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Legends of the Northwest

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LEGENDS OF THE NORTHWEST. BY H. L. GORDON,
_Author of Pauline_.

CONTAINING

PRELUDE--THE MISSISSIPPI.

THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS, A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS.

WINONA, A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS.

THE LEGEND OF THE FALLS, A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS.

THE SEA-GULL, THE OJIBWA LEGEND OF THE PICTURED ROCKS OF LAKE SUPERIOR.

MINNETONKA.

* * * * *

PREFACE.

I have for several years devoted many of my leisure hours to the study
of the language, history, traditions, customs and superstitions of
the Dakotas. These Indians are now commonly called the "Sioux"--a name
given them by the early French traders and _voyageurs_. "Dakota"
signifies _alliance_ or _confederation_. Many separate bands,
all having a common origin and speaking a common tongue, were united
under this name. See "_Tah-Koo Wah-Kan_," or "_The Gospel Among
the Dakotas_," by Stephen R. Riggs, pp. 1 to 6 inc.

They were, but yesterday, the occupants and owners of the fair forests
and fertile prairies of Minnesota--a brave, hospitable and generous
people,--barbarians, indeed, but noble in their barbarism. They may
be fitly called the Iroquois of the West. In form and features, in
language and traditions, they are distinct from all other Indian tribes.
When first visited by white men, and for many years afterwards, the
Falls of St. Anthony (by them called the Ha-Ha) was the center of their
country. They cultivated tobacco, and hunted the elk, the beaver and
the bison. They were open-hearted, truthful and brave. In their wars
with other tribes they seldom slew women or children, and rarely
sacrificed the lives of their prisoners.

For many years their chiefs and head men successfully resisted the
attempts to introduce spirituous liquors among them. More than a century
ago an English trader was killed at Mendota, because he persisted,
after repeated warnings by the chiefs, in dealing out _mini-wakan_
(Devil-water) to the Dakota braves.

With open arms and generous hospitality they welcomed the first white
men to their land; and were ever faithful in their friendship, till
years of wrong and robbery, and want and insult, drove them to desperation
and to war. They were barbarians, and their warfare was barbarous,
but not more barbarous than the warfare of our Saxon and Celtic ancestors.
They were ignorant and superstitious, but their condition closely resembled
the condition of our British forefathers at the beginning of the Christian
era. Macaulay says of Britain, "Her inhabitants, when first they became
known to the Tyrian mariners, were little superior to the natives of
the Sandwich Islands." And again, "While the German princes who reigned
at Paris, Toledo, Arles and Ravenna listened with reverence to the
instructions of Bishops, adored the relics of martyrs, and took part
eagerly in disputes touching the Nicene theology, the rulers of Wessex
and Mercia were still performing savage rites in the temples of Thor
and Woden."

The day of the Dakotas is done. The degenerate remnants of
that once powerful and warlike people still linger around the forts
and agencies of the Northwest, or chase the caribou and the bison on
the banks of the Sascatchewan, but the Dakotas of old are no more.
The brilliant defeat of Custer, by Sitting Bull and his braves, was
their last grand rally against the resistless march of the sons of
the Saxons and the Celts. The plow-shares of a superior race are fast
leveling the sacred mounds of their dead. But yesterday, the shores
of our lakes, and our rivers, were dotted with their tepees. Their
light canoes glided over our waters, and their hunters chased the deer
and the buffalo on the sites of our cities. To-day, they are not. Let
us do justice to their memory, for there was much that was noble in
their natures. In the following Dakota Legends I have endeavored to
faithfully represent many of the customs and superstitions, and some
of the traditions, of that people. I have taken very little "poetic
license" with their traditions; none, whatever, with their customs
and superstitions. In my studies for these Legends I have been greatly
aided by Rev. S. R. Riggs, author of the Grammar and Dictionary of
the Dakota language, "Tah-Koo Wah-Kan," &c., and for many years a
missionary among the Dakotas. He has patiently answered my numerous
inquiries and given me valuable information. I am also indebted to
Gen. H. H. Sibley, one of the earliest American traders among them,
and to Rev. S. W. Pond, of Shakopee, one of the first Protestant
missionaries to these people, and himself the author of poetical versions
of some of their principal legends; to Mrs. Eastman's "Dacotah." and
last, but not least, to the Rev. E. D. Neill, whose admirable "History
of Minnesota" so fully and faithfully presents almost all that is known
of the history, traditions, customs, manners and superstitions of the
Dakotas. In _Winona_ I have "tried my hand" on Hexameter verse.
With what success, I leave to those who are better able to judge than
I. If I have failed, I have but added another failure to the numerous
vain attempts to naturalize Hexameter verse in the English language.

