Indian Legends of Minnesota.

by Various.

PREFACE.

In presenting to the public this volume the compiler wishes to disown any attempt at a complete collection of Indian legends; both her knowledge of archaeology, and the time allowed for the completion of the work are inadequate to such an achievement. She has attempted to gather the more noticeable legends already in verse in order to stimulate interest in the scenery and romance of her State. From its name--Minnesota--to its floral emblem--the moccasin flower--the State everywhere bears the impress of former occupation. About every lake, forest, and valley clings the aroma of romance in the form of name or legend of the vanished Red Man.

The indistinct memory of his loves, wars, and adventures is growing rapidly fainter, until even the story-teller himself is confused as to the relation between event and locality. It has therefore seemed wise to link indissolubly scene and incident, that the poetry of those who have here lived and loved may not be completely displaced by the prosaic commerce of the white man.

The compiler wishes also to express her thanks to the writers who have allowed their works to reappear in this volume: To Rev. E. D. Neill, D.D., for much valuable counsel, and to Houghton, Mifflin & Co., for permission to make extracts from Hiawatha.

INDIAN LEGENDS.

The Lone War-Path.

A STORY OF SIOUX AND BLACKFOOT.

O'er a vast prairie stoops the sultry night; The moon in her broad kingdom wanders white; High hung in s.p.a.ce, she swims the murky blue.

Low lies yon village of the roaming Sioux-- Its smoke-stained lodges, moving toward the west, By conquering Sleep invaded and possessed.

All there, save one, own his benign command; Their chief has lately left this little band, And up the glittering path of spirits fled; Thus his young widow, not a twelvemonth wed, In yonder solitary tent conceals The aching hope, the trembling pangs she feels.

How breathless is the night! None saw it rise-- That black cloud stealing up the gla.s.sy skies-- Till threatening murmurs, loud and louder grown, Burst from its swelling bosom, and the moon Slips into brief oblivion, while a glare As of far, flickering torches, seems to bear The challenge of the G.o.ds. Awake, awake!

Make ready for the tempest, ere it break!

Drive tent-pins deeper, stretch the covering tight-- Hobble the ponies, scattering in affright Before the thunder-peals. When all is fast, Keep vigil, then, till the G.o.ds' wrath be past!

A sudden fury sweeps the somber plain, In dizzy slant descends the sheeted rain; Sharp lightnings rend in twain the sable gloom, While, cannon-like, the unchained thunders boom!

On this wild tumult of the angry skies No ear discerns a woman's thrilling cries; Yet, ere its sullen echoes die away In caverns where the mocking spirits play, Faint, but rejoicing, on a couch of skins, A new-made mother lays her l.u.s.ty twins!

The wise men of the tribe strange signs relate-- This stormy birth portends a stormy fate-- And since the warring heavens, that should affright, Called forth these daring boys on such a night, Their names must own the event that marked their birth-- The elder, "As-he-walks-he-shakes-the-earth,"

The younger twin, "Coming-his-voice-is-heard"-- Thus saith the oracle.

This mighty word Darkens the mother's heart with nameless dread, But casts no shadow on the unconscious head Of either st.u.r.dy twin. Their mutual play With joyous echoes fills the livelong day!

From helpless infancy to boyhood grown, One brother never had been seen alone, Till sudden sorrow bowed the mother's pride-- The elder sickened and untimely died.

The gossips point to him that's left alone-- "He, too, will die, for half himself is gone!"

At first, distraught he seemed--unlike a child; He ate not, slept not, neither spoke nor smiled.

Then sought the forest--wandered there alone For days--his tender mother frantic grown-- Till he returned to her, and smiling, said, "My spirit meets and talks with him that's dead!"

Thenceforth he seemed as one who, hand-in-hand, Walks with a brother in the spirit land.

Among the Sioux, in those heroic days, When certain valor gained the meed of praise, The seasoned warrior, old and full of scars, Counted the hero of a hundred wars, Yet craving higher honor, went alone, On foot, to meet the enemy, and won (If he returned victorious), on that day A proud distinction.

Fancy her dismay,-- The mother of a tender youth untried,-- When he, the twin we know of, seeks her side And murmurs in her ear, who loves him so,-- "Mother, my elder brother bids me go On a lone war-path." Knowing well 'twere vain To plead with him, her tears must fall like rain On 'broidered moccasins for those dear feet; His pouch, her choicest store of pounded meat Must fill before the dawn, which sends him forth On foot, alone, to pierce the savage north.

