Legends of the Northwest Part 5

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 the 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 Wiwaste? 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 s.h.i.+ning stern of her gold canoe?

No tidings came--nor the brave Chaske: 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 Chaske?

But what of the venomous Harpstina-- The serpent that tempted the proud Red Cloud, And kindled revenge in his savage soul?

He paid for his crime with his false 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 Wiwaste, 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 Wiwaste? 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 fierce eyes glance and dart, As they pa.s.s 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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 Wiwaste's head.

Then, slyly she slipped from her snug retreat, And guiding her course by Waziya'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 place 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 Wiwaste 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 Wiwaste, 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 Wiwaste's trail; O, guide my flight to the far Hohe-- The sheltering lodge of my brave Chaske."

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 G.o.d 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 gra.s.sy field She found the bulbs of the young Tipsanna, [43]

And the sweet medo [64] that the meadows yield.

With the precious gift of his priceless manna G.o.d fed his fainting and famished child.

At night again to the northward far She followed the torch of Waziya'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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 trode on the treacherous "b.l.o.o.d.y Land."

And lo--from afar o'er the level plain-- As far as the sails of a s.h.i.+p 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-gra.s.s, And moaned--"I am lost!--I am lost! alas; And why did I fly 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 gra.s.s, And hoped against hope that the braves would pa.s.s.

They have pa.s.sed, 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 a.s.sault, Dash the warriors wild on Wiwaste's trail.

She flies,--but what can her flight avail?

Her feet are fleet, but the flying feet Of the steeds of the prairie are fleeter still; And where can she fly for a safe retreat?

But hark to the shouting:--"Iho!--Iho!" [9]

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 burnished lance and his feathers gay, Sat the manly form of her own Chaske!

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, and the palace, and all the world over,-- Yea, away on the stars to the ultimate spheres, The language 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 Kapoza a maiden, lo, Came running in haste o'er the drifted snow.

She spoke to the chief of the tall Hohe: "Wiwaste requests that the brave Chaske 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 Wiwaste wed-- When the Feast of the Virgins is past," she said.

Wiwaste'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 Harpstina.

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, By the haunts of the treacherous Chippeway.

G.o.d arms the innocent. He is there-- In the desert vast, in the wilderness, On the bellowing sea, in the lion's lair, In the midst 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 s.h.i.+elds 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 wayward children his bounties bless, And 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]

"Mitawin," [66] he said, and his voice was low, "Thy father no more is the false Little Crow; But the fairest plume shall Wiwaste wear Of the great Wanmdee [13] in her midnight hair.

In my lodge, in the land of the tall Hohe, The robins will sing all the long summer day To the beautiful bride of the brave Chaske."

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 st.u.r.dy stoke. [67]

The dimpled babes are the flowers divine That the blessing of G.o.d on the vine and oak With their cooing and blossoming lips invoke.

To the pleasant land of the brave Hohe Wiwaste rode with her proud Chaske.

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 Wanmdee.

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 s.h.i.+ning web of their happy years.