Chapter 7

Wazíya came down from the North --from his land of perpetual winter. From his frost-covered beard issued forth the sharp-biting, shrill-whistling North-wind; At the touch of his breath the wide earth turned to stone, and the lakes and the rivers; From his nostrils the white vapors rose, and they covered the sky like a blanket. Like the down of Magá [a] fell the snows, tossed and whirled into heaps by the North-wind. Then the blinding storms roared on the plains, like the simoons on sandy Sahara; From the fangs of the fierce hurricanes fled the elk and the deer and the bison. Ever colder and colder it grew, till the frozen earth cracked and split open; And harder and harder it blew, till the prairies were bare as the boulders. To the southward the buffaloes fled, and the white rabbits hid in their burrows; On the bare sacred mounds of the dead howled the gaunt, hungry wolves in the night-time. The strong hunters crouched in their tees; by the lodge-fires the little ones shivered; And the Magic Men [b] danced to appease, in their teepee, the wrath of Wazíya; But famine and fatal disease, like phantoms, crept into the village. The Hard Moon [c] was past, but the moon when the coons make their trails in the forest [d] Grew colder and colder. The coon or the bear, ventured not from his cover; For the cold, cruel Arctic Simoon swept the earth like the breath of a furnace. In the tee of Ta-té-psin the store of wild-rice and dried meat was exhausted; And Famine crept in at the door, and sat crouching and gaunt by the lodge-fire. But now with the saddle of deer, and the gifts, came the crafty Tamdóka; And he said, "Lo I bring you good cheer, for I love the blind Chief and his daughter. Take the gifts of Tamdóka, for dear to his heart is the dark-eyed Winona." The aged chief opened his ears; in his heart he already consented; But the moans of his child and her tears touched the age-softened heart of the father, And he said, "I am burdened with years, --I am bent by the snows of my winters; Ta-té-psin will die in his tee; let him pass to the Land of the Spirits; But Winona is young; she is free, and her own heart shall choose her a husband." The dark warrior strode from the tee; low-muttering and grim he departed. "Let him die in his lodge," muttered he, "but Winona shall kindle my lodge-fire."

[a] Wild goose.

[b] Medicine men.

[c] January.

[d] February.

Then forth went Winona. The bow of Ta-té-psin she took and his arrows, And afar o'er the deep, drifted snow, through the forest, she sped on her snow-shoes. Over meadow and ice-covered mere, through the thickets of red oak and hazel, She followed the tracks of the deer, but like phantoms they fled from her vision. From sunrise till sunset she sped; half-famished she camped in the thicket; In the cold snow she made her lone bed; on the buds of the birch [a] made her supper. To the dim moon the gray owl preferred, from the tree top, his shrill lamentation, And around her at midnight she heard the dread famine-cries of the gray wolves. In the gloam of the morning again on the trail of the red-deer she followed-- All day long through the thickets in vain, for the gray wolves were chasing the roebucks; And the cold, hungry winds from the plain chased the wolves and the deer and Winona.

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

In the twilight of sundown she sat, in the forest, all weak and despairing; Ta-té-psin's bow lay at her feet, and his otter skin quiver of arrows. "He promised,--he promised," she said --half-dreamily uttered and mournful,-- "And why comes he not? Is he dead? Was he slain by the crafty Tamdóka? Must Winona, alas, make her choice --make her choice between death and Tamdóka? She will die but her soul will rejoice in the far Summer-land of the spirits. Hark! I hear his low, musical voice! He is coming! My White Chief is coming! Ah, no; I am half in a dream! --'twas the mem'ry of days long departed; But the birds of the green Summer seem to be singing above in the branches." Then forth from her bosom she drew the crucified Jesus in silver. In her dark hair the cold north wind blew, as meekly she bent o'er the image. "O Christ of the White man," she prayed, "lead the feet of my brave to Kathága; Send a good spirit down to my aid, or the friend of the White Chief will perish." Then a smile on her wan features played, and she lifted her pale face and chanted:

"E-ye-he-ktá! E-ye-he-ktá! Hé-kta-cè; é-ye-ce-quón. Mí-Wamdee-ská, he-he-ktá; He-kta-cè; é-ye-ce-quón, Mí-Wamdee-ská."

[TRANSLATION.]

He will come; he will come; He will come, for he promised. My White Eagle, he will come; He will come, for he promised,-- My White Eagle.

