For his father sat at my father's feast, And he at Wakawa's--an honored guest.

He is dead!--he is slain on the b.l.o.o.d.y Plain, By the hand of the treacherous Chippeway; And the face shall I never behold again Of my brave young brother--the chief Chaske.

Death walks like a shadow among my kin; And swift are the feet of the flying years That cover Wakawa with frost and tears, And leave their tracks on his wrinkled skin.

Wakawa, the voice of the years that are gone Will follow thy feet like the shadow of death, Till the paths of the forest and desert lone Shall forget thy footsteps. O living breath, Whence are thou, and whither so soon to fly?

And whence are the years? Shall I overtake Their flying feet in the star-lit sky?

From his last long sleep will the warrior wake?

Will the morning break in Wakawa's tomb, As it breaks and glows in the eastern skies?

Is it true?--will the spirits of kinsmen come And bid the bones of the brave arise?

Wakawa, Wakawa, for thee the years Are red with blood and bitter with tears.

Gone--brothers, and daughters, and wife--all gone That are kin to Wakawa--but one--but one-- Wakinyan Tanka--undutiful son!

And he estranged from his father's _tee_, Will never return till the chief shall die.

And what cares he for his father's grief?

He will smile at my death--it will make him chief.

Woe burns in my bosom. Ho, warriors--Ho!

Raise the song of red war; for your chief must go To drown his grief in the blood of the foe!

I shall fall. Raise my mound on the sacred hill.

Let my warriors the wish of their chief fulfill; For my fathers sleep in the sacred ground.

The Autumn blasts o'er Wakawa's mound Will chase the hair of the thistles' head, And the bare-armed oak o'er the silent dead, When the whirling snows from the north descend, Will wail and moan in the midnight wind.

In the famine of winter the wolf will prowl, And scratch the snow from the heap of stones, And sit in the gathering storm and howl, On the frozen mound, for Wakawa's bones.

But the years that are gone shall return again, As the robin returns and the whippowil, When my warriors stand on the sacred hill And remember the deeds of their brave chief slain."

Beneath the glow of the Virgin Star They raised the song of the red war-dance.

At the break of dawn with the bow and lance They followed the chief on the path of war.

To the north--to the forests of fir and pine-- Led their stealthy steps on the winding trail, Till they saw the Lake of the Spirit[55] shine Through somber pines of the dusky dale.

Then they heard the hoot of the mottled owl;[56]

They heard the gray wolf's dismal howl; Then shrill and sudden the war-whoop rose From an hundred throats of their swarthy foes, In ambush crouched in the tangled wood.

Death shrieked in the tw.a.n.g of their deadly bows, And their hissing arrows drank brave men's blood.

From rock, and thicket, and brush, and brakes, Gleamed the burning eyes of the "forest-snakes."[57]

From brake, and thicket, and brush, and stone, The bow-string hummed and the arrow hissed, And the lance of a crouching Ojibway shone, Or the scalp-knife gleamed in a swarthy fist.

Undaunted the braves of Wakawa's band Leaped into the thicket with lance and knife, And grappled the Chippeways hand to hand; And foe with foe, in the deadly strife, Lay clutching the scalp of his foe and dead, With a tomahawk sunk in his ghastly head, Or his still heart sheathing a b.l.o.o.d.y blade.

Like a bear in the battle Wakawa raves, And cheers the hearts of his falling braves.

But a panther crouches along his track-- He springs with a yell on Wakawa's back!

The tall chief, stabbed to the heart, lies low; But his left hand clutches his deadly foe, And his red right clinches the b.l.o.o.d.y hilt Of his knife in the heart of the slayer dyed.

And thus was the life of Wakawa spilt, And slain and slayer lay side by side.

The unscalped corpse of their honored chief His warriors s.n.a.t.c.hed from the yelling pack, And homeward fled on their forest track With their b.l.o.o.d.y burden and load of grief.

The spirits the words of the brave fulfill-- Wakawa sleeps on the sacred hill, And Wakinyan Tanka, his son, is chief.

Ah soon shall the lips of men forget Wakawa's name, and the mound of stone Will speak of the dead to the winds alone, And the winds will whistle their mock regret.

The speckled cones of the scarlet berries[58]

Lie red and ripe in the prairie gra.s.s.

The _Si-yo_[59] clucks on the emerald prairies To her infant brood. From the wild mora.s.s, On the sapphire lakelet set within it, _Maga_ sails forth with her wee ones daily.

They ride on the dimpling waters gaily, Like a fleet of yachts and a man-of-war.

The piping plover, the light-winged linnet, And the swallow sail in the sunset skies.

The whippowil from her cover hies, And trills her song on the amber air.

Anon to her loitering mate she cries: "Flip, O Will!--trip, O Will!--skip, O Will!"

And her merry mate from afar replies: "Flip I will--skip I will--trip I will;"

And away on the wings of the wind he flies.

And bright from her lodge in the skies afar Peeps the glowing face of the Virgin Star.

