Legends of the Northwest Part 11

[c] The Ojibways call the St. Louis River _Gitchee-Gumee See-bee--Great-lake River_, i.e. the river of the Great Lake (Lake Superior).

[Ill.u.s.tration: DALLES OF THE ST. LOUIS]

Still onward they speed to the Dalles --to the roar of the white-rolling rapids, Where the dark river tumbles and falls down the ragged ravine of the mountains, And singing his wild jubilee to the low-moaning pines and the cedars, Rushes on to the unsalted sea o'er the ledges upheaved by volcanoes.

Their luggage the _voyageurs_ bore down the long, winding path of the portage, [a]

While they mingled their song with the roar of the turbid and turbulent waters.

Down-wimpling and murmuring there, twixt two dewy hills winds a streamlet, Like a long, flaxen ringlet of hair on the breast of a maid in her slumber.

[a] The route of Duluth above described--from the mouth of the Wild Rice Mud River to Lake Superior--was for centuries and still is, the Indians'

canoe route. I have walked over the old portage from the foot of the Dalles to the St. Louis above--trod by the feet of half-breeds and _voyageurs_ for more than two centuries, and by the Indians for, perhaps, a thousand years.

All safe at the foot of the trail, where they left it, they found their felucca, And soon to the wind spread the sail, and glided at ease through the waters, Through the meadows and lakelets and forth, round the point stretching south like a finger, From the mist-wreathen hill on the north, sloping down to the bay and the lake-side And behold, at the foot of the hill, a cl.u.s.ter of Chippewa wigwams, And the busy wives plying with skill their nets in the emerald waters.

Two hundred white winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer Since DuLuth, on that wild, somber sh.o.r.e, in the unbroken forest primeval, From the midst of the spruce and the pines, saw the smoke of the wigwams up-curling, Like the fumes from the temples and shrines of the Druids of old in their forests.

Ah, little he dreamed then, forsooth, that a city would stand on that hill-side, And bear the proud name of Duluth, the untiring and dauntless explorer.

A refuge for s.h.i.+ps from the storms, and for men from the bee-hives of Europe.

Out-stretching her long, iron arms o'er an empire of Saxons and Normans.

The swift west-wind sang in the sails, and on flew the boat like a Sea-Gull, By the green, templed hills and the dales, and the dark rugged rocks of the North Sh.o.r.e; For the course of the brave Frenchman lay to his fort at the Gah-mah-na-tek-wahk, [83]

By the sh.o.r.e of the grand Thunder Bay, where the gray rocks loom up into mountains; Where the Stone Giant sleeps on the Cape, and the G.o.d of the storms makes the thunder, [83]

And the Makinak [83] lifts his huge shape from the breast of the blue-rolling waters, And thence to the south-westward led his course to the Holy Ghost Mission. [84]

Where the Black Robes, the brave shepherds, fed their wild sheep on the isle Wau-ga-ba-me. [84]

[Ill.u.s.tration: SUNSET BAY, LAKE SUPERIOR.]

In the enchanting Cha-quam-e-gon Bay, defended by all the Apostles; [a]

And thence by the Ke-we-naw, lay his course to the Mission Sainte Marie. [b]

Now the waves drop their myriad hands, and streams the white hair of the surges; DuLuth at the steady helm stands, and he hums as he bounds o'er the billows:

O sweet is the carol of bird, And sweet is the murmur of streams, But sweeter the voice that I heard-- In the night--in the midst of my dreams.

[a] The Apostle Islands.

[b] At the Saut St. Marie.

'Tis the moon of the sere, falling leaves.

From the heads of the maples the west-wind Plucks the red-and-gold plumage and grieves on the meads for the rose and the lily; Their brown leaves the moaning oaks strew, and the breezes that roam on the prairies, Low-whistling and wanton pursue the down of the silk weed and thistle.

All sere are the prairies and brown, in the glimmer and haze of the Autumn; From the far northern marshes flock down, by thousands, the geese and the mallards.

From the meadows and wide-prairied plains, for their long southward journey preparing, In croaking flocks gather the cranes, and choose with loud clamor their leaders.

The breath of the evening is cold, and lurid along the horizon The flames of the prairies are rolled, on the somber skies flas.h.i.+ng their torches.

At noontide a s.h.i.+mmer of gold, through the haze, pours the sun from his pathway.

The wild-rice is gathered and ripe, on the moors, lie the scarlet po-pan-ka; [a]

Michabo [85] is smoking his pipe, --'tis the soft, dreamy Indian Summer, When the G.o.d of the South as he flies from Waziya, the G.o.d of the Winter, For a time turns his beautiful eyes, and backward looks over his shoulder.

[a] Cranberries.

