Chapter 3

"Wakâwa," he muttered, "the guilt is thine! She was pure--she was pure as the fawn unborn. O why did I hark to the cry of scorn, Or the words of the lying libertine? Wakâwa, Wakâwa, the guilt is thine! The springs will return with the voice of birds, But the voice of my daughter will come no more. She wakened the woods with her musical words, And the sky-lark, ashamed of his voice, forbore. She called back the years that had passed, and long I heard their voice in her happy song. O why did the chief of the tall _Hóhè_ His feet from _Kapóza_[6] so long delay? For his father sat at my father's feast, And he at Wakâwa's--an honored guest. He is dead!--he is slain on the Bloody Plain, By the hand of the treacherous Chippeway; And the face shall I never behold again Of my brave young brother--the chief Chaskè. Death walks like a shadow among my kin; And swift are the feet of the flying years That cover Wakâwa with frost and tears, And leave their tracks on his wrinkled skin. Wakâwa, 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 Wakâwa'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? Wakâwa, Wakâwa, for thee the years Are red with blood and bitter with tears. Gone--brothers, and daughters, and wife--all gone That are kin to Wakâwa--but one--but one-- Wakínyan Tânka--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 Wakâwa'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 Wakâwa'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 twang 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 Wakâwa'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 bloody blade. Like a bear in the battle Wakâwa raves, And cheers the hearts of his falling braves. But a panther crouches along his track-- He springs with a yell on Wakâwa'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 bloody hilt Of his knife in the heart of the slayer dyed. And thus was the life of Wakâwa spilt, And slain and slayer lay side by side. The unscalped corpse of their honored chief His warriors snatched from the yelling pack, And homeward fled on their forest track With their bloody burden and load of grief.

The spirits the words of the brave fulfill-- Wakâwa sleeps on the sacred hill, And Wakínyan Tânka, his son, is chief. Ah soon shall the lips of men forget Wakâwa'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 grass. The _Si-yo_[59] clucks on the emerald prairies To her infant brood. From the wild morass, On the sapphire lakelet set within it, _Magâ_ 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 Wiwâstè? 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 Chaskè: 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 Chaskè?

But what of the venomous Hârpstinà-- 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 Wiwâstè, 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 pricked 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 Wiwâstè? 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 pass 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 Wiwâstè's head. Then slyly she slipped from her snug retreat, And guiding her course by Wazíya'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 Wiwâstè 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 Wiwâstè. 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 Wiwâstè's trail; And guide my flight to the far _Hóhè_-- To the sheltering lodge of my brave Chaskè."

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 god 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 grassy field She found the bulbs of the young _Tipsânna_,[43] And the sweet _medó_ [64] that the meadows yield. With the precious gift of his priceless manna God fed his fainting and famished child.

At night again to the northward far She followed the torch of Wazíya'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 Bloody 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 "Bloody Land."

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!

She hid like a grouse in the meadow-grass, And moaned--"I am lost!--I am lost! alas, And why did I fly from my native land To die by the cruel Ojibway's hand?" And on rode the braves. She could hear the steeds Come galloping on o'er the level meads; And lowly she crouched in the waving grass, And hoped against hope that the braves would pass.

They have passed; she is safe--she is safe! Ah no! They have struck her trail and the hunters halt. Like wolves on the track of the bleeding doe, That grappled breaks from the dread assault, Dash the warriors wild on Wiwâstè's trail. She flies--but what can her flight avail? Her feet are fleet, but the flying feet Of the steeds of the prairies are fleeter still; And where can she fly for a safe retreat?

But hark to the shouting--"_Ihó!--Ihó!_"[22] Rings over the wide plain sharp and shrill. She halts, and the hunters come riding on; But the horrible fear from her heart is gone, For it is not the shout of the dreaded foe; 'Tis the welcome shout of her native land!

Up galloped the chief of the band, and lo-- The clutched knife dropped from her trembling hand; She uttered a cry and she swooned away; For there, on his steed in the blaze of day, On the boundless prairie so far away, With his polished bow and his feathers gay, Sat the manly form of her own Chaskè!

There's a mote in my eye or a blot on the page, And I cannot tell of the joyful greeting; You may take it for granted, and I will engage, There were kisses and tears at the strange, glad meeting; For aye since the birth of the swift-winged years, In the desert drear, in the field of clover, In the cot, in the palace, and all the world over-- Yea, away on the stars to the ultimate spheres, The greeting of love to the long-sought lover-- Is tears and kisses and kisses and tears.