The fox-pups[60] creep from their mother's lair, And leap in the light of the rising moon; And loud on the luminous, moonlit lake Shrill the bugle-notes of the lover loon; And woods and waters and welkin break Into jubilant song--it is joyful June.

But where is Wiwaste? O where is she-- The virgin avenged--the queenly queen-- The womanly woman--the heroine?

Has she gone to the spirits? and can it be That her beautiful face is the Virgin Star Peeping out from the door of her lodge afar, Or upward sailing the silver sea, Star-beaconed and lit like an avenue, In the shining stern of her gold canoe?

No tidings came--nor the brave Chaske: O why did the lover so long delay?

He promised to come with the robins in May With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; But the fair May-mornings have slipped away, And where is the lover--the brave Chaske?

But what of the venomous Harpstina-- The serpent that tempted the proud Red Cloud, And kindled revenge in his savage soul?

He paid for his crime with his own heart's blood, But his angry spirit has brought her dole;[61]

It has entered her breast and her burning head, And she raves and burns on her fevered bed.

"He is dead! He is dead!" is her wailing cry, "And the blame is mine--it was I--it was I!

I hated Wiwaste, for she was fair, And my brave was caught in her net of hair.

I turned his love to a bitter hate; I nourished revenge, and I p.r.i.c.ked his pride; Till the Feast of the Virgins I bade him wait.

He had his revenge, but he died--he died!

And the blame is mine--it was I--it was I!

And his spirit burns me; I die--I die!"

Thus, alone in her lodge and her agonies, She wails to the winds of the night, and dies.

But where is Wiwaste? Her swift feet flew To the somber shades of the tangled thicket.

She hid in the copse like a wary cricket, And the fleetest hunters in vain pursue.

Seeing unseen from her hiding place, She sees them fly on the hurried chase; She sees their dark eyes glance and dart, As they pa.s.s and peer for a track or trace, And she trembles with fear in the copse apart, Lest her nest be betrayed by her throbbing heart.

Weary the hours; but the sun at last Went down to his lodge in the west, and fast The wings of the spirits of night were spread O'er the darkling woods and Wiwaste's head.

Then slyly she slipped from her snug retreat, And guiding her course by Waziya's star,[62]

That shone through the shadowy forms afar, She northward hurried with silent feet; And long ere the sky was aflame in the east, She was leagues from the spot of the fatal feast.

'Twas the hoot of the owl that the hunters heard, And the scattering drops of the threat'ning shower, And the far wolf's cry to the moon preferred.

Their ears were their fancies--the scene was weird, And the witches[63] dance at the midnight hour.

She leaped the brook and she swam the river; Her course through the forest Wiwaste wist By the star that gleamed through the glimmering mist That fell from the dim moon's downy quiver.

In her heart she spoke to her spirit-mother: "Look down from your _teepee_, O starry spirit.

The cry of Wiwaste. O mother, hear it; And touch the heart of my cruel father.

He hearkened not to a virgin's words; He listened not to a daughter's wail.

O give me the wings of the thunder-birds, For his were wolves[52] follow Wiwaste's trail; And guide my flight to the far _Hohe_-- To the sheltering lodge of my brave Chaske."

The shadows paled in the hazy east, And the light of the kindling morn increased.

The pale-faced stars fled one by one, And hid in the vast from the rising sun.

From woods and waters and welkin soon Fled the hovering mists of the vanished moon.

The young robins chirped in their feathery beds, The loon's song shrilled like a winding horn, And the green hills lifted their dewy heads To greet the G.o.d of the rising morn.

She reached the rim of the rolling prairie-- The boundless ocean of solitude; She hid in the feathery hazel-wood, For her heart was sick and her feet were weary; She fain would rest, and she needed food.

Alone by the billowy, boundless prairies, She plucked the cones of the scarlet berries; In feathering copse and the gra.s.sy field She found the bulbs of the young _Tipsanna_,[43]

And the sweet _medo_ [64] that the meadows yield.

With the precious gift of his priceless manna G.o.d fed his fainting and famished child.

At night again to the northward far She followed the torch of Waziya's star; For leagues away o'er the prairies green, On the billowy vast, may a man be seen, When the sun is high and the stars are low; And the sable breast of the strutting crow Looms up like the form of the buffalo.

The b.l.o.o.d.y River [40] she reached at last, And boldly walked in the light of day, On the level plain of the valley vast; Nor thought of the terrible Chippeway.

She was safe from the wolves of her father's band, But she trod on the treacherous "b.l.o.o.d.y Land."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

And lo--from afar o'er the level plain-- As far as the sails of a ship at sea May be seen as they lift from the rolling main-- A band of warriors rode rapidly.

She shadowed her eyes with her sun-browned hand; All backward streamed on the wind her hair, And terror spread o'er her visage fair, As she bent her brow to the far-off band.

For she thought of the terrible Chippeway-- The fiends that the babe and the mother slay; And yonder they came in their war-array!