Birch Bark Legends of Niagara | Page 2

acknowledged, or for some wrong perpetrated, to propitiate the
righteous anger of their Deity of the roaring waters.
The sacrifice, or offering, consisted of a boat filled with fruit, flowers
and any precious gift, which was to be paddled over the foaming
cataract by one either drawn by lot or selected by the chiefs; or, as often
happened, a voluntary offering of life, as it manifested heroism beyond
their usual test of torture. Martyrs thus sacrificed had this consolation:
that their spirits were sure to rise in the mist and follow the bright path
above, while bad Indians' spirits passed down in the boiling, crashing
current, to be torn and tossed in the whirlpool, there to linger in misery
forever.
With all thy present loveliness--smooth paths cut round thy rocky
banks, covered with trailing vines and bright, soft mosses, nature's
beautiful tapestry; flights of steps, half hidden with gay foliage,
displaying at almost every turn majestic scenery; bridges thrown over
the bounding, foaming rapids, from island to island, opening bower
after bower with surprises of beauty at every step. Scattered here and
there the nut-brown Indian maids and mothers; among the last of the
race--still lingering around their fathers' places and working at the gay
embroidery--soon to pass away forever.
Yes, with all thy loveliness, the circle of mirth and gaiety, reflecting
happy faces of thy present worshippers, tame is the scene compared
with the traditions of a by-gone race, which, notwithstanding the
simplicity in forms of customs that governed them, were among the
brightest pictures of American life--always associated with the
beautiful forest, which together are passing away, and oblivion's veil
fast gathering around them.
Thy rocks, now echoing the gay laugh of idlers, first rang with the wild
war-whoop, or sent back the Indian's low, mellow songs of peace, or
mingled with the heavy roar of thy failing waters the mournful dirge of
the doomed one, to the Great Manitou.

STORY OF THE LUNAR BOW, (_Which brilliantly adorns Niagara
Falls by moonlight_),
OR

Origin of the Totem [Footnote: The coat of arms of a clan.] of the
Wolf.
FIRST LEGEND.
The tradition of the Lunar Bow, the Manitou's bright path, or the origin
of the totem of the wolf, was traced with a scene long remembered at
their councils, passing from generation to generation, and still sung by
the Indian mothers in their far-off home towards the setting sun--the
last foot-hold of the dark sons of the forest on this their native land. On
the east side of the Falls of Niagara, before the hallowed waters of the
mist fell, on the pale-faced warrior or the sound of the axe had even
broken the great stillness of their undisputed soil, the dark shadows of
the primeval forest fell only on rock and wigwam.
The red-topped sumach and sweet sassafras grew thick on either side,
while ledges of rocks here and there pierced the foliage of the
cedar-crowned banks 'round which tumbled and roared the mad waves,
leaping like frightened does in wild confusion to their final plunge. The
narrow Indian trails, winding around swamps, over hills, and through
ravines, were the only paths that led to this their Great Manitou.
The drowsy sultriness of an American summer pervaded this secluded
spot, harmonizing with the unceasing roar of the Great Falls. Ever and
anon, tall, dark forms might be seen suddenly appearing from the thick
foliage of the underbrush, through which their paths with difficulty
wound, and silently their painted faces and gayly plumed heads
dropped round the big wigwam. Important questions waited the
decision of their wisest Sachems, and runners had been sent with
wampum to call together distant Chiefs, who, with braves and warriors,
as became the dignity of the wampum, answered by their presence
quickly and in silence.
Near the brink of the Falls, beneath an aged pine, reclined a well-
guarded, sorrowful, but haughty band. Their fine symmetry, noble
height, and free carriage, were especially attractive. They were all
young warriors, whose white paint presented emblems of peace: their
plumes were from the beautiful white crane of the sunny forest, which
designated the southern land from whence they came.
A gleam of pride flashed across their dark faces, while their attitudes
bespoke both defiance and despair. A tall, stately looking youth
appeared to command from these few the deference due a Chief. He

was leaning against the old tree, looking for the first time on the great
sheet of falling waters, where soon himself and followers would
probably end their tortures by a welcome leap. Their noble bearing had
attracted the eye of the Sachem's daughter, the Gentle Fawn; she, with a
few young Indian girls, half hid among the whortleberry bushes
growing luxuriantly around the smaller wigwams of the camp, were
dividing their attention between