Legends of the Northwest Part 3

But never the stain of an infant slain, Or the blood of a mother that plead in vain, Soiled the honored plumes of the brave Hohe.

A mountain bear to his enemies, To his friends like the red fawn's dappled form; In peace, like the breeze from the summer seas; In war, like the roar of the mountain storm.

His fame in the voice of the winds went forth From his hunting grounds in the happy north, And far as the sh.o.r.es of the Great Mede [36]

The nations spoke of the brave Chaske.

Dark was the visage of grim Red Cloud, Fierce were the eyes of the warrior proud, When the chief to his lodge led the brave Chaske, And Wiwaste smiled on the tall Hohe.

Away he strode with a sullen frown, And alone in his teepee he sat him down.

From the gladsome greeting of braves he stole, And wrapped himself in his gloomy soul.

But the eagle eyes of the Harpstina The clouded face of the warrior saw.

Softly she spoke to the sullen brave: "Mah-pi-ya Duta,--his face is sad.

And why is the warrior so glum and grave?

For the fair Wiwaste is gay and glad.

She will sit in the teepee the live-long day, And laugh with her lover--the brave Hohe.

Does the tall Red Cloud for the false one sigh?

There are fairer maidens than she, and proud Were their hearts to be loved by the brave Red Cloud.

And trust not the chief with the smiling eyes; His tongue is swift, but his words are lies; And the proud Mah-pi-ya will surely find That Wakawa's promise is hollow wind.

Last night I stood by his lodge, and lo I heard the voice of the Little Crow; But the fox is sly and his words were low.

But I heard her answer her father--"Never!

I will stain your knife in my heart's red blood, I will plunge and sink in the sullen river, Ere I will be wife to the fierce Red Cloud!"

Then he spake again, and his voice was low, But I heard the answer of Little Crow: "Let it be as you will, for Wakawa's tongue Has spoken no promise,--his lips are slow, And the love of a father is deep and strong."

Mah-pi-ya Duta, they scorn your love, But the false chief covets the warrior's gifts.

False to his promise the fox will prove, And fickle as snow in Wo-ka-da-wee, [37]

That slips into brooks when the gray cloud lifts, Or the red sun looks through the ragged rifts.

Mah-pi-ya Duta will listen to me There are fairer birds in the bush than she, And the fairest would gladly be Red Cloud's wife.

Will the warrior sit like a girl bereft, When fairer and truer than she are left That love Red Cloud as they love their life?

Mah-pi-ya Duta will listen to me I love him well,--I have loved him long: A woman is weak, but a warrior is strong, And a lovelorn brave is a scorn to see.

Mah-pi-ya Duta, O listen to me!

Revenge is swift and revenge is strong, And sweet as the hive in the hollow tree.

The proud Red Cloud will revenge his wrong Let the brave be patient, it is not long Till the leaves be green on the maple tree, And the Feast of the Virgins is then to be;-- The Feast of the Virgins is then to be!"

Proudly she turned from the silent brave, And went her way; but the warrior's eyes-- They flashed with the flame of a sudden fire, Like the lights that gleam in the Sacred Cave, [38]

When the black night covers the autumn skies, And the stars from their welkin watch retire.

Three nights he tarried--the brave Chaske; Winged were the hours and they flitted away; On the wings of Wakandee [39] they silently flew, For Wiwaste had found her a way to woo.

Ah, little he cared for the bison-chase; For the red lilies bloomed on the fair maid's face; Ah, little he cared for the winds that blew, For Wiwaste had found her a way to woo.

Brown-bosomed she sat on her fox-robe dark, Her ear to the tales of the brave inclined, Or tripped from the tee like the song of a lark, And gathered her hair from the wanton wind.

Ah, little he thought of the leagues of snow He trode on the trail of the buffalo; And little he recked of the hurricanes That swept the snow from the frozen plains And piled the banks of the b.l.o.o.d.y River. [40]

His bow unstrung and forgotten hung With his beaver hood and his otter quiver; He sat spell-bound by the artless grace Of her star-lit eyes and her moon-lit face.

Ah, little he cared for the storms that blew, For Wiwaste had found her a way to woo.

When he spoke with Wakawa her sidelong eyes Sought the handsome chief in his hunter-guise.

Wakawa marked, and the lilies fair On her round cheeks spread to her raven hair.

They feasted on rib of the bison fat, On the tongue of the Ta [41] that the hunters prize, On the savory flesh of the red Hogan, [42]

On sweet tipsanna [43] and pemmican, And the dun-brown cakes of the golden maize; And hour after hour the young chief sat, And feasted his soul on the maiden's eyes.

The sweeter the moments the swifter they fly; Love takes no account of the fleeting hours; He walks in a dream mid the blooming of flowers, And never awakes till the blossoms die.

Ah, lovers are lovers the wide world over-- In the hunter's lodge and the royal palace.