The Earl of Derby, in the preface to his translation of the Iliad,
calls it "That pestilent heresy of the so-called English Hexameter;
a metre wholly repugnant to the genius of our language; which can only
be pressed into the service by a violation of every rule of prosody."
Lord Kames, in his "Elements of Criticism." says, "Many attempts have
been made to introduce Hexameter verse into the living languages, but
without success. The English language, I am inclined to think, is not
susceptible of this melody, and my reasons are these: First, the
polysyllables in Latin and Greek are finely diversified by long and
short syllables, a circumstance that qualifies them for the melody
of Hexameter verse: ours are extremely ill qualified for that service,
because they super-abound in short syllables. Secondly, the bulk of
our monosyllables are arbitrary with regard to length, which is an
unlucky circumstance in Hexameter. * * * In Latin and Greek Hexameter
invariable sounds direct and ascertain the melody. English Hexameter
would be destitute of melody, unless by artful pronunciation; because
of necessity the bulk of its sounds must be arbitrary. The pronunciation
is easy in a simple movement of alternate long and short syllables;
but would be perplexing and unpleasant in the diversified movement
of Hexameter verse."

Beautiful as is the _Evangeline_ of Longfellow,
his Hexameter lines are sometimes hard to scan, and often grate harshly
on the ear. He is frequently forced to divide a word by the central
or pivotal pause of the line, and sometimes to make a pause in the
sense where the rhythm forbids it. Take for example some of the opening
lines of _Evangeline_:

"This is the forest prime|val. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in gar|ments green, indistinct in the twilight.
Loud from its rocky cav|erns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents discon|solate answers the wail of the forest.
Lay in the fruitful val|ley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward."

Again, in order to comply with the Greek and Latin rule of beginning each
line with a _long_ syllable, he is compelled to emphasize words
contrary to the sense. Examples:

_In_ the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas
_Some_what apart from the vil|lage, and nearer the Basin of Minas.
_But_ a celestial bright|ness--a more etherial beauty.
_And_ the retreating sun the sign of the scorpion enters.
_In_-doors, warmed by the wide-|mouthed fireplace idly the farmer,
_Four_ times the sun had ris|en and set; and now on the fifth day,

"Greek and Latin Hexameter lines, as to time, are all of the
same length, being equivalent to the time taken in pronouncing twelve
long syllables, or twenty-four short ones. An Hexameter line may consist
of seventeen syllables, and when regular and not Spondiac, it never
has fewer than thirteen: whence it follows that where the syllables
are many, the plurality must be short; where few, the plurality must
be long. This line is susceptible of much variety as to the succession
of long and short syllables. It is however subject to laws that confine
its variety within certain limits. * * *

1st. The line must always commence with a _long_ syllable, and
close with two long preceded by two short.

2d. More than two short syllables can never be found together, nor
_fewer_ than two.

3d. Two long syllables which have been preceded by two short can
not also be followed by two short.

