Legends of the Northwest | Page 9

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 Wakâwa his friend to hail, And Wiwâstè 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 in his laughing eyes; But swift were his feet o'er
the drifted snow On the trail of the elk or the buffalo; And his heart was
stouter than lance or bow, When he heard the whoop of his enemies.
Five feathers he wore of the great Wanmdeè, And each for the scalp of
a warrior slain, When down on his camp from the northern plain, With
their murder cries rode the bloody Cree. [35] But never the stain of an
infant slain, Or the blood of a mother that plead in vain, Soiled the
honored plumes of the brave Hóhé. A mountain bear to his enemies, To
his friends like the red fawn's dappled form; In peace, like the breeze
from the summer seas; In war, like the roar of the mountain storm. His
fame in the voice of the winds went forth From his hunting grounds in
the happy north, And far as the shores of the Great Medè [36] The
nations spoke of the brave Chaskè.
Dark was the visage of grim Red Cloud, Fierce were the eyes of the
warrior proud, When the chief to his lodge led the brave Chaskè, And
Wiwâstè smiled on the tall Hóhé. Away he strode with a sullen frown,
And alone in his teepee he sat him down. From the gladsome greeting
of braves he stole, And wrapped himself in his gloomy soul. But the
eagle eyes of the Hârpstinà The clouded face of the warrior saw. Softly
she spoke to the sullen brave: "Mah-pí-ya Dúta,--his face is sad. And
why is the warrior so glum and grave? For the fair Wiwâstè is gay and
glad. She will sit in the teepee the live-long day, And laugh with her
lover--the brave Hóhé. Does the tall Red Cloud for the false one sigh?
There are fairer maidens than she, and proud Were their hearts to be
loved by the brave Red Cloud. And trust not the chief with the smiling
eyes; His tongue is swift, but his words are lies; And the proud
Mah-pí-ya will surely find That Wakâwa's promise is hollow wind.
Last night I stood by his lodge, and lo I heard the voice of the Little
Crow; But the fox is sly and his words were low. But I heard her
answer her father--"Never! I will stain your knife in my heart's red
blood, I will plunge and sink in the sullen river, Ere I will be wife to the
fierce Red Cloud!" Then he spake again, and his voice was low, But I
heard the answer of Little Crow: "Let it be as you will, for Wakâwa's
tongue Has spoken no promise,--his lips are slow, And the love of a
father is deep and strong."

Mâh-pí-ya Dúta, they scorn your love, But the false chief covets the
warrior's gifts. False to his promise the fox will prove, And fickle as
snow in Wo-kâ-da-weè, [37] That slips into brooks when the gray
cloud lifts, Or the red sun looks through the ragged rifts. Mah-pí-ya
Dúta will listen to me There are fairer birds in the bush than she, And
the fairest would gladly be Red Cloud's wife. Will the warrior sit like a
girl bereft, When fairer and truer than she are left That love Red Cloud
as they love their life? Mah-pí-ya Dúta will listen to me I love him
well,--I have loved him long: A woman is weak, but a warrior is strong,
And a lovelorn brave is a scorn to see.
Mah-pí-ya Dúta, O listen to me! Revenge is swift and revenge is strong,
And sweet as the hive in the hollow tree. The proud Red Cloud will
revenge his wrong Let the brave be patient, it is not long Till the leaves
be green on the maple tree, And the Feast of the Virgins is then to be;--
The Feast of the Virgins is then to be!"
Proudly she turned from the silent brave, And went her way; but the
warrior's eyes-- They flashed with the flame of a sudden fire, Like the
lights that gleam in the Sacred Cave, [38] When the black night covers
the autumn skies, And the stars from their welkin watch retire.
Three nights he tarried--the brave Chaskè; Winged were the hours and
they flitted away; On the wings of