MANY hundred moons ago there dwelt among the Senecas a maiden named
Tonadahwa, whom every young chief coveted to grace his wigwam. One of the
young braves of her tribe had won her heart by imperiling his life to
save her from impending danger, and to none other would she listen. Her
smiles were all for her hero, and her eyes lighted like the sunbeams when
he was near.
One day the maiden was urging her canoe swiftly along the river, little
thinking that great danger awaited her and threatened her life and
happiness. Darting along the bank of the stream, unseen by Tonadahwa,
was a young Seneca warrior, who had been a suitor for her hand, but whom
she had spurned and avoided. Her light canoe had borne her far from the
village of the Senecas, when she suddenly heard what she supposed was
the call of her lover on the shore. Resting on her paddle, Tonadahwa
listened and again heard the welcome call that deepened the rich color in
her rounded cheeks. Answering with a cry of joy, she headed the canoe
toward the bank, and with a few strokes sent it gliding underneath the
overhanging branches.
But it was not the form of Tonadahwa's lover that sprang suddenly into
the canoe. It was that of the dark and angry rival, and she saw in his
face a look of evil triumph.
The maiden uttered no shriek, gave expression to no surprise, though her
eyes darkened and her cheeks assumed a duskier hue. With an exclamation
that almost drove hope from Tonadahwa's heart, the hated lover caught the
paddle from her hands and sent the light craft rapidly towards the middle
of the stream.
Suddenly a bright object cleft the air and an arrow sped from the bank
of the river and buried itself between the shoulders of the cowardly
abductor as he bent forward to clasp the shrinking maiden in his arms.
With a cry, the defeated rival leaped into the river, hurling the paddle
from him as he sprang, and with his last remaining effort pushed the
canoe and its occupant far out into the rapid current. The whirling,
seething rapids caught the helpless craft and bore it onward with
terrific speed. Tonadahwa waved a farewell to her lover, and, chanting
her death-song, which the pines along the shore caught and whispered,
the canoe went flying amid the mist and spray of that roaring tide.
Green as the emerald, save where whipped into white foam or enshrouded in
mist, the river rushed on, and the frail canoe, tossed as a plaything at
the sport of the current, was whirled onward until lost in the roar and
tumult of the impetuous flood.
Like the wind the despairing lover flew along the shore to the high banks
overlooking the falls. There he paused a moment until the canoe and its
precious freight were lost to view. Then, raising his arms a moment
toward the Happy Hunting-Grounds, he leaped into the fearful abyss.
But amid the pelting spray and beating flood appeared myriads of shadowy
forms--spirits of the mighty braves who long before had found the land of
pleasant forests. Swiftly, yet gently, they lowered the form of the hero
until he stood unharmed beneath the fall of roaring water, and received
in his arms the unconscious form of Tonadahwa, which was held by the
braves to await his coming.
Clinging to the broken rocks, buffeted and blinded by the awful flood,
the daring and triumphant Seneca bore his loved burden to a place of
safety and watched with thankfulness her return to consciousness and
life.
The pine trees ever after gently murmured Tonadahwa's song, and, mingled
with the roar of waters, listening lovers through all succeeding time
can often hear the strange, weird cry of Tonadahwa's lover as he plunged
headlong after the beloved maiden.