These few rules fulfill all the conditions of an Hexameter line with
relation to order of arrangement."--_Lord Kames, "Elements of
Criticism."_ One who attempts to write English Hexameter, under
the Greek and Latin rules, will speedily be made aware that the English
language "super-abounds in short syllables." Why then should we rigidly
adhere to rules repugnant to the genius of our language, if they can
be modified so as to adapt the sonorous Hexameter to the structure
of our mother-tongue? Can they be so modified? I have attempted it.
I venture to change them as follows:

1st. By beginning each line with a _short_ syllable instead of
a long one. And it will be seen that I often begin a line with two
short syllables.

2d. By often using one short syllable unaccompanied by another.

3d. I have increased the average number of syllables in
the line to better adapt it to our super-abundance of short syllables.

4th. In _Winona_ I have introduced a rhyme at the pivotal pause
of the line, not because my Hexameter requires it, but because I think
it increases the melody, and more emphatically marks the central pause.

I am not quite sure that, in a long poem, the rhyme is not detrimental.
That depends greatly, however, upon the skill with which it is handled.
Surely the same Hexameter can be written as smoothly and more vigorously
without rhyme. Rhyme adds greatly to the labor of composition;
it rarely assists, but often hinders, the expression of the sense
which the author would convey. At times I have been on the point of
abandoning it in despair, but after having been under the hammer and
the file, at intervals for the last four years, _Winona_ is at
last _done_, if not finished.

It will be observed that I have slightly changed the length and the
rhythm of the old Hexameter line, but it is still Hexameter, and, I
think, improved. I am not afraid of intelligent criticism. I invoke
it, and will endeavor to profit by it in the future as in the past.

The reception of my _Pauline_ at home and abroad has been so
flattering that I have been encouraged to attempt something better.
That was my first real effort and full of crudities but if the Legends
are received by our best critics as well as _Pauline_ was received
I shall be well pleased with my efforts.

After much thought I have decided to publish the first edition of my
_Legends_ here at home:

1st Because they pertain particularly to the lakes and rivers to the
fair forests and fertile fields of our own Minnesota and ought to be
appreciated here if anywhere.

2d Because many of our people are competent to judge whether
my representations of Dakota customs, life, traditions, and superstitions
are correct or not and at the same time the reading public of the North
west is as intelligent and discriminating as that of any other portion
of our country. If these _Legends_ be appreciated and approved
by our own people who are familiar with the scenery described and more
or less, with the customs, traditions and superstitions of the Dakotas,
and if beyond that these poems shall stand the test of candid criticism
I may give them a wider publication.


H. L. GORDON.

MINNEAPOLIS. June 1, 1881.


[Illustration: VIEW OF THE MISSISSIPPI AT FORT SNELLING]


PRELUDE.

THE MISSISSIPPI.


Onward rolls the Royal River, proudly sweeping to the sea,
Dark and deep and grand, forever wrapt in myth and mystery.
Lo he laughs along the highlands, leaping o'er the granite walls:
Lo he sleeps among the islands, where the loon her lover calls.
Still like some huge monster winding downward
through the prairie plains,
Seeking rest but never finding, till the tropic gulf he gains.
In his mighty arms he claspeth now an empire broad and grand;
In his left hand lo he graspeth leagues of fen and forest land;
In his right the mighty mountains, hoary with eternal snow.
Where a thousand foaming fountains singing seek the plains below.
Fields of corn and feet of cities lo the mighty river laves,
Where the Saxon sings his ditties o'er the swarthy warriors' graves.
Aye, before the birth, of Moses--ere the Pyramids were piled--
All his banks were red with roses from the sea to nor'lands wild,
And from forest, fen and meadows, in the deserts of the north,
Elk and bison stalked like shadows, and the tawny tribes came forth;
Deeds of death and deeds of daring on his leafy banks were done--
Women loved and men went warring--ere the siege of Troy begun.
Where his wayward waters thundered, roaring o'er the rocky walls,
Dusky hunters sat and wondered, listening to the spirits' calls.
"Ha-ha!" [76] cried the warrior greeting from afar the cataract's roar;
"Ha-ha!" rolled the answer,
beating down the rock-ribbed leagues of shore.
Now, alas, the bow and quiver and the dusky braves have fled,
And the sullen, shackled river drives the droning mills instead.