But why did the lover so long delay? And whitherward rideth the chief to-day? As he followed the trail of the buffalo, From the _tees_ of _Kapóza_ a maiden, lo, Came running in haste o'er the drifted snow. She spoke to the chief of the tall _Hóhè_: "Wiwâstè requests that the brave Chaskè Will abide with his band and his coming delay Till the moon when the strawberries are ripe and red, And then will the chief and Wiwâstè wed-- When the Feast of the Virgins is past," she said. Wiwâstè's wish was her lover's law; And so his coming the chief delayed Till the mid May blossoms should bloom and fade-- But the lying runner was Hârpstinà.

And now with the gifts for the bridal day And his chosen warriors he took his way, And followed his heart to his moon-faced maid. And thus was the lover so long delayed; And so as he rode with his warriors gay, On that bright and beautiful summer day, His bride he met on the trail mid-way.

God arms the innocent. He is there-- In the desert vast, in the wilderness, On the bellowing sea, in the lion's lair, In the mist of battle, and everywhere. In his hand he holds with a father's care The tender hearts of the motherless; The maid and the mother in sore distress He shields with his love and his tenderness; He comforts the widowed--the comfortless-- And sweetens her chalice of bitterness; He clothes the naked--the numberless-- His charity covers their nakedness-- And he feeds the famished and fatherless With the hand that feedeth the birds of air. Let the myriad tongues of the earth confess His infinite love and his holiness; For his pity pities the pitiless, His mercy flows to the merciless; And the countless worlds in the realms above, Revolve in the light of his boundless love.

And what of the lovers? you ask, I trow. She told him all ere the sun was low-- Why she fled from the Feast to a safe retreat. She laid her heart at her lover's feet, And her words were tears and her lips were slow. As she sadly related the bitter tale His face was aflame and anon grew pale, And his dark eyes flashed with a brave desire, Like the midnight gleam of the sacred fire. [65] "_Mitâwin,_"[66] he said, and his voice was low, "Thy father no more is the false Little Crow; But the fairest plume shall Wiwâstè wear Of the great _Wanmdeè_ in her midnight hair. In my lodge, in the land of the tall _Hóhè_, The robins will sing all the long summer day To the happy bride of the brave Chaskè.'"

Aye, love is tested by stress and trial Since the finger of time on the endless dial Began its rounds, and the orbs to move In the boundless vast, and the sunbeams clove The chaos; but only by fate's denial Are fathomed the fathomless depths of love. Man is the rugged and wrinkled oak, And woman the trusting and tender vine That clasps and climbs till its arms entwine The brawny arms of the sturdy stock. The dimpled babes are the flowers divine That the blessing of God on the vine and oak With their cooing and blossoming lips invoke.

To the pleasant land of the brave _Hóhè_ Wiwâstè rode with her proud Chaskè. She ruled like a queen in his bountiful _tee_, And the life of the twain was a jubilee Their wee ones climbed on the father's knee, And played with his plumes of the great _Wanmdeè_. The silken threads of the happy years They wove into beautiful robes of love That the spirits wear in the lodge above; And time from the reel of the rolling spheres His silver threads with the raven wove; But never the stain of a mother's tears Soiled the shining web of their happy years. When the wrinkled mask of the years they wore, And the raven hair of their youth was gray, Their love grew deeper, and more and more; For he was a lover for aye and aye, And ever her beautiful, brave Chaskè. Through the wrinkled mask of the hoary years To the loving eyes of the lover aye The blossom of beautiful youth appears.

At last, when their locks were as white as snow, Beloved and honored by all the band, They silently slipped from their lodge below, And walked together, and hand in hand, O'er the Shining Path[68] to the Spirit-land, Where the hills and the meadows for aye and aye Are clad with the verdure and flowers of May, And the unsown prairies of Paradise Yield the golden maize and the sweet wild rice. There, ever ripe in the groves and prairies, Hang the purple plums and the luscious berries, And the swarthy herds of the bison feed On the sun-lit slope and the waving mead; The dappled fawns from their coverts peep, And countless flocks on the waters sleep; And the silent years with their fingers trace No furrows for aye on the hunter's face.

To the memory of my devoted wife dead and gone yet always with me I dedicate

PAULINE

The Flower of my heart nursed into bloom by her loving care and ofttimes watered with her tears

H.L.G.

PAULINE

_PART I_

INTRODUCTION

Fair morning sat upon the mountain-top, Night skulking crept into the mountain-chasm. The silent ships slept in the silent bay; One broad blue bent of ether domed the heavens, One broad blue distance lay the shadowy land, One broad blue vast of silence slept the sea. Now from the dewy groves the joyful birds In carol-concert sang their matin songs Softly and sweetly--full of prayer and praise. Then silver-chiming, solemn-voiced bells Rung out their music on the morning air, And Lisbon gathered to the festival In chapel and cathedral. Choral hymns And psalms of sea-toned organs mingling rose With sweetest incense floating up to heaven, Bearing the praises of the multitudes; And all was holy peace and holy happiness. A rumbling of deep thunders in the deep; The vast sea shuddered and the mountains groaned; Up-heaved the solid earth--the nether rocks Burst--and the sea--the earth--the echoing heavens Thundered infernal ruin. On their knees The trembling multitudes received the shock, And dumb with sudden terror bowed their heads To toppling spire and plunging wall and dome.

