy radiant wing—
Of Immortality, O soft, celestial Spring?

Yea, buds and flowers that fade not, they are thine,
And youth-renewing balms; the sear and old
Are young and gladsome at thy touch divine.
Thou breath'st upon the frozen earth—behold,
Meadows and vales of grass and floral gold,
Green-covered hills and leafy mountains grand:
Young life leaps up where all was dumb and cold,
As smoldering embers into flame are fanned,
Or the dead came back to life at the touch of the Savior's hand.

The snow-clouds fly the canopy of heaven;
The rivulets ripple with the merry tone
Of wanton waters, and the breezes given
To fan the budding hills are all thine own.
Returning songsters from the tropic zone
Their vernal love-songs in the tree tops sing,
And talk and twitter in a tongue unknown
Of joys that journey on thy golden wing,
And God who sends thee forth to wake the world, O Spring!

[ILLUSTRATION: SPRING ADA MARY HUNTLY WILLIE]

Emblem of youth—enchanting goddess, Spring;
Lo now the happy rustic wends his way
O'er meadows decked with violets from thy wing,
And laboring to the rhythm of song all day,
Performs the task the harvest shall repay
An hundredfold into the reaper's hand.
What recks the tiller of his toil in May?
What cares he if his cheeks are tinged and tanned
By thy warm sunshine-kiss and by thy breezes bland?

Hark to the tinkling bells of grazing kine!
The lambkins bleating on the mountain-side!
The red squirrel chippering in the proud old pine!
The pigeon-cock cooing to his vernal bride!
O'er all the land and o'er the peaceful tide,
Singing and praising every living thing,
Till one sweet anthem, echoed far and wide,
Makes all the broad blue bent of ether ring
With welcomings to thee, God-given, supernal Spring.

TO MOLLIE

O Mollie, I would I possessed such a heart;
It enchants me—so gentle and true;
I would I possessed all its magical art,
Then, Mollie, I would enchant you.

Those dear, rosy lips—tho' I never caressed them(?)—
Are as sweet as the wild honey-dew;
Your cheeks—all the angels in Heaven have blessed them,
But not one is as lovely as you.

Then give me that heart,—O that innocent heart!
For mine own is cold and perdu;
It enchants me, but give me its magical art,
Then, Mollie, I will enchant you.

1855.

TO SYLVA

I know thou art true, and I know thou art fair
As the rose-bud that blooms in thy beautiful hair;
Thou art far, but I feel the warm throb of thy heart;
Thou art far, but I love thee wherever thou art.

Wherever at noontide my spirit may be,
At evening it silently wanders to thee;
It seeks thee, my dear one, for comfort and rest,
As the weary-winged dove seeks at night-fall her nest.

Through the battle of life—through its sorrow and care—
Till the mortal sink down with its load of despair,—
Till we meet at the feet of the Father and Son,
I'll love thee and cherish thee, beautiful one.

1859.

THANKSGIVING.

[Nov. 26, 1857, during the great financial depression.]

Father, our thanks are due to thee
For many a blessing given,
By thy paternal love and care,
From the bounty-horn of heaven.

We know that still that horn is filled
With blessings for our race,
And we calmly look thro' winter's storm
To thy benignant face.

Father, we raise our thanks to Thee,—
Who seldom thanked before;
And seldom bent the stubborn knee
Thy goodness to adore:

But Father, thou hast blessings poured
On all our wayward days
And now thy mercies manifold
Have filled our hearts with praise

The winter-storm may rack and roar;
We do not fear its blast;
And we'll bear with faith and fortitude
The lot that thou hast cast.

But Father,—Father,—O look down
On the poor and homeless head
And feed the hungry thousands
That cry to thee for bread.

Thou givest us our daily bread;
We would not ask for more;
But, Father, give their daily bread
To the multitudes of poor.

In all the cities of the land
The naked and hungry are;
O feed them with thy manna, Lord,
And clothe them with thy care.

Thou dost not give a serpent, Lord,
We will not give a stone;
For the bread and meat thou givest us
Are not for us alone.

And while a loaf is given to us
From thy all-bounteous horn
We'll cheerfully divide that loaf
With the hungry and forlorn.

CHARITY

Frail are the best of us, brothers—
God's charity cover us all—
Yet we ask for perfection in others,
And scoff when they stumble and fall.
Shall we give him a fish—or a serpent—
Who stretches his hand in his need?
Let the proud give a stone, but the manly
Will give him a hand full of bread.

Let us search our own hearts and behavior
Ere we cast at a brother a stone,
And remember the words of the Savior
To the frail and unfortunate one;
Remember when others displease us
The Nazarene's holy command,
For the only word written by Jesus
Was charity—writ in the sand.

CHARITY

THE PIONEER

[MINNESOTA—1860-1875]

When Mollie and I were married from the dear old cottage-home,
In the vale between the hills of fir and pine,
I parted with a sigh in a stranger-land to roam,
And to seek a western home for me and mine.

By a grove-encircled lake in the wild and prairied West,
As the sun was sinking down one summer day,
I laid my knapsack down and my weary limbs to rest,
And resolved to build a cottage-home and stay.

I staked and marked my "corners," and I "filed" upon my claim,
And I built a cottage-home of "logs and shakes;"
And then I wrote a letter, and Mollie and baby came
Out to bless me and to bake my johnny-cakes.

