Chapter 2

Wiwâstè sat late in the lodge alone, Her dark eyes bent on the glowing fire: She heard not the wild winds shrill and moan; She heard not the tall elms toss and groan; Her face was lit like the harvest moon; For her thoughts flew far to her heart's desire. Far away in the land of the _Hóhè_[15] dwelt The warrior she held in her secret heart; But little he dreamed of the pain she felt, For she hid her love with a maiden's art. Not a tear she shed, not a word she said, When the brave young chief from the lodge departed; But she sat on the mound when the day was dead, And gazed at the full moon mellow-hearted. Fair was the chief as the morning-star; His eyes were mild and his words were low, But his heart was stouter than lance or bow; And her young heart flew to her love afar O'er his trail long covered with drifted snow. She heard a warrior's stealthy tread, And the tall Wakâwa appeared, and said: "Is Wiwâstè afraid of the spirit dread That fires the sky in the fatal north?[26] Behold the mysterious lights. Come forth: Some evil threatens, some danger nears, For the skies are pierced by the burning spears."

The warriors rally beneath the moon; They shoot their shafts at the evil spirit. The spirit is slain and the flame is gone, But his blood lies red on the snow-fields near it; And again from the dead will the spirit rise, And flash his spears in the northern skies.

Then the chief and the queenly Wiwâstè stood Alone in the moon-lit solitude, And she was silent and he was grave. "And fears not my daughter the evil spirit? The strongest warriors and bravest fear it. The burning spears are an evil omen; They threaten the wrath of a wicked woman, Or a treacherous foe; but my warriors brave, When danger nears, or the foe appears, Are a cloud of arrows--a grove of spears."

"My Father," she said, and her words were low, "Why should I fear? for I soon will go To the broad, blue lodge in the Spirit-land, Where my fond-eyed mother went long ago, And my dear twin-sisters walk hand in hand. My Father, listen--my words are true," And sad was her voice as the whippowil When she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill, "Wiwâstè lingers alone with you; The rest are sleeping on yonder hill-- Save one--and he an undutiful son-- And you, my Father, will sit alone When _Sisóka_[27] sings and the snow is gone. I sat, when the maple leaves were red, By the foaming falls of the haunted river; The night-sun was walking above my head, And the arrows shone in his burnished quiver; And the winds were hushed and the hour was dread With the walking ghosts of the silent dead. I heard the voice of the Water-Fairy;[28] I saw her form in the moon-lit mist, As she sat on a stone with her burden weary, By the foaming eddies of amethyst. And robed in her mantle of mist the sprite Her low wail poured on the silent night. Then the spirit spake, and the floods were still-- They hushed and listened to what she said, And hushed was the plaint of the whippowil In the silver-birches above her head: 'Wiwâstè, the prairies are green and fair When the robin sings and the whippowil; But the land of the Spirits is fairer still, For the winds of winter blow never there; And forever the songs of the whippowils And the robins are heard on the leafy hills. Thy mother looks from her lodge above-- Her fair face shines in the sky afar, And the eyes of thy sisters are bright with love, As they peep from the _tee_ of the mother-star. To her happy lodge in the Spirit land She beckons Wiwâstè with shining hand.'

"My Father--my Father, her words were true; And the death of Wiwâstè will rest on you. You have pledged me as wife to the tall Red Cloud; You will take the gifts of the warrior proud; But I, Wakâwa,--I answer--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 dark Red Cloud!"

"Wiwâstè," he said, and his voice was low, "Let it be as you will, for Wakâwa's tongue Has spoken no promise;--his lips are slow, And the love of a father is deep and strong. Be happy, Micúnksee;[29] the flames are gone-- They flash no more in the northern sky. See the smile on the face of the watching moon; No more will the fatal, red arrows fly; For the singing shafts of my warriors sped To the bad spirit's bosom and laid him dead, And his blood on the snow of the North lies red. Go--sleep in the robe that you won to-day, And dream of your hunter--the brave Chaskè."

Light was her heart as she turned away; It sang like the lark in the skies of May. The round moon laughed, but a lone, red star,[30] As she turned to the _teepee_ and entered in, Fell flashing and swift in the sky afar, Like the polished point of a javelin. Nor chief nor daughter the shadow saw Of the crouching listener, Hârpstinà.

Wiwâstè, wrapped in her robe and sleep, Heard not the storm-sprites wail and weep, As they rode on the winds in the frosty air; But she heard the voice of her hunter fair; For a fairy spirit with silent fingers The curtains drew from the land of dreams; And lo in her _teepee_ her lover lingers; In his tender eyes all the love-light beams, And his voice is the music of mountain streams.

