Ten years had passed away since their marriage, and Red Deer had never
brought another wife to his teepee. Harpstenah was without a rival in
his affections, if we except the three strong boys who were growing up
beside them.
Chaskè (the oldest son) could hunt for his mother, and it was well that
he could, for his father's strength was gone. Consumption wasted his
limbs, and the once powerful arm could not now support his
drooping head.
The father and mother had followed Cloudy Sky to the world of spirits;
they were both anxious to depart from earth, for age had made them
feeble, and the hardships of ninety years made them eager to have their
strength renewed, in the country where their ancestors were still in the
vigor of early youth. The band at Lake Calhoun were going on a hunt for
porcupines; a long hunt, and Harpstenah tried to deter her husband from
attempting the journey; but he thought the animating exercise of the
chase would be a restorative to his feeble frame, and they set out
with the rest.
When the hunters had obtained a large number of those valued animals,
the women struck their teepees and prepared for their return.
Harpstenah's lodge alone remained, for in it lay the dying man--by his
side his patient wife. The play of the children had ceased--they watched
with silent awe the pale face and bright eye of their father--they heard
him charge their mother to place food that his soul might be refreshed
on its long journey. Not a tear dimmed her eye as she promised all
he asked.
"There is one thing, my wife," he said, "which still keeps my spirit on
earth. My soul cannot travel the road to the city of spirits--that long
road made by the bravest of our warriors--while it remembers the body
which it has so long inhabited shall be buried far from its native
village. Your words were wise when you told me I had not strength to
travel so far, and now my body must lie far from my home--far from the
place of my birth--from the village where I have danced the dog feast,
and from the shores of the 'spirit lakes' where my father taught me to
use my bow and arrow."
"Your body shall lie on the scaffold near your native village," his wife
replied. "When I turn from this place, I will take with me my husband;
and my young children shall walk by my side. My heart is as brave now as
it was when I took the life of the medicine man. The love that gave me
courage then, will give me strength now. Fear not for me; my limbs will
not be weary, and when the Great Spirit calls me, I will hear his voice,
and follow you to the land of spirits, where there will be no more
sickness nor trouble."
Many stars shone out that night; they assisted in the solemn and the
sacred watch. The mother looked at the faces of her sleeping sons, and
listened to their heavy breathing; they had but started on the
journey of life.
She turned to her husband: it was but the wreck of a deserted house, the
tenant had departed.
The warrior was already far on his journey; ere this, he had reached the
lodge where the freed spirit adorns itself ere entering upon its
new abode.
Some days after, Harpstenah entered her native village, bearing a
precious burden. Strapped to her back was the body of her husband. By
day, she had borne it all the weary way; at night, she had stopped to
rest and to weep. Nor did her strength fail her, until she reached her
home; then, insensible to sorrow and fatigue, she sunk to the earth.
The women relieved her from the burden, and afterwards helped her to
bury her dead.
Many waters could not quench her love, nor could the floods drown it. It
was strong as death.
Well might she sit in her lodge and weep! The village where she passed
her childhood and youth was deserted. Her husband forgotten by all but
herself. Her two sons were murdered by the Chippeways, while defending
their mother and their young brother.
Well might she weep! and tremble too, for death among the Dahcotahs
comes as often by the fire water purchased from the white people, as
from the murderous tomahawk and scalping-knife of the Chippeways.
Nor were her fears useless; she never again saw her son, until his body
was brought to her, his dark features stiff in death. The death blow was
given, too, by the friend who had shamed him from listening to his
mother's voice.
* * * * *
What wonder that she should not heed the noise of the tempest! The
storms of her life had been fiercer than the warring of the elements.
But while the fountains of heaven were unsealed, those of her heart were
closed forever. Never more should tears relieve her, who had shed so
many. Often had she gone into the prairies to weep, far from the sight
of her companions. Her voice was heard from a distance. The wind would
waft the melancholy sound back to the village.
"It is only Harpstenah," said the women. "She has gone to the prairies
to weep for her husband and her children."
The storm raged during the night, but ceased with the coming of day. The
widowed wife and childless mother was found dead under the scaffold
where lay the body of her son.
The Thunder Bird was avenged for the death of his friend. The strength
of Red Deer had wasted under a lingering disease; his children were
dead; their mother lay beside her youngest son.
The spirit of the waters had not appeared in vain. When the countenance
of Unktahe rests upon a Dahcotah, it is the sure prognostic of coming
evil. The fury of the storm spirits was spent when the soul of
Harpstenah followed her lost ones.
* * * * *
Dimly, as the lengthened shadows of evening fall around them, are seen
the outstretched arms of the suffering Dahcotah women, as they appeal
to us for assistance--and not to proud man!
He, in the halls of legislation, decides when the lands of the red man
are needed--one party makes a bargain which the other is forced
to accept.