It is noon. From his path in the skies the red sun looks down on Kathaga, Asleep in the valley it lies, for the swift hunters follow the bison.

Ta-te-psin, the aged brave, bends as he walks by the side of Winona; Her arm to his left hand she lends, and he feels with his staff for the pathway; On his slow, feeble footsteps attends his gray dog, the watchful Wichaka; [a]

For blind in his years is the chief of a fever that followed the Summer, And the days of Ta-te-psin are brief.

Once more by the dark-rolling river Sits the Chief in the warm, dreamy haze of the beautiful Summer in Autumn; And the faithful dog lovingly lays his head at the feet of his master.

On a dead, withered branch sits a crow, down-peering askance at the old man; On the marge of the river below romp the nut-brown and merry-voiced children, And the dark waters silently flow, broad and deep, to the plunge of the Ha-ha.

[a] Wee-chah kah--literally "Faithful".

By his side sat Winona.

He laid his thin, shriveled hand on her tresses, "Winona my daughter," he said, "no longer thy father beholds thee; But he feels the long locks of thy hair, and the days that are gone are remembered, When Sisoka [a] sat faithful and fair in the lodge of swift footed Ta-te-psin.

The white years have broken my spear; from my bow they have taken the bow-string; But once on the trail of the deer, like a gray wolf from sunrise till sunset, By woodland and meadow and mere, ran the feet of Ta-te-psin untiring.

But dim are the days that are gone, and darkly around me they wander, Like the pale, misty face of the moon when she walks through the storm of the winter; And sadly they speak in my ear.

I have looked on the graves of my kindred.

The Land of the Spirits is near.

Death walks by my side like a shadow.

Now open thine ear to my voice, and thy heart to the wish of thy father, And long will Winona rejoice that she heeded the words of Ta-te-psin.

The cold, cruel winter is near, and famine will sit in the teepee.

What hunter will bring me the deer, or the flesh of the bear or the bison?

For my kinsmen before me have gone; they hunt in the land of the shadows.

In my old age forsaken, alone, must I die in my teepee of hunger?

Winona, Tamdoka can make my empty lodge laugh with abundance; For thine aged and blind father's sake, to the son of the Chief speak the promise.

For gladly again to my tee will the bridal gifts come for my daughter.

A fleet-footed hunter is he, and the good spirits feather his arrows; And the cold, cruel winter will be a feast-time instead of a famine."

[a] The Robin--the name of Winona's Mother.

"My father," she said, and her voice was filial and full of compa.s.sion, "Would the heart of Ta-te-psin rejoice at the death of Winona, his daughter?

The crafty Tamdoka I hate.

Must I die in his teepee of sorrow?

For I love the White Chief, and I wait his return to the land of Dakotas.

When the cold winds of winter return, and toss the white robes of the prairies, The fire of the White Chief will burn, in his lodge, at the Meeting-of-Waters.

Winona's heart followed his feet far away to the land of the morning, And she hears in her slumber his sweet, kindly voice call the name of thy daughter.

My father, abide, I entreat, the return of the brave to Kathaga.

The wild-rice is gathered, the meat of the bison is stored in the teepee; Till the c.o.o.n-Moon [71] enough and to spare; and if then the white warrior return not, Winona will follow the bear, and the c.o.o.n, to their dens in the forest.

She is strong; she can handle the spear; she can bend the stout bow of the hunter; And swift on the trail of the deer will she run o'er the snow on her snow-shoes.

Let the step-mother sit in the tee, and kindle the fire for my father; And the cold, cruel winter shall be a feast-time instead of a famine."

"The White Chief will never return,"

half angrily muttered Ta-te-psin;

"His camp-fire will nevermore burn in the land of the warriors he slaughtered.

I grieve, for my daughter has said that she loves the false friend of her kindred; For the hands of the White Chief are red with the blood of the trustful Dakotas."

Then warmly Winona replied, "Tamdoka himself is the traitor, And the white-hearted stranger had died by his treacherous hand in the forest, But thy daughter's voice bade him beware of the sly death that followed his footsteps.

The words of Tamdoka are fair, but his heart is the den of the serpents.

When the braves told their tale, like a bird sang the heart of Winona rejoicing, But gladlier still had she heard of the death of the crafty Tamdoka.

The Chief will return, he is bold, and he carries the fire of Wakinyan; To our people the truth will be told, and Tamdoka will hide like a coward."

His thin locks the aged brave shook; to himself half inaudibly muttered; To Winona no answer he spoke --only moaned he "Micunksee! Micunksee! [a]

In my old age forsaken and blind!

Yun! He he! Micunksee! Micunksee!" [b]

And Wichaka, the pitying dog, whined, as he looked on the face of his master.

[a] My Daughter! My Daughter!

[b] Alas! O My Daughter,--My Daughter!