Legends of the Northwest | Page 5

as
fleet as the red deer's feet, And faces that glow like the full, round
moon When she laughs in the luminous skies of June.
The leaders are chosen and swiftly divide The opposing parties on
either side. Wiwâstè [5] is chief of a nimble band. The star-eyed
daughter of Little Crow; [6] And the leader chosen to hold command
Of the band adverse is a haughty foe-- The dusky, impetuous Hârpstinà,
[7] The queenly cousin of Wapasa. [8] Kapóza's chief and his tawny
hunters Are gathered to witness the queenly game. The ball is thrown
and a bat encounters, And away it flies with a loud acclaim. Swift are
the maidens that follow after, And swiftly it flies for the farther bound:
And long and loud are the peals of laughter, As some fair runner is
flung to ground; While backward and forward, and to and fro, The
maidens contend on the trampled snow. With loud "Ihó!--Itó!--Ihó!" [9]
And waving the beautiful prize anon, The dusky warriors cheer them
on. And often the limits are almost passed, As the swift ball flies and
returns. At last It leaps the line at a single bound From the fair
Wiwâstè's sturdy stroke, Like a fawn that flies from the baying hound.
Wild were the shouts, and they rolled and broke On the beetling bluffs
and the hills profound, An echoing, jubilant sea of sound. Wakâwa, the
chief, and the loud acclaim Announced the end of the well-fought game,
And the fair Wiwâstè was victor crowned.
Dark was the visage of Hârpstinà When the robe was laid at her rival's
feet, And merry maidens and warriors saw Her flashing eyes and her
look of hate, As she turned to Wakâwa, the chief, and said:-- "The
game was mine were it fairly played. I was stunned by a blow on my
bended head, As I snatched the ball from slippery ground Not half a
fling from Wiwâstè's bound. And the cheat--behold her! for there she
stands With the prize that is mine in her treacherous hands. The fawn
may fly, but the wolf is fleet; The fox creeps sly on Magâ's [10] retreat;
And a woman's revenge--it is swift and sweet." She turned to her lodge,
but a roar of laughter And merry mockery followed after. Little they
heeded the words she said, Little they cared for her haughty tread, For
maidens and warriors and chieftain knew That her lips were false and

her charge untrue.
Wiwâstè, the fairest Dakota maiden, The sweet-faced daughter of Little
Crow, To her teepee [11] turned with her trophy laden-- The black robe
trailing the virgin snow. Beloved was she by her princely father,
Beloved was she by the young and old, By merry maidens and many a
mother, And many a warrior bronzed and bold. For her face was as fair
as a beautiful dream, And her voice like the song of the mountain
stream; And her eyes like the stars when they glow and gleam. Through
the somber pines of the nor'land wold, When the winds of winter are
keen and cold.
Mah-pí-ya Dú-ta [12] the tall Red Cloud, A hunter swift and a warrior
proud, With many a scar and many a feather, Was a suitor bold and a
lover fond. Long had he courted Wiwâstè's father, Long had he sued for
the maiden's hand. Aye, brave and proud was the tall Red Cloud, A
peerless son of a giant race, And the eyes of the panther were set in his
face. He strode like a stag, and he stood like a pine: Ten feathers he
wore of the great Wanmdeè; [13] With crimsoned quills of the
porcupine His leggins were worked to his brawny knee. The bow he
bent was a giant's bow; The swift red elk could he overtake, And the
necklace that girdled his brawny neck Was the polished claws of the
great Mató [14] He grappled and slew in the northern snow.
Wiwâstè looked on the warrior tall; She saw he was brawny and brave
and great, But the eyes of the panther she could but hate, And a brave
Hóhé [15] loved she better than all. Loved was Mahpíya by Hârpstinà,
But the warrior she never could charm or draw; And bitter indeed was
her secret hate For the maiden she reckoned so fortunate.

HEYÓKA WACÍPEE [16]--THE GIANT'S DANCE.
The night-sun [17] sails in his gold canoe, The spirits [18] walk in the
realms of air With their glowing faces and flaming hair, And the shrill,
chill winds o'er the prairies blow. In the Tee [19] of the Council the
Virgins light The Virgin-fire [20] for the feast to-night; For the Sons of

Heyóka will celebrate The sacred dance to the giant great. The kettle
boils on the blazing fire,