But in a woman's heart God has placed sympathies to which the sorrows of
the Dahcotah women appeal. Listen! for they tell you they would fain
know of a balm for the many griefs they endure; they would be taught to
avoid the many sins they commit; and, oh! how gladly would many of them
have their young children accustomed to shudder at the sight of a fellow
creature's blood. Like us, they pour out the best affections of early
youth on a beloved object. Like us, they have clasped their children to
their hearts in devoted love. Like us, too, they have wept as they laid
them in the quiet earth.
But they must fiercely grapple with trials which we have never
conceived. Winter after winter passes, and they perish from disease, and
murder, and famine.
There is a way to relieve them--would you know it? Assist the
missionaries who are giving their lives to them and God. Send them
money, that they may clothe the feeble infant, and feed its
starving mother.
Send them money, that they may supply the wants of those who are sent to
school, and thus encourage others to attend.
As the day of these forgotten ones is passing away, so is ours. They
were born to suffer, we to relieve. Let their deathless souls be taught
the way of life, that they and we, after the harsh discords of earth
shall have ceased, may listen together to the "harmonies of Heaven."
HAOKAH OZAPE;
THE DANCE TO THE GIANT
CHAPTER I.
The dance to the Giant is now rarely celebrated among the Dahcotahs. So
severe is the sacrifice to this deity, that there are few who have
courage to attempt it; and yet Haokah is universally reverenced and
feared among the Sioux.
They believe in the existence of many Giants, but Haokah is one of the
principal. He is styled the anti-natural god. In summer he feels cold,
in winter he suffers from the heat; hot water is cold to him, and
the contrary.
The Dahcotah warrior, however brave he may be, believes that when he
dreams of Haokah, calamity is impending and can only be avoided by some
sort of sacrifice to this god.
The incident on which this story is founded, occurred while I resided
among the Sioux. I allude to the desertion of Wenona by her lover. It
serves to show the blind and ignorant devotion of the Dahcotah to
his religion.
And as man is ever alike in every country, and under every circumstance
of life--as he often from selfish motives tramples upon the heart that
trusts him--so does woman utterly condemn a sister, feeling no sympathy
for her sorrow, but only hatred of her fault.
Jealous for the honor of the long-reverenced feasts of the
Dahcotahs--the "Deer Killer" thought not for a moment of the sorrow and
disgrace he would bring upon Wenona, while Wauska loved the warrior more
than ever, triumphing in his preference of her, above her companion.
And Wenona--
A cloud came o'er the prospect of her life,
And evening did set in
Early, and dark and deadly.
But she loved too truly to be jealous, and departed without the revenge
that most Indian women would have sought, and accomplished too. Her
silence on the subject of her early trial induced her friends to believe
that her mind was affected, a situation caused by long and intense
suffering, and followed by neglect; in such cases the invalid is said to
_have no heart_.
The girl from whom I have attempted to draw the character of Wauska, I
knew well.
Good looking, with teeth like pearls, her laugh was perfect music. Often
have I been roused from my sewing or reading, by hearing the ringing
notes, as they were answered by the children. She generally announced
herself by a laugh, and was welcomed by one in return.
She was pettish withal, and easily offended, and if refused calico for
an okendokenda, or beads, or ribbon to ornament some part of her dress,
she would sullenly rest her chin on her hand, until pacified with a
present, or the promise of one.
It is in Indian life as in ours--youth believes and trusts, and
advancing years bring the consciousness of the trials of life; the
necessity of enduring, and in some cases the power to overcome them. Who
but she who suffers it, can conceive the Sioux woman's greatest
trial--to feel that the love that is her right, is gone! to see another
take the place by the household fire, that was hers; to be last where
she was first.
It may require some apology that Wauska should have vowed destruction
upon herself if the Deer Killer took another wife, and yet should have
lived on and become that most unromantic of all characters--a virago.
She was reconciled in time to what was inevitable, and as there are many
wives among the Sioux, there must be the proportion of scolding ones. So
I plead guilty to the charge of wanting sentiment, choosing rather to be
true to nature. And there is this consideration: if there be among the
Dahcotahs some Catharines, there are many Petruchios.
* * * * *
A group of Indian girls were seated on the grass, Wauska in the centre,
her merry musical laugh echoed back by all but Wenona. The leaves of the
large forest tree under which they were sheltered seemed to vibrate to
the joyous sounds, stirred as they were by a light breeze that blew from
the St. Peter's. Hark! they laugh again, and "old John" wakes up from
his noon-day nap and turns a curious, reproving look to the noisy party,
and Shah-co-pee, the orator of the Sioux, moves towards them, anxious to
find out the cause of their mirth.