And then with her round, brown arms she pressed His phantom form to her throbbing breast, And whispered the name, in her happy sleep, Of her _Hóhè_ hunter so fair and far: And then she saw in her dreams the deep Where the spirit wailed, and a falling star; Then stealthily crouching under the trees, By the light of the moon, the _Kan-é-ti-dan_, [31] The little, wizened, mysterious man, With his long locks tossed by the moaning breeze. Then a flap of wings, like a thunder-bird, [32] And a wailing spirit the sleeper heard; And lo, through the mists of the moon, she saw The hateful visage of Hârpstinà.

But waking she murmured--"And what are these---- The flap of wings and the falling star, The wailing spirit that's never at ease, The little man crouching under the trees, And the hateful visage of Hârpstinà? My dreams are like feathers that float on the breeze, And none can tell what the omens are---- Save the beautiful dream of my love afar In the happy land of the tall _Hóhè_---- My handsome hunter--my brave Chaskè."

_"Ta-tánka! Ta-tánka!"_[33] the hunters cried, With a joyous shout at the break of dawn And darkly lined on the white hill-side, A herd of bison went marching on Through the drifted snow like a caravan. Swift to their ponies the hunters sped, And dashed away on the hurried chase. The wild steeds scented the game ahead, And sprang like hounds to the eager race. But the brawny bulls in the swarthy van Turned their polished horns on the charging foes And reckless rider and fleet footman Were held at bay in the drifted snows, While the bellowing herd o'er the hilltops ran, Like the frightened beasts of a caravan On Sahara's sands when the simoon blows. Sharp were the twangs of the hunters' bows, And swift and humming the arrows sped, Till ten huge bulls on the bloody snows Lay pierced with arrows and dumb and dead. But the chief with the flankers had gained the rear, And flew on the trail of the flying herd. The shouts of the riders rang loud and clear, As their foaming steeds to the chase they spurred. And now like the roar of an avalanche Rolls the bellowing wrath of the maddened bulls They charge on the riders and runners stanch, And a dying steed in the snow drift rolls, While the rider, flung to the frozen ground, Escapes the horns by a panther's bound. But the raging monsters are held at bay, While the flankers dash on the swarthy rout: With lance and arrow they slay and slay; And the welkin rings to the gladsome shout---- To the loud _Iná's_ and the wild _Ihó's_, [34] And dark and dead, on the bloody snows, Lie the swarthy heaps of the buffaloes. All snug in the _teepee_ Wiwâstè lay, All wrapped in her robe, at the dawn of day, All snug and warm from the wind and snow, While the hunters followed the buffalo. Her dreams and her slumber their wild shouts broke; The chase was afoot when the maid awoke; She heard the twangs of the hunters' bows, And the bellowing bulls and the loud _Ihó_'s, And she murmured--"My hunter is far away In the happy land of the tall _Hóhè_---- My handsome hunter, my brave Chaskè; But the robins will come and my warrior too, And Wiwâstè will find her a way to woo."

And long she lay in a reverie, And dreamed, wide-awake, of the brave Chaskè, Till a trampling of feet on the crispy snow She heard, and the murmur of voices low:---- Then the warriors' greeting--_Ihó! Ihó!_ And behold, in the blaze of the risen day, With the hunters that followed the buffalo---- Came her tall, young hunter--her brave Chaskè. Far south has he followed the bison-trail With his band of warriors so brave and true. Right glad is Wakâwa his friend to hail, And Wiwâstè will find her a way to woo.

Tall and straight as the larch-tree stood The manly form of the brave young chief, And fair as the larch in its vernal leaf, When the red fawn bleats in the feathering wood. Mild was his face as the morning skies, And friendship shone in his laughing eyes; But swift were his feet o'er the drifted snow On the trail of the elk or the buffalo, And his heart was stouter than lance or bow, When he heard the whoop of his enemies. Five feathers he wore of the great Wanmdeè And each for the scalp of a warrior slain, When down on his camp from the northern plain, With their murder-cries rode the bloody _Cree_.[35] 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 _Hóhè_. 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 shores of the _Great Medè_ [36] The nations spoke of the brave Chaskè.

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 _Hóhè_, And Wiwâstè smiled on the tall Chaskè. 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 Hârpstinà The clouded face of the warrior saw. Softly she spoke to the sullen brave: "Mah-pí-ya Dúta--his face is sad; And why is the warrior so glum and grave? For the fair Wiwâstè is gay and glad; She will sit in the _teepee_ the live-long day, And laugh with her lover--the brave _Hóhè_ 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-pí-ya will surely find That Wakâwa'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 dark 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 Wakâwa's tongue Has spoken no promise--his lips are slow, And the love of a father is deep and strong.'

"Mah-pí-ya Dúta, 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-kâ-da-weè_, [37] That slips into brooks when the gray cloud lifts, Or the red sun looks through the ragged rifts. Mah-pí-ya Dúta 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-pí-ya Dúta will listen to me. I love him well--I have loved him long: A woman is weak, but a warrior is strong, And a love-lorn brave is a scorn to see.

