Indian Legends of Minnesota Part 8

At the doorway of his wigwam Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dacotas, Making arrow-heads of jasper, Arrow-heads of chalcedony.

At his side, in all her beauty, Sat the lovely Minnehaha, Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, Plaiting mats of flags and rushes; Of the past the old man's thoughts were, And the maiden's of the future.

He was thinking, as he sat there, Of the days when with such arrows He had struck the deer and bison, On the Muskoday, the meadow; Shot the wild goose flying southward, On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; Thinking of the great war-parties, How they came to buy his arrows, Could not fight without his arrows.

Ah, no more such n.o.ble warriors, Could be found on earth as they were!

Now the men were all like women, Only used their tongues for weapons!

She was thinking of a hunter, From another tribe and country, Young and tall and very handsome, Who one morning, in the Spring-time, Came to buy her father's arrows, Sat and rested in the wigwam, Lingered long about the doorway, Looking back as he departed.

She had heard her father praise him, Praise his courage and his wisdom; Would he come again for arrows To the Falls of Minnehaha?

On the mat her hands lay idle, And her eyes were very dreamy.

Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, Heard a rustling in the branches, And with glowing cheek and forehead, With the deer upon his shoulders, Suddenly from out the woodlands Hiawatha stood before them.

Straight the ancient Arrow-maker Looked up gravely from his labor, Laid aside the unfinished arrow, Bade him enter at the doorway, Saying, as he rose to meet him, "Hiawatha, you are welcome!"

At the feet of Laughing Water Hiawatha laid his burden, Threw the red deer from his shoulders; And the maiden looked up at him, Looked up from her mat of rushes, Said with gentle look and accent, "You are welcome, Hiawatha!"

Very s.p.a.cious was the wigwam, Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, With the G.o.ds of the Dakotas Drawn and painted on its curtains, And so tall the doorway, hardly Hiawatha stooped to enter, Hardly touched his eagle-feathers As he entered at the doorway.

Then uprose the Laughing Water, From the ground fair Minnehaha, Laid aside her mat unfinished, Brought forth food and set before them, Water brought them from the brooklet, Gave them food in earthen vessels, Gave them drink in bowls of ba.s.s-wood, Listened while the guest was speaking, Listened while her father answered, But not once her lips she opened, Not a single word she uttered.

Yes, as in a dream she listened To the words of Hiawatha, As he talked of old Nokomis, Who had nursed him in his childhood.

As he told of his companions, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind, And of happiness and plenty In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful.

"After many years of warfare, Many years of strife and bloodshed, There is peace between the Ojibways And the tribe of the Dakotas."

Thus continued Hiawatha, And then added, speaking slowly, "That this peace may last forever, And our hands be clasped more closely, And our hearts be more united, Give me as my wife this maiden, Minnehaha, Laughing Water, Loveliest of Dakota women!"

And the ancient Arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence, Looked at Hiawatha proudly, Fondly looked at Laughing Water, And made answer very gravely: "Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!"

And the lovely Laughing Water Seemed more lovely, as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant, As she went to Hiawatha, Softly took the seat beside him, While she said, and blushed to say it, "I will follow you, my husband!"

This was Hiawatha's wooing!

Thus it was he won the daughter Of the ancient Arrow-maker, In the land of the Dakotas!

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

The River-Lake.

After the cooling shower Soft is the twilight hour On the river-lake.

Sweetly the plaintive note Gushes from whippoorwill's throat, Gently, gently we float, Light as a fine snow-flake, Down the river-lake.

The dripping oars at rest Their murmurous music wake, And ripple o'er the breast Of the peaceful river-lake.

The lovely shadows fall Like a sin-outshutting wall On the river-lake, Charming the hour and place.

The holiness we trace In Nature's quiet grace Makes sacred for her sake All on the river-lake.

O this is purest joy!

This it is that makes Me love the wide St. Croix, The river-lake of lakes.

E. L. FALES.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Song of a Nadowessee Chief.

See on his mat--as if of yore, All life-like sits he here!

With that same aspect which he wore When light to him was dear.

But where the right hand's strength? and where The breath that loved to breathe, To the Great Spirit aloft in air, The peace-pipe's l.u.s.ty wreath?

And where the hawk-like eye, alas!

That wont the deer pursue, Along the waves of rippling gra.s.s, Or fields that shone with dew?

Are these the limber, bounding feet That swept the winter's snows?

What stateliest stag so fast and fleet?

Their speed outstripped the roe's!