"Old John," after a hearty stretch, joins them too, and now the fumes
of the pipe ascend, and mix with the odor of the sweet-scented prairie
grass that the young girls are braiding.
But neither Shah-co-pee the chief, nor old John the medicine man, could
find out the secret; they coaxed and threatened in turns--but all in
vain, for their curiosity was not gratified. They might have noticed,
however, that Wenona's face was pale, and her eyes red with weeping. She
was idle too, while the others plaited busily, and there was a subdued
look of sadness about her countenance, contrasting strangely with the
merry faces of the others.
"Why did you not tell Shah-co-pee what we were laughing at, Wenona?"
said Wanska. "Your secret is known now. The Deer-killer told all at the
Virgin's feast. Why did you not make him promise not to come? If I had
been you, I would have lain sick the day of the feast, I would have
struck my foot, so that I could not walk, or, I would have died before I
entered the ring.
"The Deer-killer promised to marry me," replied Wenona. "He said that
when he returned from his hunt I should be his wife. But I know well why
he has disgraced me; you have tried to make him love you, and now he is
waiting to take you to his lodge. He is not a great warrior, or he would
have kept his word."
"Wenona!" said Wanska, interrupting her, "you have not minded the advice
of your grandmother. She told you never to trust the promises of the
bravest warriors. You should not have believed his words, until he took
you to his wigwam. But do not be afraid that I will marry the
Deer-killer. There was never but one woman among the Dahcotahs who did
not marry, and I am going to be the second."
"You had better hush, Wanska," said the Bright Star. "You know she had
her nose cut off because she refused to be a wife, and somebody may cut
yours off too. It is better to be the mother of warriors than to have
every one laughing at you."
"Enah! then I will be married, rather than have my nose cut off, but I
will not be the Deer-killer's wife. So Wenona may stop crying."
"He says he will never marry me," said Wenona; "and it will do me no
good for you to refuse to be his wife. But you are a liar, like him; for
you know you love him. I am going far away, and the man who has broken
his faith to the maiden who trusted him, will never be a good husband."
"If I were Wenona, and you married the Deer-killer," said the Bright
Star to Wanska, "you should not live long after it. She is a coward or
she would not let you laugh at her as you did. I believe _she has no
heart_ since the Virgin's feast; sometimes she laughs so loud that we
can hear her from our teepee, and then she bends her head and weeps.
When her mother places food before her she says, 'Will he bring the meat
of the young deer for me to dress for him, and will my lodge be ever
full of food, that I may offer it to the hungry and weary stranger who
stops to rest himself?' If I were in her place, Wanska," added the
Bright Star, "I would try and be a medicine woman, and I would throw a
spell upon the Deer-killer, and upon you too, if you married him."
"The Deer-killer is coming," said another of the girls. "He has been
watching us; and now that he sees Wenona has gone away, he is coming to
talk to Wanska. He wears many eagle feathers: Wenona may well weep that
she cannot be his wife, for there is not a warrior in the village who
steps so proudly as he."
But he advanced and passed them indifferently. By and by they separated,
when he followed Wanska to her father's teepee.
Her mother and father had gone to dispose of game in exchange for bread
and flour, and the Deer-killer seated himself uninvited on the floor of
the lodge.
"The teepee of the warrior is lonely when he returns from hunting," said
he to the maiden. "Wanska must come to the lodge of the Deer-killer. She
shall ever have the tender flesh of the deer and buffalo to refresh her,
and no other wife shall be there to make her unhappy."
"Wanska is very happy now," she replied. "Her father is a good hunter.
He has gone to-day to carry ducks and pigeons to the Fort. The promises
of the Deer-killer are like the branch that breaks in my hand. Wenona's
face is pale, and her eyes are red like blood from weeping. The
Deer-killer promised to make her his wife, and now that he has broken
his word to her, he tells Wanska that he will never take another wife,
but she cannot trust him."
"Wanska was well named the Merry Heart," the warrior replied; "she
laughs at Wenona and calls her a fool, and then she wishes me to marry
her. Who would listen to a woman's words? And yet the voice of the Merry
Heart is sweeter than a bird's--her laugh makes my spirit glad. When she
sits in my lodge and sings to the children who will call me father, I
shall be happy. Many women have loved the Deer-killer, but never has he
cared to sit beside one, till he heard the voice of Wanska as she sang
in the scalp-dance, and saw her bear the scalp of her enemy upon her
shoulders."
Wanska's face was pale while she listened to him. She approached him,
and laid her small hand upon his arm--"I have heard your words, and my
heart says they are good. I have loved you ever since we were children.
When I was told that you were always by the side of Wenona, the laugh of
my companions was hateful to me--the light of the sun was darkness to my
eyes. When Wenona returned to her village with her parents, I said in
the presence of the Great Spirit that she should not live after you had
made her your wife. But her looks told me that there was sadness in her
heart, and then I knew you could not love her.