"Mah-pí-ya Dúta, 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 avenge 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 Chaskè; Winged were the hours and they flitted away; On the wings of _Wakândee_[39] they silently flew, For Wiwâstè 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 Wiwâstè 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 trod 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 Bloody 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 Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo. When he spoke with Wakâwa her sidelong eyes Sought the handsome chief in his hunter-guise. Wakâwa 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 her love-lit 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] slope 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 robins in May With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; And the fair Wiwâstè was happy-hearted, For Wakâwa promised the brave Chaskè. 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 common council for high debate; And the lass 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 Hârpstinà.

The winter wanes and the south-wind blows From the Summer Islands legendary; The _skéskas_[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 blushing faces and dewy 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 pass and the brave Chaskè [17] O why does the lover so long delay? Wiwâstè 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 Wakâwa 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 blushing 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 rose-buds 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 shine.

Hand in hand round the feast they dance, And sing to the notes of a rude bassoon, 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, Wiwâstè 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 a brave is the fiat of law; For the Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing. Aside with the mothers sat Hârpstinà; 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.

Then up from his seat in the silent crowd Rose the frowning, fierce-eyed, tall Red Cloud; Swift was his stride as the panther's spring, When he leaps on the fawn from his cavern lair; Wiwâstè he caught by her flowing hair, And dragged her forth from the Sacred Ring. She turned on the warrior, her eyes flashed fire; Her proud lips quivered with queenly ire; And her sun-browned cheeks were aflame with red. Her hand to the spirits she raised and said: "I am pure!--I am pure as the falling snow! Great _Tâku-skán-skán_[51] will testify! And dares the tall coward to say me no?" But the sullen warrior made no reply. She turned to the chief with her frantic cries: "Wakâwa,--my Father! he lies,--he lies! Wiwâstè is pure as the fawn unborn; Lead me back to the feast or Wiwâstè dies!" But the warriors uttered a cry of scorn, And he turned his face from her pleading eyes.

Then the sullen warrior, the tall Red Cloud, Looked up and spoke and his voice was loud; But he held his wrath and he spoke with care: "Wiwâstè is young; she is proud and fair, But she may not boast of the virgin snows. The Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing; How durst she enter the Virgins' ring? The warrior would fain, but he dares not spare; She is tarnished and only the Red Cloud knows."

She clutched her hair in her clinchèd hand; She stood like a statue bronzed and grand; _Wakân-deè_[39] flashed in her fiery eyes; Then swift as the meteor cleaves the skies-- Nay, swift as the fiery _Wakinyan's_[32] dart, She snatched the knife from the warrior's belt, And plunged it clean to the polished hilt-- With a deadly cry--in the villain's heart. Staggering he clutched the air and fell; His life-blood smoked on the trampled sand, And dripped from the knife in the virgin's hand.

Then rose his kinsmen's savage yell. Swift as the doe's Wiwâstè's feet Fled away to the forest. The hunters fleet In vain pursue, and in vain they prowl And lurk in the forest till dawn of day. They hear the hoot of the mottled owl; They hear the were-wolf's[52] winding howl; But the swift Wiwâstè is far away. They found no trace in the forest land; They found no trail in the dew-damp grass; They found no track in the river sand, Where they thought Wiwâstè would surely pass.

The braves returned to the troubled chief; In his lodge he sat in his silent grief. "Surely," they said, "she has turned a spirit. No trail she left with her flying feet; No pathway leads to her far retreat. She flew in the air, and her wail--we could hear it, As she upward rose to the shining stars; And we heard on the river, as we stood near it, The falling drops of Wiwâstè's tears."

Wakâwa thought of his daughter's words Ere the south-wind came and the piping birds-- "My Father, listen--my words are true," And sad was her voice as the whippowil When she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill, "Wiwâstè lingers alone with you; The rest are sleeping on yonder hill-- Save one--and he an undutiful son-- And you, my Father, will sit alone When _Sisóka_[53] sings and the snow is gone." His broad breast heaved on his troubled soul, The shadow of grief o'er his visage stole Like a cloud on the face of the setting sun.

"She has followed the years that are gone," he said; "The spirits the words of the witch fulfill; For I saw the ghost of my father dead, By the moon's dim light on the misty hill. He shook the plumes on his withered head, And the wind through his pale form whistled shrill. And a low, sad voice on the hill I heard, Like the mournful wail of a widowed bird." Then lo, as he looked from his lodge afar, He saw the glow of the Evening-star; "And yonder," he said, "is Wiwâstè's face; She looks from her lodge on our fading race, Devoured by famine, and fraud, and war, And chased and hounded by fate and woe, As the white wolves follow the buffalo;" And he named the planet the _Virgin Star_.[54]