Flint and Feather | Page 8

with the women rest thee here?"
His eyes flash like an eagle's,
and his hands
Clench at the insult. Like a god he stands.
"Prepare
the fire!" he scornfully demands.
He knoweth not that this same jeering band
Will bite the dust--will
lick the Mohawk's hand;
Will kneel and cower at the Mohawk's feet;

Will shrink when Mohawk war drums wildly beat.
His death will be avenged with hideous hate
By Iroquois, swift to
annihilate
His vile detested captors, that now flaunt
Their war clubs
in his face with sneer and taunt,
Not thinking, soon that reeking, red,
and raw,
Their scalps will deck the belts of Iroquois.
The path of coals outstretches, white with heat,
A forest fir's
length--ready for his feet.
Unflinching as a rock he steps along
The
burning mass, and sings his wild war song;
Sings, as he sang when
once he used to roam
Throughout the forests of his southern home,

Where, down the Genesee, the water roars,
Where gentle Mohawk
purls between its shores,
Songs, that of exploit and of prowess tell;

Songs of the Iroquois invincible.
Up the long trail of fire he boasting goes,
Dancing a war dance to
defy his foes.
His flesh is scorched, his muscles burn and shrink,

But still he dances to death's awful brink.

The eagle plume that crests his haughty head
Will never droop until
his heart be dead.
Slower and slower yet his footstep swings,

Wilder and wilder still his death-song rings,
Fiercer and fiercer thro'
the forest bounds
His voice that leaps to Happier Hunting Grounds.

One savage yell--
Then loyal to his race,
He bends to death--but never to disgrace.
THE PILOT OF THE PLAINS
"False," they said, "thy Pale-face lover, from the land of waking morn;
Rise and wed thy Redskin wooer, nobler warrior ne'er was born; Cease
thy watching, cease thy dreaming,
Show the white thine Indian scorn."
Thus they taunted her, declaring, "He remembers naught of thee: Likely
some white maid he wooeth, far beyond the inland sea." But she
answered ever kindly,
"He will come again to me,"
Till the dusk of Indian summer crept athwart the western skies; But a
deeper dusk was burning in her dark and dreaming eyes, As she
scanned the rolling prairie,
Where the foothills fall, and rise.
Till the autumn came and vanished, till the season of the rains, Till the
western world lay fettered in midwinter's crystal chains, Still she
listened for his coming,
Still she watched the distant plains.
Then a night with nor'land tempest, nor'land snows a-swirling fast, Out
upon the pathless prairie came the Pale-face through the blast, Calling,
calling, "Yakonwita,

I am coming, love, at last."
Hovered night above, about him, dark its wings and cold and dread;
Never unto trail or tepee were his straying footsteps led;
Till
benumbed, he sank, and pillowed
On the drifting snows his head,
Saying, "O! my Yakonwita call me, call me, be my guide
To the
lodge beyond the prairie--for I vowed ere winter died I would come
again, beloved;
I would claim my Indian bride."
"Yakonwita, Yakonwita!" Oh, the dreariness that strains
Through the
voice that calling, quivers, till a whisper but remains, "Yakonwita,
Yakonwita,
I am lost upon the plains."
But the Silent Spirit hushed him, lulled him as he cried anew, "Save me,
save me! O! beloved, I am Pale but I am true.
Yakonwita, Yakonwita,
I am dying, love, for you."
Leagues afar, across the prairie, she had risen from her bed, Roused her
kinsmen from their slumber: "He has come to-night," she said. "I can
hear him calling, calling;
But his voice is as the dead.
"Listen!" and they sate all silent, while the tempest louder grew, And a
spirit-voice called faintly, "I am dying, love, for you." Then they wailed,
"O! Yakonwita.
He was Pale, but he was true."
Wrapped she then her ermine round her, stepped without the tepee door,

Saying, "I must follow, follow, though he call for evermore, Yakonwita,
Yakonwita;"
And they never saw her more.
Late at night, say Indian hunters, when the starlight clouds or wanes,
Far away they see a maiden, misty as the autumn rains,
Guiding with
her lamp of moonlight
Hunters lost upon the plains.
THE CATTLE THIEF
They were coming across the prairie, they were
galloping hard and fast;
For the eyes of those desperate riders had
sighted
their man at last--
Sighted him off to Eastward, where the Cree
encampment lay,
Where the cotton woods fringed the river, miles and
miles away.
Mistake him? Never! Mistake him? the famous
Eagle Chief!
That terror to all the settlers, that desperate Cattle
Thief--
That monstrous, fearless Indian, who lorded it over
the plain,
Who thieved and raided, and scouted, who rode like
a hurricane!
But they've tracked him across the prairie; they've
followed him hard and fast;
For those desperate English settlers have
sighted
their man at last.
Up they wheeled to the tepees, all their British

blood aflame,
Bent on bullets and bloodshed, bent on bringing
down their game;
But they searched in vain for the