Thus sadly she chanted, and lo --allured by her sorrowful accents-- From the dark covert crept a red doe and wondrously gazed on Winona. Then swift caught the huntress her bow; from her trembling hand hummed the keen arrow. Up-leaped the red gazer and fled, but the white snow was sprinkled with scarlet, And she fell in the oak thicket dead. On the trail ran the eager Winona. Half-famished the raw flesh she ate. To the hungry maid sweet was her supper. Then swift through the night ran her feet, and she trailed the sleek red-deer behind her. And the guide of her steps was a star --the cold-glinting star of Wazíya--[a] Over meadow and hilltop afar, on the way to the lodge of her father. But hark! on the keen frosty air wind the shrill hunger-howls of the gray wolves! And nearer,--still nearer! --the blood of the doe have they scented and follow; Through the thicket, the meadow, the wood, dash the pack on the trail of Winona. Swift she speeds with her burden, but swift on her track fly the minions of famine; Now they yell on the view from the drift, in the reeds at the marge of the meadow; Red gleam their wild, ravenous eyes; for they see on the hill-side their supper; The dark forest echoes their cries; but her heart is the heart of a warrior. From its sheath snatched Winona her knife, and a leg from the red doe she severed; With the carcass she ran for her life, --to a low-branching oak ran the maiden; Round the deer's neck her head-strap [b] was tied; swiftly she sprang to the arms of the oak-tree; Quick her burden she drew to her side, and higher she clomb on the branches, While the maddened wolves battled and bled, dealing death o'er the leg to each other; Their keen fangs devouring the dead, --yea, devouring the flesh of the living, They raved and they gnashed and they growled, like the fiends in the regions infernal; The wide night re-echoing howled, and the hoarse North wind laughed o'er the slaughter. But their ravenous maws unappeased by the blood and the flesh of their fellows, To the cold wind their muzzles they raised, and the trail to the oak-tree they followed. Round and round it they howled for the prey, madly leaping and snarling and snapping; But the brave maiden's keen arrows slay, till the dead number more than the living. All the long, dreary night-time, at bay, in the oak sat the shivering Winona; But the sun gleamed at last, and away skulked the gray cowards [c] down through the forest. Then down dropped the doe and the maid. Ere the sun reached the midst of his journey, Her red, welcome burden she laid at the feet of her famishing father.

[a] Wazíya's Star is the North Star.

[b] A strap used in carrying burdens.

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

Wazíya's wild wrath was appeased, and homeward he turned to his teepee, [3] O'er the plains and the forest-land breezed, from the Islands of Summer, the South wind. From their dens came the coon and the bear; o'er the snow through the woodlands they wandered; On her snow shoes with stout bow and spear on their trails ran the huntress Winona. The coon to his den in the tree, and the bear to his burrow she followed; A brave, skillful hunter was she, and Ta-té-psin's lodge laughed with abundance.

The long winter wanes. On the wings of the spring come the geese and the mallards; On the bare oak the red-robin sings, and the crocuses peep on the prairies, And the bobolink pipes, but he brings, of the blue-eyed, brave White Chief, no tidings. With the waning of winter, alas, waned the life of the aged Tatépsin; Ere the blue pansies peeped from the grass, to the Land of the Spirits he journeyed; Like a babe in its slumber he passed, or the snow from the hill tops in April; And the dark-eyed Winona, at last, stood alone by the graves of her kindred. When their myriad mouths opened the trees to the sweet dew of heaven and the rain drops, And the April showers fell on the leas, on his mound fell the tears of Winona. Round her drooping form gathered the years and the spirits unseen of her kindred, As low, in the midst of her tears, at the grave of her father she chanted:

E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày! E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày! E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày! Ma-káh kin háy-chay-dan táy-han wan-kày. Tú-way ne ktáy snee e-yáy-chen e-wáh chày. E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày! E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày! Ma-káh kin háy-chay-dan táy-han wan-kày.

[TRANSLATION]

Sore is my sorrow! Sore is my sorrow! Sore is my sorrow! The earth alone lasts. I speak as one dying; Sore is my sorrow! Sore is my sorrow! The earth alone lasts.

Still hope, like a star in the night gleaming oft through the broken clouds somber, Cheered the heart of Winona, and bright, on her dreams, beamed the face of the Frenchman. As the thought of a loved one and lost, sad and sweet were her thoughts of the White Chief; In the moon's mellow light, like a ghost, walked Winona alone by the Ha-ha, Ever wrapped in a dream. Far away --to the land of the sunrise--she wandered; On the blue rolling Tánka Medé, [a] in the midst of her dreams, she beheld him-- In his white-winged canoe, like a bird, to the land of Dakotas returning; And often in fancy she heard the dip of his oars on the river. On the dark waters glimmered the moon, but she saw not the boat of the Frenchman; On the somber night bugled the loon, but she heard not the song of the boatmen. The moon waxed and waned, but the star of her hope never waned to the setting; Through her tears she beheld it afar, like a torch on the eastern horizon. "He will come,--he is coming," she said; "he will come, for my White Eagle promised," And low to the bare earth the maid bent her ear for the sound of his footsteps. "He is gone, but his voice in my ear still remains like the voice of the robin; He is far, but his footsteps I hear; he is coming; my White Chief is coming!"

[a] Lake Superior,--The _Gitchee Gumee_ of the Chippewas.

