Part 5 (1/2)

And her merry mate from afar replies: ”Flip I will,--skip I will,--trip I will;”

And away on the wings of the wind he flies.

And bright from her lodge in the skies afar Peeps the glowing face of the Virgin Star.

The fox pups [60] creep from the mother's lair And leap in the light of the rising moon; And loud on the luminous moonlit lake Shrill the bugle notes of the lover loon; And woods and waters and welkin break Into jubilant song,--it is joyful June.

But where is Wiwaste? O where is she-- The Virgin avenged--the queenly queen-- The womanly woman--the heroine?

Has she gone to the spirits and can it be That her beautiful face is the Virgin Star Peeping out from the door of her lodge afar, Or upward sailing the silver sea.

Star-beaconed and lit like an avenue, In the s.h.i.+ning stern of her gold canoe?

No tidings came--nor the brave Chaske: O, why did the lover so long delay?

He promised to come with the robins in May, With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; But the fair May mornings have slipped away, And where is the lover--the brave Chaske?

But what of the venomous Harpstina-- The serpent that tempted the proud Red Cloud, And kindled revenge in his savage soul?

He paid for his crime with his false heart's blood, But his angry spirit has brought her dole; [61]

It has entered her breast and her burning head, And she raves and burns on her fevered bed.

”He is dead! He is dead!” is her wailing cry.

”And the blame is mine,--it was I,--it was I!

I hated Wiwaste, for she was fair, And my brave was caught in her net of hair.

I turned his love to a bitter hate; I nourished revenge, and I p.r.i.c.ked his pride; Till the Feast of the Virgins I bade him wait.

He had his revenge, but he died,--he died!

And the blame is mine,--it was I,--it was I!

And his spirit burns me, I die,--I die!”

Thus, alone in her lodge and her agonies, She wails to the winds of the night, and dies.

But where is Wiwaste? Her swift feet flew To the somber shades of the tangled thicket.

She hid in the copse like a wary cricket, And the fleetest hunters in vain pursue.

Seeing unseen from her hiding place, She sees them fly on the hurried chase; She sees their fierce eyes glance and dart, As they pa.s.s and peer for a track or trace, And she trembles with fear in the copse apart.

Lest her nest be betrayed by her throbbing heart.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Weary the hours; but the sun at last Went down to his lodge in the west, and fast The wings of the spirits of night were spread O'er the darkling woods and Wiwaste's head.

Then, slyly she slipped from her snug retreat, And guiding her course by Waziya's star, [62]

That shone through the shadowy forms afar, She northward hurried with silent feet; And long ere the sky was aflame in the east, She was leagues from the place of the fatal feast.

'Twas the hoot of the owl that the hunters heard, And the scattering drops of the threat'ning shower, And the far wolf's cry to the moon preferred.

Their ears were their fancies,--the scene was weird, And the witches [63] dance at the midnight hour.

She leaped the brook and she swam the river; Her course through the forest Wiwaste wist By the star that gleamed through the glimmering mist That fell from the dim moon's downy quiver.

In her heart she spoke to her spirit-mother: ”Look down from your teepee, O starry spirit.

The cry of Wiwaste, O mother, hear it; And touch the heart of my cruel father.

He hearkened not to a virgin's words; He listened not to a daughter's wail.

O give me the wings of the thunder-birds, For his were-wolves [52] follow Wiwaste's trail; O, guide my flight to the far Hohe-- The sheltering lodge of my brave Chaske.”

The shadows paled in the hazy east, And the light of the kindling morn increased.

The pale-faced stars fled one by one, And hid in the vast from the rising sun.

From woods and waters and welkin soon Fled the hovering mists of the vanished moon.

The young robins chirped in their feathery beds, The loon's song shrilled like a winding horn, And the green hills lifted their dewy heads To greet the G.o.d of the rising morn.

She reached the rim of the rolling prairie-- The boundless ocean of solitude; She hid in the feathery hazel wood, For her heart was sick and her feet were weary; She fain would rest, and she needed food.

Alone by the billowy, boundless prairies, She plucked the cones of the scarlet berries; In feathering copse and the gra.s.sy field She found the bulbs of the young Tipsanna, [43]

And the sweet medo [64] that the meadows yield.