(DAKOTA WAR SONG.)

_I hear them coming who made thee weep![A]

Leap on thy father's steed And urge him to his utmost speed, And rush to meet the warlike host, And meet them first, who hurt thee most.

Strike one among ten thousand, And make but one to bleed!

So shall thy name be known, Through all the world be known, If one is made to bleed!

Heh-eh-eh-eh! Heh!_

Now to the journey gallantly addressed, (Still at his twin's mysterious behest), He kills a buck with branching horns, and takes The tongue and heart for food--then straightway makes A sacrifice to that stern deity-- The thunder-G.o.d--who rules his destiny.

On a fair, level spot, encompa.s.sed round With trees, he pins the carca.s.s to the ground; Prays for success, his burning heart's desire,-- Then sleeps beside the embers of his fire.

How wearisome, how long the painful days That follow, as he treads by unknown ways A mazy wilderness, where lurk unseen All perils challenging his eye-sight keen.

Yet on--with tattered shoes and blistering feet-- To find the savage foe he longs to meet!

At last, to wearied eyes that search in vain, The far-off meeting-place of sky and plain, A fleck of dazzling whiteness doth appear.

The youth exclaims, "My enemy is near!"

Toward that white gleam his cautious steps are bent, Surely some roving Blackfoot's lonely tent.

Nearer and nearer creeps, with cat-like tread, The watchful Sioux. Above his lowered head The plumy gra.s.ses rear a swaying crest; His sinuous motion ripples the broad breast Of this ripe prairie, like a playful wind That leaves its shining, silver track behind.

A tent of skins--that piercing eye saw true-- Wondrously white and beautifully new; In all the colors known to savage art, A life-size figure with a blood-red heart Guards the low door. But who shall more divine, Since not a thread of smoke, nor sound, nor sign Of human presence makes the story clear, Save yonder dappled ponies grazing near?

Crouched in deep gra.s.s the wily Indian lies, Ambitious that lone hunter to surprise-- His gaze the wide horizon ranges low For the first glimpse of his returning foe; The painted lodge full many a glance doth win-- Each moment may reveal who lurks within!

At last it moves--that swinging oval door-- At last she steps upon the prairie floor, Shading her dark eyes from the dazzling ray-- A dusky princess, lovelier than the day!

No matron, to her hidden foeman's sight, Has ever seemed so radiantly bright.

Her dress is rich, in style unlike the Sioux.

(These belles in doe-skin have their fashions, too!)

On either shoulder lies a jetty braid; Her slender form, most delicately made, Her deep, black eyes and winsome features miss Naught of proportion. What a conquest this!

To such an enemy who would not bow?

Truly our warrior is a captive now!

Vainly she gazes--turns and disappears, His beating heart our youthful hero hears!

Rashly he thinks to follow and surprise This charming stranger--carry off the prize Before her lord's return. By impulse led, To the low door he stoops his stately head, Flings a last hurried glance to left and right, Then enters, and beholds this beauty bright Seated upon a pile of costly skins, Embroidering her hunter's moccasins!

He stands abashed--she glances up to greet His hasty entrance with a smile so sweet, Then drops her lashes with such coquetry.

Amazed, he thinks, "No mortal woman she, Who does not fear a stranger entering so!

Rather some teasing fairy, or a doe In woman's form."

Abruptly he exclaims "What are you--a Dakota?" As he names That warlike tribe, at last she starts, and shakes Her head; then with her slender fingers makes, Slowly, the signs all tribes of Indians know-- "I do not speak your language."

"Is it so?

Where is your husband?" asks our hero young, In this same silent, yet most graphic tongue.

"I am the daughter of a Blackfoot chief, Whose home is three days' journey north. In brief, My brother is a hunter. I am here To keep his lodge, while he pursues the deer."

"Then I will leave you," he replies, "and when Your brother comes, I shall return again!"

Thus saying, takes his leave; but, ere he goes, One longing, lingering, backward glance he throws, Which tells the maid how straight her arrow sped To pierce the heart of him she else must dread.

(DAKOTA LOVE SONG.)