When Mollie saw my "cottage" and the way that I had "bached",
She smiled, but I could see that she was "blue;"
Then she found my "Sunday-clothes" all soiled and torn and patched,
And she hid her face and shed a tear or two.

But she went to work in earnest and the cabin fairly shone,
And her dinners were so savory and so nice
That I felt it was "not good that the man should be alone"—
Even in this lovely land of Paradise.

Well, the neighbors they were few and were many miles apart,
And you couldn't hear the locomotive scream;
But I was young and hardy, and my Mollie gave me heart,
And my "steers" they made a fast and fancy team.

And the way I broke the sod was a marvel, you can bet,
For I fed my "steers" before the dawn of day;
And when the sun went under I was plowing prairie yet,
Till my Mollie blew the old tin horn for tea.

And the lazy, lousy "Injuns" came a-loafing round the lake,
And a-begging for a bone or bit of bread;
And the sneaking thieves would steal whatever they could take—
From the very house where they were kindly fed.

O the eastern preachers preach, and the long-haired poets sing
Of the "noble braves" and "dusky maidens fair;"
But if they had pioneered 'twould have been another thing
When the "Injuns" got a-hankering for their "hair."

Often when we lay in bed in the middle of the night,
How the prairie-wolves would howl their jubilee!
Then Mollie she would waken in a shiver and a fright,
Clasp our baby-pet and snuggle up to me.

There were hardships you may guess, and enough of weary toil
For the first few years, but then it was so grand
To see the corn and wheat waving o'er the virgin soil,
And two stout and loving hearts went hand in hand.

But Mollie took the fever when our second babe was born,
And she lay upon the bed as white as snow;
And my idle cultivator lay a rusting in the corn;
And the doctor said poor Mollie she must go.

Now I never prayed before, but I fell upon my knees,
And I prayed as never any preacher prayed;
And Mollie always said that it broke the fell disease;
And I truly think the Lord He sent us aid:

For the fever it was broken, and she took a bit of food,
And O then I went upon my knees again;
And I never cried before,—and I never thought I could,—
But my tears they fell upon her hand like rain.

And I think the Lord has blessed us ever since I prayed the prayer,
For my crops have never wanted rain or dew:
And Mollie often said in the days of debt and care,
"Don't you worry, John, the Lord will help us through."

For the "pesky," painted Sioux, in the fall of 'sixty-two,
Came a-whooping on their ponies o'er the plain,
And they killed my pigs and cattle, and I tell you it looked "blue,"
When they danced around my blazing stacks of grain.

And the settlers mostly fled, but I didn't have a chance,
So I caught my hunting-rifle long and true,
And Mollie poured the powder while I made the devils dance,
To a tune that made 'em jump and tumble, too.

And they fired upon the cabin; 'twas as good as any fort,
But the "beauties" wouldn't give us any rest;
For they skulked and blazed away, and I didn't call it sport,
For I had to do my very "level best."

Now they don't call me a coward, but my Mollie she's a "brick;"
For she chucked the children down the cellar-way,
And she never flinched a hair tho' the bullets pattered thick,
And we held the "painted beauties" well at bay.

But once when I was aiming, a bullet grazed my head,
And it cut the scalp and made the air look blue;
Then Mollie straightened up like a soldier and she said:
"Never mind it, John, the Lord will help us through."

And you bet it raised my "grit," and I never flinched a bit,
And my nerves they got as strong as steel or brass;
And when I fired again I was sure that I had hit,
For I saw the skulking devil "claw the grass."

Well, the fight was long and hot, and I got a charge of shot
In the shoulder, but it never broke a bone;
And I never stopped to think whether I was hit or not
Till we found our ammunition almost gone.

But the "Rangers" came at last—just as we were out of lead,—
And I thanked the Lord, and Mollie thanked Him, too;
Then she put her arms around my neck and sobbed and cried and said:
"Bless the Lord!—I knew that He would help us through."

And yonder on the hooks hangs that same old trusty gun,
And above it—I am sorry they're so few—
Hang the black and braided trophies ^[BY] yet that I and Mollie won
In that same old bloody battle with the Sioux.

Fifteen years have rolled away since I laid my knapsack down,
And my prairie claim is now one field of grain;
And yonder down the lake loom the steeples of a town,
And my flocks are feeding out upon the plain.

The old log-house is standing filled with bins of corn and wheat,
And the cars they whistle past our cottage-home;
But my span of spanking trotters they are "just about" as fleet,
And I wouldn't give my farm to rule in Rome.

For Mollie and I are young yet, and monarchs, too, are we—
Of a "section" just as good as lies out-doors;
And the children are so happy (and Mollie and I have three)
And we think that we can "lie upon our oars."

[Illustration: THE PIONEER]

So this summer we went back to the old home by the hill:
O the hills they were so rugged and so tall!
And the lofty pines were gone but the rocks were all there still,
And the valleys looked so crowded and so small;

And the dear familiar faces that I longed so much to see,
Looked so strangely unfamiliar and so old,
That the land of hills and valleys was no more a home to me,
And the river seemed a rivulet as it rolled.

So I gladly hastened back to the prairies of the West—
To the boundless fields of waving grass and corn;
And I love the lake-gemmed land where the wild-goose builds her nest,
Far better than the land where I was born.

And I mean to lay my bones over yonder by the lake—
By and by when I have nothing else to do—
And I'll give the "chicks" the farm, and I know for Mollie's sake,
That the good and gracious Lord will help 'em through.