Legends of the Northwest | Page 6

And the flesh is done to the chief's desire.
With his stoic face to sacred East, [21] He takes his seat at the Giant's
Feast.
For the feast of Heyóka [22] the braves are dressed With crowns from
the bark of the white-birch trees, And new skin leggins that reach the
knees; With robes of the bison and swarthy bear, And eagle-plumes in
their coal-black hair, And marvelous rings in their tawny ears, Which
were pierced with the points of their shining spears. To honor Heyóka,
Wakâwa lifts His fuming pipe from the Red-stone Quarry. [23] The
warriors follow. The white cloud drifts From the Council-lodge to the
welkin starry, Like a fog at morn on the fir-clad hill, When the
meadows are damp and the winds are still.
They dance to the tune of their wild "Ha-ha!" A warrior's shout and a
raven's caw-- Circling the pot and the blaming fire To the tom-tom's
bray and the rude bassoon; Round and round to their heart's desire, And
ever the same wild chant and tune-- A warrior's shout and a raven's
caw-- "Ha-ha,--ha-ha,--ha-ha,--ha!" They crouch, they leap, and their
burning eyes Flash fierce in the light of the flaming fire, As fiercer and
fiercer and higher and higher The rude, wild notes of their chant arise.
They cease, they sit, and the curling smoke Ascends again from their
polished pipes, And upward curls from their swarthy lips To the God
whose favor their hearts invoke.
Then tall Wakâwa arose and said: "Brave warriors, listen, and give due
heed. Great is Heyóka, the magical god; He can walk on the air; he can
float on the flood. He's a worker of magic and wonderful wise; He cries
when he laughs and he laughs when he cries; He sweats when he's cold,
and he shivers when hot, And the water is cold in his boiling pot. He
hides in the earth and he walks in disguise, But he loves the brave and
their sacrifice. We are sons of Heyóka. The Giant commands In the
boiling water to thrust our hands; And the warrior that scorneth the foe
and fire Heyóka will crown with his hearts desire."
They thrust their hands in the boiling pot; They swallow the bison meat
steaming hot, Not a wince on their stoical faces bold. For the meat and

the water, they say, are cold, And great is Heyóka and wonderful wise;
He floats on the flood and he walks in the skies, And ever appears in a
strange disguise; But he loves the brave and their sacrifice; And the
warrior that scorneth the foe and fire Heyóka will crown with his
heart's desire.
Proud was the chief of his warriors proud, The sinewy sons of the
Giant's race; But the bravest of all was the tall Red Cloud; 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 at the great Wanmdeé; [13] With
crimsoned quills of the porcupine His leggins were worked to his
brawny knee. Blood-red were the stripes on his swarthy cheek, 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.
Proud Red Cloud turned to the braves and said, As he shook the plumes
on his haughty head:
"Ho! the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire Heyóka will crown with
his heart's desire!" He snatched from the embers a red-hot brand, And
held it aloft in his naked hand. He stood like a statue in bronze or
stone,-- Not a muscle moved, and the braves looked on. He turned to
the chieftain,--"I scorn the fire,-- Ten feathers I wear of the great
Wanmdeé; Then grant me, Wakâwa, my heart's desire; Let the sunlight
shine in my lonely tee. [19] I laugh at red death and I laugh at red fire;
Brave Red Cloud is only afraid of fear; But Wiwâstè is fair to his heart
and dear; Then grant him, Wakâwa, his heart's desire."
The warriors applauded with loud "Ho! Ho!" [24] And he flung the
brand to the drifting snow. Three times Wakâwa puffed forth the smoke
From his silent lips; then he slowly spoke: "Mâhpíya is strong as the
stout-armed oak That stands on the bluff by the windy plain, And
laughs at the roar of the hurricane. He has slain the foe and the great
Mató With his hissing arrow and deadly stroke. My heart is swift but
my tongue is slow. Let the warrior come to my lodge and smoke; He
may bring the gifts; [25] but the timid doe May fly from the hunter and
say him no."

Wiwâstè sat late in the lodge alone, Her dark eyes