Legends of the Northwest | Page 8

the bad
spirit's bosom and laid him dead, And his blood on the snow of the
North lies red. Go,--sleep in the robe that you won to-day, And dream
of your hunter--the brave Chaskè."
Light was her heart as she turned away; It sang like the lark in the skies

of May. The round moon laughed, but a lone red star, [30] As she
turned to the teepee and entered in, Fell flashing and swift in the sky
afar, Like the polished point of a javelin. Nor chief nor daughter the
shadow saw Of the crouching listener--Hârpstinà.
Wiwâstè, 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 Hârpstinà.
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 Hârpstinà?
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-tânka! Ta-tânka!" [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
Inâs 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 Wiwâstè 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 Wiwâstè 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