"You promise me you will never bring another wife to your wigwam.
Deer-killer! the wife of the white man is happy, for her husband loves
her alone. The children of the second wife do not mock the woman who is
no longer beloved, nor strike her children before her eyes. When I am
your wife I shall be happy while you love me; there will be no night in
my teepee while I know your heart is faithful and true; but should you
break your word to me, and bring to your lodge another wife, you shall
see me no more, and the voice whose sound is music to your ears you will
never hear again."
Promises come as readily to the lips of an Indian lover as trustfulness
does to the heart of the woman who listens to them; and the Deer-killer
was believed.
Wanska had been often at the Fort, and she had seen the difference
between the life of a white and that of an Indian woman. She had thought
that the Great Spirit was unmindful of the cares of his children.
And who would have thought that care was known to Wanska, with her merry
laugh, and her never-ceasing jokes, whether played upon her young
companions, or on the old medicine man who kept everybody but her in
awe of him.
She seemed to be everywhere too, at the same time. Her canoe dances
lightly over the St. Peter's, and her companions try in vain to keep up
with her. Soon her clear voice is heard as she sings, keeping time with
the strokes of the axe she uses so skilfully. A peal of laughter rouses
the old woman, her mother, who goes to bring the truant home, but she is
gone, and when she returns, in time to see the red sun fade away in the
bright horizon, she tells her mother that she went out with two or three
other girls, to assist the hunters in bringing in the deer they had
killed. And her mother for once does not scold, for she remembers how
she used to love to wander on the prairies, when her heart was as light
and happy as her child's.
When Wanska was told that the Deer-killer loved Wenona, no one heard her
sighs, and for tears, she was too proud to shed any. Wenona's fault had
met with ridicule and contempt; there was neither sympathy nor excuse
found for her. And now that the Deer-killer had slighted Wenona, and had
promised to love her alone, there was nothing wanting to her happiness.
Bright tears of joy fell from her eyes when her lover said there was a
spell over him when he loved Wenona, but now his spirit was free; that
he would ever love her truly, and that when her parents returned he
would bring rich presents and lay them at the door of the lodge.
Wanska was indeed "the Merry Heart," for she loved the Deer-killer more
than life itself, and life was to her a long perspective of brightness.
She would lightly tread the journey of existence by his side, and when
wearied with the joys of this world, they would together travel the road
that leads to the Heaven of the Dahcotahs.
She sat dreaming of the future after the Deer-killer had left her, nor
knew of her parents' return until she heard her mother's sharp voice as
she asked her "if the corn would boil when the fire was out, and where
was the bread that she was told to have ready on their return?"
Bread and corn! when Wanska had forgot all but that she was beloved. She
arose quickly, and her light laugh drowned her mother's scolding. Soon
her good humor was infectious, for her mother told her that she had
needles and thread in plenty, besides more flour and sugar, and that her
father was going out early in the morning to kill more game for the Long
Knives who loved it so well.
CHAPTER II.
A few months ago, the Deer-killer had told Wenona that Wanska was noisy
and tiresome, and that her soft dark eyes were far more beautiful than
Wanska's laughing ones. They were not at home then, for Wenona had
accompanied her parents on a visit to some relations who lived far above
the village of Shah-co-pee.
While there the Deer-killer came in with some warriors who had been on a
war party; there Wenona was assured that her rival, the Merry Heart, was
forgotten.
And well might the Deer-killer and Wenona have loved each other. "Youth
turns to youth as the flower to the sun," and he was brave and noble in
his pride and power; and she, gentle and loving, though an Indian woman;
so quiet too, and all unlike Wanska, who was the noisiest little gossip
in the village.
Often had they wandered together through the "solemn temples of the
earth," nor did she ever fear, with the warrior child for a protector.
She had followed him when he ascended the cliffs where the tracks of the
eagle were seen; and with him she felt safe when the wind was tossing
their canoe on the Mississippi, when the storm spirits had arisen in
their power. They were still children when Wenona would know his step
among many others, but they were no longer children when Wenona left
Shah-co-pee's village, for she loved with a woman's devotion--and more
than loved. She had trembled when she saw the Deer-killer watch Wanska
as she tripped merrily about the village. Sleeping or waking, his image
was ever before her; he was the idol to which her spirit bowed, the sun
of her little world.
The dance to the giant was to be celebrated at the village where they
were visiting; the father of Wenona and "Old John" the medicine man,
were to join in it. The maiden had been nothing loth to undertake the
journey, for the Deer-killer had gone on a war party against the
Chippeways, and she thought that in the course of their journey they
might meet him--and when away from Wanska, he would return to her side.
He could not despise the love she had given him. Hope, that bright star
of youth, hovered over her, and its light was reflected on her heart.