These arms, that then the steady bow Could supple from its pride, How stark and helpless hang they now Adown the stiffened side!

Yet weal to him--at peace he stays Where never fall the snows; Where o'er the meadows springs the maize That mortal never sows.

Where birds are blithe on every brake-- Where forests teem with deer-- Where glide the fish through every lake-- One chase from year to year!

With spirits now he feasts above; All left us--to revere The deeds we honor with our love, The dust we bury here.

Here bring the last gift! loud and shrill Wail, death dirge for the brave!

What pleased him most in life may still Give pleasure in the grave.

We lay the ax beneath his head He swung when strength was strong-- The bear on which his banquets fed-- The way from earth is long!

And here, new sharped, place the knife That severed from the clay, From which the ax had spoiled the life, The conquered scalp away!

The paints that deck the dead bestow-- Yes, place them in his hand-- That red the kingly shade may glow Amid the spirit-land.

SIR. E. L. BULWER.

"Mahnusatia."

A pine-girt lake, broad spread; a glimpse Of clear-rimmed bay, encroaching lusk Upon a lapse of rocky vale; Beyond, a brunt-browed mountain, set Abrupt against a weary waste Of level, spa.r.s.e-grown forest plain.

Vanguard of Order's birth on Earth's Primeval stage, sphynx-like, the mount From chaos burst upon a world Of sea in s.p.a.ce. It kept its head To the sun; it pierced the dense of the mists; It gathered forces, one by one, Until the land by light was kissed.

The waters slunk away to Lake Superior's bent, leaving a child At play, on a plateau's breast, content.

Marking the march of time, the mount Grew grim and gray, while ages stored Their riches at its feet away:-- Ore-of-iron riches deep stowed In vaults of rock, for creature king Of future age to fit the key Of genius in their ancient locks; Stowed wealth to bless a nation, whose Motto: "Onward! Light!" befits it For that mountain's home, which pierced through Inchoate night; stowed signet seal, With which to stamp that fair land's Queen Of States, whose crested monogram, With sheaves of wheat entwined, the North Star scintillates.

Guarding the till Of treasure, mountain, grim and gray, Playing with wind and wave, child-lough And lazy bay--Archaic group Are they, whose quiet naught details Of primal epochs; yet, as face Of man with furrowed wrinkles marked And seared, suggests his past life's course, Their presence in itself reveals The trace of annals which their calm Conceals. So Mystery's seeds were sown.

Even the simple Indian folk,-- Naive indigene of primitive plain,-- Beheld with minds to quickened thought Provoked, that single skyward height Break stark upon the main and called It "Wey-do-dosh-she-ma-de-nog."

Because, they said, it was the breast Of Mother Earth, which there arose To succor spirit souls in quest Of joyous hunting-grounds, of which Their wise men tell. And not to them Alone has nature from this rare Scene appealed to fancy; for, when Old Father Time, from out his horn Of plenty, had poured the years full Generations high upon the one To which this legend runs, the white Man came, bearing a waving stick, His country's standard, into these Proemial haunts. The lake, wine-stained, He called "Vermilion," but the mount Which broke upon his vision from Under a chastened moon, he named, "Jasper," after glories promised To the kingdom of his own G.o.d.

The wild rice bent its fragile stalk Beneath a crown of ripened grain; The birch and oak and maple blazed The Autumn's glory forth, and set aflame With red and gold, the northland pines, Perennial green. The light wind's voice Was m.u.f.fled in requiem, mournful, low,-- A parting song to Summer, sad, soft, And measured slow. Timed to the chant Of death, but tuned to death's sweet hope-- Joy-hope of sorrow born--fair birth, A freer life of fuller scope!

The sinking sun set all ablush The bosom of the lake. Upon the edge Of twilight rode the specter moon-- Swift pinioned bird of noiseless flight-- And hung a halo far above Mount Wey-do-dosh-she-ma-de-nog.

Along the shard-strewn sh.o.r.e, a band Of Chippeway braves had pitched their camp, To celebrate, with rites of their Medawe, the flooding season's Tide of full-grown grain. In and out Among the shadow-lengthened pines, Their dusky forms moved, one by one, To circle silently around The council fire. And when the tribe Were gathered all, the day was done; Its splendor s.h.i.+fted to the Queen Of Night, that, flushed with triumph, flung Adown the path of sky, beyond Mount Wey-do-dosh-she-ma-de-nog A bridge of golden gleams, to lose Themselves within the darkling depths Of Lake Vermilion's lifeless bay.