The scenery of the Prairie _des Chiens_ is among the most beautiful of
the western wilderness--nothing presents finer views than may be had
from the lofty hills, which lie east of the Wisconsan. The prairie
extends about ten miles along the eastern bank of the river, and is
limited on that side by the before-mentioned hills, which rise to the
height of about four hundred feet, and run parallel with the course of
the river, at a distance of about a mile and a half from it. On the
western bank, the bluffs which rise to the same elevation are washed
at their base by the river. From the top of this majestic hill, which
is called Pike's Mountain, there is a beautiful and magnificent view
of the two rivers, Wisconsan and Mississippi, which mingle their
waters at its foot. The prairie has retained its old French
appellation, derived from an Indian who formerly resided there, and
was called the Dog. The hill, or Pike's Mountain, has no particular
limits in regard to extension, being merely a part of the river
bluffs, which stretch along the margin of the river on the west for
several miles, and retain nearly the same elevation above the water.
The side fronting upon the river is so abrupt as to render the summit
completely inaccessible even to a pedestrian, except in a very few
places, where he may ascend by taking hold of the bushes and rocks
that cover the slope. In general the acclivity is made up of
precipices arranged one above another, some of which are a hundred and
fifty feet high.
In one of the niches or recesses formed by one of these precipices, in
the cavern of Kickapoo creek, which is a tributary of the Wisconsan,
there is a gigantic mass of stone presenting the appearance of a human
figure. It is so sheltered by the overhanging rocks, and by the sides
of the recess in which it stands, as to assume a dark and gloomy
character.
Has my brother--said the Indian chief to the traveller--ever heard how
a beautiful woman of my nation became an image of stone? If he has,
let him say so; if he has not, the Guard of the Red Arrows will tell
him the story.
Once upon a time, many, very many ages ago, there lived in my nation a
woman who was called Shenanska, or the White Buffalo Robe. She was an
inhabitant of the prairie, a dweller in the cabins which stand upon
the verge of the hills. She was the pride of our nation, not so much
for her beauty, though she was exceedingly beautiful, as for her
goodness, which made her beloved of all. The breath of the summer wind
was not milder than the temper of Shenanska, the face of the sun was
not fairer than her face. There was never a gust in the one, never a
cloud passed over the other. Who but Shenanska dressed the wounds of
the Brave when he returned from battle? who but she interceded for the
warrior who came back from the fight without a blow? yet who was it
encouraged him to wipe the black paint from the memory of his tribe by
brave deeds? It was she who dreamed the dreams that led to the
slaughter of the Sauks and the Foxes; it was she who pointed out the
favourite haunts of the deer and the bison. When the warriors returned
victorious from the field of blood, it was she who came out with songs
sweeter than the music of the dove; and, when they brought no scalps,
it was she who comforted them with stories of past victories, and
dreams of those which were yet to be. Before she had seen the flowers
bloom twice ten times, she had been by turns the wife of many
warriors, for all loved her.
At length, it became the fortune of our tribe to be surprised in our
encampment on the banks of the Kickapoo, by a numerous band of the
bloody and warlike Mengwe. Many of our nation fell fighting bravely,
the greater part of the women and children were scalped, and the
remainder were compelled to fly to the wilds for safety. It was the
fortune of Shenanska to escape from death, and perhaps worse evils.
When the alarm of the war-whoop reached her ear, as she was sleeping
in her lodge in the arms of her husband; she arose, and seizing her
lance, and bow and arrows, she rushed with the Braves to battle. When
she saw half of the men of her nation lying dead around, then she
fled, and not till then. Though badly wounded, she succeeded in
effecting her escape to the hills. Weakened by loss of blood, she had
not strength enough left to hunt for a supply of food; she was near
perishing with hunger.
[Illustration: _Designed & Etched by W. H. Brooks, A. R. E. A._
The Spirit breathed on her & she became Stone.
_page 104._
_London, Published by Colburn & Bentley, April 1830_]
While she lay in this languishing state beneath the shade of a tree,
there came to her a Being, who was not of this world. He said to her,
in a gentle and soothing voice, "Shenanska! thou art wounded and
hungry, shall I heal thee and feed thee? Wilt thou return to the lands
of thy tribe, and live to be old, a widow and alone, or go now to the
land of departed spirits, and join the shade of thy husband? The
choice is thine. If thou wilt live crippled, and bowed down by wounds
and disease, thou mayest; if thou better likest to rejoin thy
friends in the country beyond the Great River, say so." Shenanska
replied, that she wished to die. The Spirit then took her in his arms,
and placed her in one of the recesses of the cavern, overshadowed by
hanging rocks. He then spoke some low words, and, breathing on her,
she became stone. Determined that a woman so good and so beautiful
should not be forgotten by the world, nor be deprived of the ability
of protecting herself from mutilation, he imparted to her statue the
power of killing suddenly any Indian that approached near it. For a
long time the statue relentlessly exercised this power. Many an
unconscious Indian, venturing too near, fell dead without wound or
bruise. At length, tired of the havoc it had made, the guardian Spirit
took away the power he had given. At this day the statue may be
approached with safety. Yet the Indian people hold it in fear and
veneration, and none passes it without paying it the homage of a
sacrifice. This is my story.