When they arrived at the village of the chief Markeda, or "Burning
Earth," the haughty brow of the chief was subdued with care. He had
dreamed of Haokah the giant, and he knew there was sorrow or danger
threatening him. He had sinned against the giant, and what might be the
consequence of offending him? Was his powerful arm to be laid low, and
the strong pulse to cease its beatings? Did his dream portend the loss
of his young wife? She was almost as dear to him as the fleet hunter
that bore him to the chase.
It might be that the angry god would send their enemies among them, and
his tall sons would gladden his sight no more. Sickness and hunger,
phantom-like, haunted his waking and sleeping hours.
There was one hope; he might yet ward off the danger, for the uplifted
arm of the god had not fallen. He hoped to appease the anger of the
giant by dancing in his honor.
"We have travelled far," said old John the medicine man, to Markeda,
"and are tired. When we have slept we will dance with you, for we are of
the giant's party."
"Great is Haokah, the giant of the Dahcotahs," the chief replied; "it is
a long time since we have danced to him."
"I had been hunting with my warriors, we chased the buffalo, and our
arrows pierced their sides; they turned upon us, bellowing, their heads
beating the ground; their terrible eyes glared upon us even in death;
they rolled in the dust, for their strength was gone. We brought them to
the village for our women to prepare for us when we should need them. I
had eaten and was refreshed; and, tired as my limbs were, I could not
sleep at first, but at last the fire grew dim before my eyes, and
I slept.
"I stood on the prairie alone, in my dream, and the giant appeared
before me. So tall was he that the clouds seemed to float about his
head. I trembled at the sound of his voice, it was as if the angry winds
were loosed upon the earth.
"'The warriors of the Dahcotahs are turned women,' said he; 'that they
no longer dance in honor of the giant, nor sing his songs. Markeda is
not a coward, but let him tremble; he is not a child, but he may shed
tears if the anger of the giant comes upon him.'
"Glad was I when I woke from my dream--and now, lest I am punished for
my sins, I will make a sacrifice to the giant. Should I not fear him who
is so powerful? Can he not take the thunder in his hand and cast it to
the earth?
"The heart of the warrior should be brave when he dances to the giant.
My wigwam is ready, and the friends of the giant are ready also."
"Give me your mocassins," said the young wife of Markeda to old John;
"they are torn, and I will mend them. You have come from afar, and are
welcome. Sleep, and when you awake, you will find them beside you." As
she assisted him to take them off, the medicine man looked admiringly
into her face. "The young wife of Markeda is as beautiful as the white
flowers that spring up on the prairies. Her husband would mourn for her
if the giant should close her eyes. They are bright now, as the stars,
but death would dim them, should not the anger of the giant be
appeased."
The "Bounding Fawn" turned pale at the mention of the angry giant; she
sat down, without replying, to her work; wondering the while, if the
soul of her early love thought of her, now that it wandered in the
Spirit's land. It might be that he would love her again when they should
meet there. The sound of her child's voice, awakening out of sleep,
aroused her, and called to her mind who was its father.
"They tore me away from my lover, and made me come to the teepee of the
chief," was her bitter reflection. "Enah! that I cannot love the father
of my child."
She rose and left the teepee. "Where is the heaven of the Dahcotahs,"
she murmured, as she looked up to the silent stars. "It may be that I
shall see him again. He will love my child too, and I will forget the
many tears I have shed."
CHAPTER III.
The dance to the Giant is always performed inside the wigwam. Early in
the morning the dancers were assembled in the chief's lodge. Their dress
was such as is appointed for the occasion. Their hats were made of the
bark of trees, such as tradition says the Giant wears. They were large,
and made forked like the lightning. Their leggins were made of skins.
Their ear-rings were of the bark of trees, and were about one foot long.
The chief rose ere the dawn of day, and stood before the fire. As the
flames flickered, and the shadows of the dancers played fantastically
about the wigwam, they looked more like Lucifer and a party of attendant
spirits, than like human beings worshipping their God.
Markeda stood by the fire without noticing his guests, who awaited his
motions in silence. At last, moving slowly, he placed a kettle of water
on the fire, and then threw into it a large piece of buffalo meat.
Lighting his pipe, he seated himself, and then the dancers advanced to
the fire and lit theirs; and soon they were enveloped in a cloud
of smoke.
When the water began to boil, the Indians arose, and, dancing round the
fire, imitated the voice of the Giant.
"Hah-hah! hah hah!" they sung, and each endeavored to drown the voice of
the other. Now they crouch as they dance, looking diminutive and
contemptible, as those who are degrading themselves in their most sacred
duties. Then they rise up, and show their full height. Stalwart warriors
as they are, their keen eyes flash as they glance from the fire to each
others' faces, distorted with the effort of uttering such discordant
sounds. Now their broad chests heave with the exertion, and their breath
comes quickly.