So shook the mighty North the sudden roar Of Treason thundering on the April air-- An earthquake shock that jarred the granite hills And westward rolled against th' eternal walls Rock-built Titanic--for a moment shook: Uprose a giant and with iron hands Grasped his huge hammer, claspt his belt of steel, And o'er the Midgard-monster mighty Thor Loomed for the combat.

Peace--O blessed Peace! The war-worn veterans hailed thee with a shout Of Alleluias;--homeward wound the trains, And homeward marched the bayonet-bristling columns To "_Hail Columbia_" from a thousand horns-- Marched to the jubilee of chiming bells, Marched to the joyful peals of cannon, marched With blazing banners and victorious songs Into the outstretched arms of love and home.

But there be columns--columns of the dead That slumber on an hundred battle-fields-- No bugle-blast shall waken till the trump Of the Archangel. O the loved and lost! For them no jubilee of chiming bells; For them no cannon-peal of victory; For them no outstretched arms of love and home. God's peace be with them. Heroes who went down, Wearing their stars, live in the nation's songs And stories--there be greater heroes still, That molder in unnumbered nameless graves Erst bleached unburied on the fields of fame Won by their valor. Who will sing of these-- Sing of the patriot-deeds on field and flood-- Of these--the truer heroes--all unsung? Where sleeps the modest bard in Quaker gray Who blew the pibroch ere the battle lowered, Then pitched his tent upon the balmy beach? "Snow-bound," I ween, among his native hills. And where the master hand that swept the lyre Till wrinkled critics cried "Excelsior"? Gathering the "Aftermath" in frosted fields. Then, timid Muse, no longer shake thy wings For airy realms and fold again in fear; A broken flight is better than no flight; Be thine the task, as best you may, to sing The deeds of one who sleeps at Gettysburg Among the thousands in a common grave. The story of his life I bid you tell As it was told one windy winter night To veterans gathered around the festal board, Fighting old battles over where the field Ran red with wine, and all the battle-blare Was merry laughter and the merry songs-- Told when the songs were sung by him who heard The pith of it from the dying soldier's lips-- His Captain--tell it as the Captain told.

THE CAPTAIN'S STORY

"Well, comrades, let us fight one battle more; Let the cock crow--we'll guard the camp till morn. And--since the singers and the merry ones Are _hors de combat_--fill the cups again; Nod if you must, but listen to a tale Romantic--but the warp thereof is truth. When the old Flag on Sumter's sea-girt walls From its proud perch a fluttering ruin fell, I swore an oath as big as Bunker Hill; For I was younger then, nor battle-scarred, And full of patriot-faith and patriot-fire.

"I raised a company of riflemen, Marched to the front, and proud of my command, Nor seeking higher, led them till the day Of triumph and the nation's jubilee. Among the first that answered to my call The hero came whose story you shall hear. 'Tis better I describe him: He was young-- Near two and twenty--neither short nor tall-- A slender student, and his tapering hands Had better graced a maiden than a man: Sad, thoughtful face--a wealth of raven hair Brushed back in waves from forehead prominent; A classic nose--half Roman and half Greek; Dark, lustrous eyes beneath dark, jutting brows, Wearing a shade of sorrow, yet so keen, And in the storm of battle flashing fire.

"'Well, boy,' I said, 'I doubt if you will do; I need stout men for picket-line and march-- Men that have bone and muscle--men inured To toil and hardships--men, in short, my boy, To march and fight and march and fight again.' A queer expression lit his earnest face-- Half frown--half smile.

"'Well _try_ me.' That was all He answered, and I put him on the roll-- _Paul Douglas, private_--and he donned the blue. Paul proved himself the best in my command; I found him first at _reveille_, and first In all the varied duties of the day. His rough-hewn comrades, bred to boisterous ways, Jeered at the slender youth with maiden hands, Nicknamed him 'Nel,' and for a month or more Kept up a fusillade of jokes and jeers. Their jokes and jeers he heard but heeded not, Or heeding did a kindly act for him That jeered him loudest; so the hardy men Came to look up to Paul as one above The level of their rough and roistering ways. He never joined the jolly soldier-sports, But ever was the first at bugle-call, Mastered the drill and often drilled the men. Fatigued with duty, weary with the march Under the blaze of the midsummer sun, He murmured not--alike in sun or rain His utmost duty eager to perform, And ever ready--always just the same Patient and earnest, sad and silent Paul.