But the moon waxed and waned. Nevermore will the eyes of Winona behold him. Far away on the dark, rugged shore of the blue Gitchee Gúmee he lingers. No tidings the rising sun brings; no tidings the star of the evening; But morning and evening she sings, like a turtle-doe widowed and waiting;

Aké u, aké u, aké u; Ma cântè maséca. Aké u, aké u, aké u; Ma cântè maséca.

Come again, come again, come again; For my heart is sad. Come again, come again, come again; For my heart is sad.

Down the broad Gitchee Seebee [a] the band took their way to the Games at Keóza. While the swift-footed hunters by land ran the shores for the elk and the bison. Like magás [b] ride the birchen canoes on the breast of the dark Gitchee Seebee; By the willow-fringed islands they cruise by the grassy hills green to their summits; By the lofty bluffs hooded with oaks that darken the deep with their shadows; And bright in the sun gleam the strokes of the oars in the hands of the women. With the band went Winona. The oar plied the maid with the skill of a hunter. They loitered and camped on the shore of Remníca --the Lake of the Mountains. [c] There the fleet hunters followed the deer, and the thorny _pahin_ [d] for the women.

[a] Chippewa name of the Mississippi

[b] Wild Geese

[c] Lake Pepin; by Hennepin called Lake of Tears--Called by the Dakotas Remnee-chah-Mday--Lake of the Mountains.

[d] Pah hin--the porcupine--the quill of which are greatly prized for ornamental work.

From the tees rose the smoke of good cheer, curling blue through the tops of the maples, Near the foot of a cliff that arose, like the battle-scarred walls of a castle. Up-towering, in rugged repose, to a dizzy height over the waters.

But the man-wolf still followed his prey, and the step-mother ruled in the tepee; Her will must Winona obey, by the custom and law of Dakotas. The gifts to the teepee were brought --the blankets, and beads of the White men, And Winona, the orphaned, was bought by the crafty relentless Tamdóka. In the Spring-time of life, in the flush of the gladsome mid-May days of Summer, When the bobolink sang and the thrush, and the red robin chirped in the branches, To the tent of the brave must she go; she must kindle the fire in his tepee; She must sit in the lodge of her foe, as a slave at the feet of her master. Alas for her waiting! the wings of the East-wind have brought her no tidings; On the meadow the meadow-lark sings but sad is her song to Winona, For the glad warblers melody brings but the memory of voices departed.

The Day-Spirit walked in the west to his lodge in the land of the shadows; His shining face gleamed on the crest of the oak-hooded hills and the mountains, And the meadow-lark hied to her nest, and the mottled owl peeped from her cover. But hark! from the teepees a cry! Hear the shouts of the hurrying warriors! Are the steps of the enemy nigh, --of the crafty and creeping Ojibways? Nay; look on the dizzy cliff high! --on the brink of the cliff stands Winona! Her sad face up-turned to the sky. Hark! I hear the wild chant of her death-song:

My Father's Spirit, look down, look down-- From your hunting-grounds in the shining skies; Behold, for the light of my soul is gone,-- The light is gone and Winona dies.

I looked to the East, but I saw no star; The face of my White Chief was turned away. I harked for his footsteps in vain; afar His bark sailed over the Sunrise-sea.

Long have I watched till my heart is cold; In my breast it is heavy and cold as stone. No more shall Winona his face behold, And the robin that sang in her heart is gone.

Shall I sit at the feet of the treacherous brave? On his hateful couch shall Winona lie? Shall she kindle his fire like a coward slave? No!--a warrior's daughter can bravely die.

My Father's Spirit, look down, look down-- From your hunting-grounds in the shining skies; Behold, for the light of my soul is gone,-- The light is gone and Winona dies.

Swift the strong hunters clomb as she sang, and the foremost of all was Tamdóka; From crag to crag upward he sprang; like a panther he leaped to the summit. Too late! on the brave as he crept turned the maid in her scorn and defiance; Then swift from the dizzy height leaped. Like a brant arrow-pierced in mid-heaven. Down-whirling and fluttering she fell, and headlong plunged into the waters. Forever she sank mid the wail, and the wild lamentation of women. Her lone spirit evermore dwells in the depths of the Lake of the Mountains, And the lofty cliff evermore tells to the years as they pass her sad story. [a] In the silence of sorrow the night o'er the earth spread her wide, sable pinions; And the stars [18] hid their faces, and light on the lake fell the tears of the spirits. As her sad sisters watched on the shore for her spirit to rise from the waters, They heard the swift dip of an oar, and a boat they beheld like a shadow, Gliding down through the night in the gray, gloaming mists on the face of the waters. 'Twas the bark of DuLuth on his way from the Falls to the Games at Keóza.

[a] 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 worn away, or the water has receded, so that it does not reach the foot of the rock.

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.

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.

[b] A-pe--leaf,--duta--Scarlet,--Scarlet leaf.

[c] Stars, the Dakotas say, are the faces of departed friends and relatives on earth.