They seat themselves, to rest and smoke. Again the hellish sounds are
heard, and the wife of the chief trembles for fear of the Giant, and her
child clings closer to her breast. The water boils, and, hissing, falls
over into the fire, the flames are darkened for a moment, and then burst
up brighter than before.
Markeda addresses the dancers--"Warriors! the Giant is powerful--the
water which boils before us will be cold when touched by a friend of the
Giant. Haokah will not that his friends should suffer when offering him
a sacrifice."
The warriors then advanced together, and each one puts his hand into the
kettle and takes the meat from the boiling water; and although suffering
from the scalds produced, yet their calmness in enduring the pain, would
induce the belief that the water really felt to them cool and pleasant.
The meat is then taken out, and put into a wooden dish, and the water
left boiling on the fire. The dancers eat the meat while hot, and again
they arrange themselves to dance. And now, the mighty power of the Giant
is shown, for Markeda advances to the kettle, and taking some water out
of it he throws it upon his bare back, singing all the while, "The
water is cold."
"Old John" advances and does the same, followed by the next in turn,
until the water is exhausted from the kettle, and then the warriors
exclaim, "How great is the power of Haokah! we have thrown boiling water
upon ourselves and we have not been scalded."
The dance is over--the sacrifice is made. Markeda seeks his young wife
and fears not. He had fancied that her cheeks were pale of late, but now
they are flushed brilliantly, his heart is at rest.
The warriors disperse, all but the medicine man, and the chief's store
of buffalo meat diminishes rapidly under the magic touch of the epicure.
Yes! an epicure thou wert old John! for I mind me well when thou camest
at dinner time, and how thou saidst thou couldst eat the food of the
Indian when thou wert hungry, but the food of the white man was better
far. And thou! a Dahcotah warrior, a famous hunter, and a medicine man.
Shame! that thou shouldst have loved venison dressed with wine more than
when the tender meat was cooked according to the taste of the women of
thy nation. I have forgotten thy Indian name, renegade as thou wert! but
thou answerest as well to "old John!"
Thou art now forgotten clay, though strong and vigorous when in wisdom
the Sioux were punished for a fault they did not commit. Their money was
not paid them--their provisions were withheld. Many were laid low, and
thou hast found before now that God is the Great Spirit, and the Giant
Haokah is not.
And it may be that thou wouldst fain have those thou hast left on earth
know of His power, who is above all spirits, and of His goodness who
would have all come unto Him.
CHAPTER IV.
Wenona had not hoped in vain, for her lover was with her, and Wanska
seemed to be forgotten. The warrior's flute would draw her out from her
uncle's lodge while the moon rose o'er the cold waters. Wrapped in her
blanket, she would hasten to meet him, and listen to his assurances of
affection, wondering the while that she had ever feared he
loved another.
She had been some months at the village of Markeda, and she went to meet
her lover with a heavy heart. Her mother had noticed that her looks were
sad and heavy, and Wenona knew that it would not be long ere she should
be a happy wife, or a mark for the bitter scorn of her companions.
The Deer-killer had promised, day after day, that he would make her his
wife, but he ever found a ready excuse; and now he was going on a long
hunt, and she and her parents were to return to their village. His
quiver was full of arrows, and his leggins were tightly girded upon him.
Wenona's full heart was nigh bursting as she heard that the party were
to leave to-morrow. Should he desert her, her parents would kill her for
disgracing them; and her rival, Wanska, how would she triumph over
her fall?
"You say that you love me," said she to the Deer-killer, "and yet you
treat me cruelly. Why should you leave me without saying that I am your
wife? Who would watch for your coming as I would? and you will disgrace
me when I have loved you so truly. Stay--tell them you have made me your
wife, and then will I wait for you at the door of my teepee."
The warrior could not stay from the chase, but he promised her that he
would soon return to their village, and then she should be his wife.
Wenona wept when he left her; shadows had fallen upon her heart, and yet
she hoped on. Turning her weary steps homeward, she arrived there when
the maidens of the village were preparing to celebrate the
Virgin's Feast.
There was no time to deliberate--should she absent herself, she would be
suspected, and yet a little while ere the Deer-killer would return, and
her anxious heart would be at rest.
The feast was prepared, and the crier called for all virgins to enter
the sacred ring.
Wenona went forward with a beating heart; she was not a wife, and soon
must be a mother. Wanska, the Merry Heart, was there, and many others
who wondered at the pale looks of Wenona--she who had been on a journey,
and who ought to have returned with color bright as the dying sun, whose
light illumined earth, sky and water.
As they entered the ring a party of warriors approached the circle.