Sweet are the lips of his love to the lover,-- Sweet as new wine in a golden chalice, From the Tajo's [44] slopes or the hills beyond; And blindly he sips from his loved one's lips, In lodge or palace the wide world over, The maddening honey of Trebizond. [45]

O, what are leagues to the loving hunter, Or the blinding drift of the hurricane, When it raves and roars o'er the frozen plain!

He would face the storm,--he would death encounter The darling prize of his heart to gain.

But his hunters chafed at the long delay, For the swarthy bison were far away, And the brave young chief from the lodge departed.

He promised to come with the robin in May, With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; And the fair Wiwaste was happy-hearted, For Wakawa promised the brave Chaske.

Birds of a feather will flock together.

The robin sings to his ruddy mate, And the chattering jays, in the winter weather, To prate and gossip will congregate; And the cawing crows on the autumn heather, Like evil omens, will flock together, In extra-session, for high debate; And the la.s.s will slip from a doting mother To hang with her lad on the garden gate.

Birds of a feather will flock together,-- 'Tis an adage old,--it is nature's law, And sure as the pole will the needle draw, The fierce Red Cloud with the flaunting feather, Will follow the finger of Harpstina.

The winter wanes and the south-wind blows From the Summer Islands legendary.

The skeskas [46] fly and the melted snows In lakelets lie on the dimpled prairie.

The frost-flowers [47] peep from their winter sleep Under the snow-drifts cold and deep.

To the April sun and the April showers, In field and forest, the baby flowers Lift their golden faces and azure eyes; And wet with the tears of the winter-fairies, Soon bloom and blossom the emerald prairies, Like the fabled Garden of Paradise.

The plum-trees, white with their bloom in May, Their sweet perfume on the vernal breeze Wide strew like the isles of the tropic seas, Where the paroquet chatters the livelong day.

But the May-days pa.s.s and the brave Chaske-- O, why does the lover so long delay?

Wiwaste waits in the lonely tee, Has her fair face fled from his memory?

For the robin cherups his mate to please, The blue bird pipes in the poplar trees, The meadow lark warbles his jubilees, Shrilling his song in the azure seas, Till the welkin throbs to his melodies; And low is the hum of the humble bees, And the Feast of the Virgins is now to be.

THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS.

The sun sails high in his azure realms; Beneath the arch of the breezy elms The feast is spread by the murmuring river.

With his battle spear and his bow and quiver, And eagle plumes in his ebon hair, The chief Wakawa himself is there; And round the feast in the Sacred Ring, [48]

Sit his weaponed warriors witnessing.

Not a morsel of food have the Virgins tasted For three long days ere the holy feast; They sat in their teepee alone and fasted, Their faces turned to the Sacred East. [21]

In the polished bowls lies the golden maize And the flesh of fawn on the polished trays.

For the Virgins the bloom of the prairies wide-- The blus.h.i.+ng pink and the meek blue-bell, The purple plumes of the prairie's pride, [49]

The wild, uncultured asphodel, And the beautiful, blue-eyed violet That the Virgins call "Let-me-not-forget,"

In gay festoons and garlands twine With the cedar sprigs [50] and the wildwood vine.

So gaily the Virgins are decked and dressed, And none but a virgin may enter there; And clad is each in a scarlet vest, And a fawn skin frock to the brown calves bare.

Wild rosebuds peep from their flowing hair, And a rose half-blown on the budding breast; And bright with the quills of the porcupine The moccasined feet of the maidens s.h.i.+ne.

Hand in hand round the feast they dance, And sing to the notes of a rude ba.s.soon, And never a pause or a dissonance In the merry dance or the merry tune.

Brown-bosomed and fair as the rising moon, When she peeps o'er the hills of the dewy east, Wiwaste sings at the Virgins Feast; And bright is the light in her luminous eyes; They glow like the stars in the winter skies; And the lilies that bloom in her virgin heart Their golden blush to her cheeks impart-- Her cheeks half hid in her midnight hair.

Fair is her form--as the red fawn's fair, And long is the flow of her raven hair; It falls to her knees, and it streams on the breeze Like the path of a storm on the swelling seas.

Proud of their rites are the Virgins fair, For none but a Virgin may enter there.

'Tis a custom of old and a sacred thing; Nor rank nor beauty the warriors spare, If a tarnished maiden should enter there.

And her that enters the Sacred Ring With a blot that is known or a secret stain The warrior who knows is bound to expose, And lead her forth from the ring again.

And the word of the warrior is a sacred by law; For the Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing.

Aside with the mothers sat Harpstina: She durst not enter the virgins' ring.

Round and round to the merry song The maidens dance in their gay attire.

While the loud "Ho-Ho's" of the tawny throng Their flying feet and their song inspire.

They have finished the song and the sacred dance, And hand in hand to the feast advance-- To the polished bowls of the golden maize, And the sweet fawn meat in the polished trays.