Legends of the Northwest | Page 8

sky afar, Like the polished point of a javelin. Nor chief nor daughter the shadow saw Of the crouching listener--Harpstinà.
Wiwastè, wrapped in her robe and sleep Heard not the storm-sprites wail and weep, As they rode on the winds in the frosty air; But she heard the voice of her hunter fair; For a shadowy spirit with fairy fingers The curtains drew from the land of dreams; And lo in her teepee her lover lingers; The light of love in his dark eye beams, And his voice is the music of mountain streams.
And then with her round, brown arms she pressed His phantom form to her throbbing breast, And whispered the name, in her happy sleep, Of her Hóhé hunter so fair and far. And then she saw in her dreams the deep Where the spirit wailed, and a falling star; Then stealthily crouching under the trees, By the light of the moon, the Kan-ó-ti-dan, [31] The little, wizened, mysterious man, With his long locks tossed by the moaning breeze. Then a flap of wings, like a thunder-bird, [32] And a wailing spirit the sleeper heard; And lo, through the mists of the moon, she saw The hateful visage of Harpstinà.
But waking she murmured--"And what are these-- The flap of wings and the falling star, The wailing spirit that's never at ease, The little man crouching under the trees, And the hateful visage of Harpstinà? My dreams are like feathers that float on the breeze, And none can tell what the omens are-- Save the beautiful dream of my love afar In the happy land of the tall Hóhé [15]-- My beautiful hunter--my brave Chaskè."
"Ta-tanka! Ta-tanka!" [33] the hunters cried, With a joyous shout at the break of dawn; And darkly lined on the white hill-side, A herd of bison went marching on Through the drifted snow like a caravan. Swift to their ponies the hunters sped, And dashed away on the hurried chase. The wild steeds scented the game ahead, And sprang like hounds to the eager race. But the brawny bulls in the swarthy van Turned their polished horns to the charging foes, And reckless rider and fleet foot-man Were held at bay in the drifted snows, While the bellowing herd o'er the hill-tops ran, Like the frightened beasts of a caravan On the Sahara's sands when the simoon blows. Sharp were the twangs of the hunters' bows, And swift and humming the arrows sped, Till ten huge bulls on the bloody snows Lay pierced with arrows and dumb and dead. But the chief with the flankers had gained the rear, And flew on the trail of the flying herd. The shouts of the riders rang loud and clear, As their frothing steeds to the chase they spurred. And now like the roar of an avalanche Rolls the sullen wrath of the maddened bulls. They charge on the riders and runners stanch, And a dying steed in the snow-drift rolls, While the rider, flung to the frozen ground Escapes the horns by a panther's bound. But the raging monsters are held at bay, While the flankers dash on the swarthy rout. With lance and arrow they slay and slay; And the welkin rings to the gladsome shout-- To the loud Inas and the wild Ihós, [34]-- And dark and dead, on the bloody snows, Lie the swarthy heaps of the buffaloes.
All snug in the teepee Wiwastè lay, All wrapped in her robe, at the dawn of day,-- All snug and warm from the wind and snow, While the hunters followed the buffalo. Her dreams and her slumber their wild shouts broke; The chase was afoot when the maid awoke; She heard the twangs of the hunter's bows, And the bellowing bulls and the loud Ihós, And she murmured--"My hunter is far away In the happy land of the tall Hóhé-- My beautiful hunter, my brave Chaskè; But the robins will come and my warrior too, And Wiwastè will find her a way to woo."
And long she lay in a reverie, And dreamed, wide-awake, of her brave Chaskè, Till a trampling of feet on the crispy snow She heard, and the murmur of voices low;-- Then the hunters' greeting--Ihó! Ihó! And behold, in the blaze of the risen day, With the hunters that followed the buffalo,-- Came her beautiful hunter--her brave Chaskè. Far south has he followed the bison-trail With his band of warriors so brave and true. Right glad is Wakawa his friend to hail, And Wiwastè will find her a way to woo.
Tall and straight as the larch tree stood The manly form of the brave young chief, And fair as the larch in its vernal leaf, When the red fawn bleats in the feathering wood. Mild was his face as the morning skies, And friendship shone