Wenona does not look towards them, and yet the throbbings of her heart
were not to be endured. Her trembling limbs refused to sustain her, as
the Deer-killer, stalking towards the ring, calls aloud--"Take her from
the sacred feast; should she eat with the maidens?--she, under whose
bosom lies a warrior's child? She is unworthy."
And as the unhappy girl, with features of stone and glaring eyes, gazed
upon him bewildered, he rudely led her from the ring.
Wenona bowed her head and went--even as night came on when the sun went
down. Nor did the heart of the Deer-killer reproach him, for how dare
she offend the Great Spirit! Were not the customs of his race holy
and sacred?
Little to Wenona were her father's reproaches, or her mother's curse;
that she was no more beloved was all she remembered.
Again was the Deer-killer by the side of Wanska, and she paid the
penalty. Her husband brought other wives to his wigwam, though Wanska
was ever the favorite one.
With her own hand would she put the others out of the wigwam, laughing
when they threatened to tell their lord when he returned, for Wanska
managed to tell her own story first; and, termagant as she was, she
always had her own way.
Wenona has ceased to weep, and far away in the country of the Sissetons
she toils and watches as all Indian women toil and watch. Her young son
follows her as she seeks the suffering Dahcotah, and charms the disease
to leave his feeble frame.
She tells to the child and the aged woman her dreams; she warns the
warrior what he shall meet with when he goes to battle; and ever, as the
young girls assemble to pass away the idle hours, she stops and
whispers to them.
In vain do they ask of her husband: she only points to her son and says,
"My hair, which is now like snow, was once black and braided like his,
and my eyes as bright. They have wept until tears come no more. Listen
not to the warrior who says he loves." And she passes from their sight
as the morning mists.
U-MI-NE-WAH-CHIPPE;
OR,
TO DANCE AROUND.
I have noticed the many singular notions of the Sioux concerning
thunder, and especially the fact that they believe it to be a large
bird. They represent it thus. [Illustration:] This figure is often seen
worked with porcupine quills on their ornaments. Ke-on means to fly.
Thunder is called Wah-ke-on or All-flier. U-mi-ne-wah-chippe is a dance
given by some one who fears thunder and thus endeavors to propitiate the
god and save his own life.
A ring is made, of about sixty feet in circumference, by sticking
saplings in the ground, and bending their tops down, fastening them
together. In the centre of this ring a pole is placed. The pole is about
fifteen feet in height and painted red. From this swings a piece of
birch bark, cut so as to represent thunder. At the foot of the pole
stand two boys and two girls.
The two boys represent war: they are painted red, and hold war-clubs in
their hands. The girls have their faces painted with blue clay: they
represent peace.
On one side of the circle a kind of booth is erected, and about twenty
feet from it a wigwam. There are four entrances to this circle.
When all the arrangements for the dance are concluded, the man who
gives the dance emerges from his wigwam dressed up as hideously as
possible, crawling on all fours towards the booth. He must sing four
tunes before reaching it.
In the meantime the medicine men, who are seated in the wigwam, beat
time on the drum, and the young men and squaws keep time to the music by
first hopping on one foot, and then on the other--moving around inside
the ring as fast as they can. This is continued for about five minutes,
until the music stops. After resting a few moments, the second tune
commences, and lasts the same length of time, then the third, and the
fourth; the Indian meanwhile making his way towards the booth. At the
end of each tune, a whoop is raised by the men dancers.
After the Indian has reached his booth inside the ring, he must sing
four more tunes as before. At the end of the fourth tune the squaws all
run out of the ring as fast as possible, and must leave by the same way
that they entered, the other three entrances being reserved for the men,
who, carrying their war implements, might be accidentally touched by one
of the squaws--and the war implements of the Sioux warrior have from
time immemorial been held sacred from the touch of woman. For the same
reason the men form the inner ring in dancing round the pole, their war
implements being placed at the foot of the pole.
When the last tune is ended, the young men shoot at the image of thunder
which is hanging to the pole, and when it falls a general rush is made
by the warriors to get hold of it. There is placed at the foot of the
pole a bowl of water colored with blue clay. While the men are trying
to seize the parts of the bark representation of their god, they at the
same time are eagerly endeavoring to drink the water in the bowl, every
drop of which must be drank.
The warriors then seize on the two boys and girls--the representations
of war and peace--and use them as roughly as possible--taking their
pipes and war-clubs from them, and rolling them in the dirt until the
paint is entirely rubbed off from their faces. Much as they dislike this
part of the dance, they submit to it through fear, believing that after
this performance the power of thunder is destroyed.
Now that the water is drank up and the guardians of the Thunder bird are
deprived of their war-clubs and pipes, a terrible wailing commences. No
description could convey an idea of the noise made by their crying and
lamentation. All join in, exerting to the utmost the strength of
their lungs.