Where the war whoop rose, and, after, women wailed their warriors slain,
List the Saxon's silvery laughter, and his humming hives of gain.
Swiftly sped the tawny runner o'er the pathless prairies then,
Now the iron-reindeer sooner carries weal or woe to men.
On thy bosom, Royal River, silent sped the birch canoe,
Bearing brave with bow and quiver, on his way to war or woo;
Now with flaunting flags and streamers--mighty monsters of the deep--
Lo the puffing, panting steamers, through thy foaming waters sweep;
And behold the grain-fields golden, where the bison grazed of eld;
See the fanes of forests olden by the ruthless Saxon felled,--
Pluméd pines that spread their shadows ere Columbus spread his sails.
Firs that fringed the mossy meadows ere the Mayflower braved the gales,
Iron oaks that nourished bruin while the Vikings roamed the main,
Crashing fall in broken ruin for the greedy marts of gain.

Still forever and forever rolls the restless river on,
Slumbering oft but ceasing never, while the circling centuries run.
In his palm the lakelet lingers, in his hair the brooklets hide,
Grasped within his thousand fingers lies a continent fair and wide,--
Yea, a mighty empire swarming with its millions like the bees,
Delving, drudging, striving, storming, all their lives, for golden ease.

Still, methinks, the dusky shadows of the days that are no more
Stalk around the lakes and meadows, haunting oft the wonted shore,--
Hunters from the land of spirits seek the bison and the deer,
Where the Saxon now inherits golden field and silver mere;
And beside the mound where burried lies the dark-eyed maid he loves,
Some tall warrior, wan and wearied, in the misty moonlight moves.
See--he stands erect and lingers--stoic still, but loth to go--
Clutching in his tawny fingers feathered shaft and polished bow.
Never wail or moan he utters and no tear is on his face,
But a warrior's curse he mutters on the crafty Saxon race.

O thou dark, mysterious River, speak and tell thy tales to me;
Seal not up thy lips forever--veiled in mist and mystery.
I will sit and lowly listen at the phantom-haunted falls,
Where thy waters foam and glisten o'er the rugged, rocky walls.
Till some spirit of the olden, mystic, weird, romantic days
Shall emerge and pour her golden tales and legends through my lays.
Then again the elk and bison on thy grassy banks shall feed,
And along the low horizon shall the pluméd hunter speed;
Then again on lake and river shall the silent birch canoe
Bear the brave with bow and quiver on his way to war or woo:
Then the beaver on the meadow shall rebuild his broken wall,
And the wolf shall chase his shadow and his mate the panther call.
From the prairies and the regions where the pine-plumed forest grows
Shall arise the tawny legions with their lances and their bows;
And again the shouts of battle shall resound along the plain,
Bows shall twang and quivers rattle, women wail their warriors slain.



THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS. [1]

A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS.


(In pronouncing Dakota words give "a" the sound of "ah"--"e" the sound
of "a"--"i" the sound of "e" and "u" the sound of "oo," sound "ee"
as in English. The numerals, 1, 2, etc. refer to explanatory notes in
the appendix.)


THE GAME OF BALL. [2]


Clear was the sky as a silver shield;
The bright sun blazed on the frozen field.
On icebound river and white robed prairie
The diamonds gleamed in the flame of noon;
But cold and keen were the breezes airy
Wa-zi-ya [3] blew from his icy throne.

On the solid ice of the silent river
The bounds are marked, and a splendid prize,
A robe of black fox lined with beaver--
Is hung in view of the eager eyes;
And fifty merry Dakota maidens,
The fairest moulded of woman kind,
Are gathered in groups on the level ice.
They look on the robe and its beauty gladdens,
And maddens their hearts for the splendid prize.
Lo the rounded ankles and raven hair
That floats at will on the wanton wind,
And the round brown arms to the breezes bare,
And breasts like the mounds where the waters meet, [4]
And feet 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,
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:

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