Before the men shoot at thunder, the squaws must leave the ring. No one
sings at this dance but the warrior who gives it; and while the
visitors, the dancers, and the medicine men, women and children, all are
arrayed in their gayest clothing, the host must be dressed in
his meanest.
In the dance Ahahkah Koyah, or to make the Elk a figure of thunder, is
also made and fought against. The Sioux have a great deference for the
majesty of thunder, and, consequently for their own skill in prevailing
or seeming to prevail against it.
A Sioux is always alarmed after dreaming of an elk, and soon prevails
upon some of his friends to assist him in dancing, to prevent any evil
consequences resulting from his dream. Those willing to join in must lay
aside all clothing, painting their bodies with a reddish gray color,
like the elk's. Each Indian must procure two long saplings, leaving the
boughs upon them. These are to aid the Indians in running. The saplings
must be about twelve feet in length. With them they tear down the bark
image of thunder, which is hung with a string to the top of the pole.
All being ready, the elks run off at a gallop, assisted by their
saplings, to within about two hundred yards of the pole, when they stop
for a while, and then start again for the pole, to which is attached the
figure of thunder.
They continue running round and round this pole, constantly striking the
figure of thunder with their saplings, endeavoring to knock it down,
which after a while they succeed in accomplishing.
The ceremony is now ended, and the dreamer has nothing to fear from elks
until he dreams again.
There is no end to the superstitions and fancies entertained by the
Sioux concerning thunder. On the cradle of the Indian child we
frequently see the figure of thunder represented. It is generally carved
on the wood by the father of the child, with representations of the Elk,
accompanied with hieroglyphic looking figures, but thunder is regarded
as the type of all animals that fly.
There are many medicine feasts--and I saw one celebrated near the Oak
Grove mission, and near, also, to the villages of Good Road, and the
chief Man in the Clouds. It was on a dark cold day about the first of
March. We left the fort at about nine o'clock and followed the road on
the St. Peter's river, which had been used for many months, but which,
though still strong, was beginning to look unsafe. As we advanced
towards the scene of the feast, many Indians from every direction were
collecting, and hurrying forward, either to join in the ceremony about
to be celebrated, or to be spectators. We ascended quite a high hill,
and were then at the spot where all the arrangements were made to
celebrate one of the most sacred forms of their religion. Many of the
Indians to be engaged in the performance were entirely without
protection from the severe cold--their bodies being painted and their
heads adorned with their choicest ornaments, but throwing aside even
their blankets, according to the laws of the ceremony. The Indians
continued to assemble. At eleven o'clock, the dance commenced. Although
I could not faithfully describe, yet I never can forget the scene. The
dark lowering sky--the mantle of snow and ice thrown over all the
objects that surrounded us, except the fierce human beings who were
thus, under Heaven's arch for a roof, about to offer to their deities a
solemn worship.
Then the music commenced, and the horrid sounds increased the wildness
of the scene; and the contortions of the medicine man, as he went round
and round, made his countenance horrible beyond expression. The devoted
attention of the savages, given to every part of the ceremony, made it
in a measure interesting. There were hundreds of human beings believing
in a Great Spirit, and anxious to offer him acceptable service; but how
degraded in that service! How fallen from its high estate was the soul
that God had made, when it stooped to worship the bones of animals, the
senseless rock, the very earth that we stood upon! The aged man,
trembling with feebleness, ready to depart to the spirit's land, weary
with the weight of his infirmities--the warrior treading the earth
with the pride of middle age--the young with nothing to regret and
everything to look forward to,--all uniting in a worship which they
ignorantly believe to be religion, but which we know to be idolatry.
I was glad to leave the scene, and turn towards the house of the Rev.
Mr. Pond, who lives near the spot where the feast was celebrated. Here,
pursuing his duties and studies, does this excellent man improve every
moment of his time to the advantage of the Sioux. Always ready to
converse kindly with them in order to gain their confidence--giving
medicine to the sick, and food to the hungry; doing all that lies in his
power to administer to their temporal comfort, he labors to improve
their condition as a people. How can it better be done than by
introducing the Christian religion among them? This the missionaries are
gradually doing; and did they receive proper assistance from government,
and from religious societies, they would indeed go on their way
rejoicing.
Placed under the government of the United States, these helpless,
unhappy beings are dependent upon us for the means of subsistence, in a
measure, and how much more for the knowledge of the true God? Churches
will soon rise where the odious feast and medicine dance are celebrated,
but will the Indians worship there? When the foundations of these
churches are laid, the bones of the original owners of the country will
be thrown out--but where will be the souls of those who were thrust out
of their country and their rights to make way for us?
I have seen where literally two or three were met together--where in a
distant country the few who celebrated the death of the Redeemer were
assembled--where the beautiful service of our church was read, and the
hearts that heard it responded to its animating truths. We rejoiced that
the religion which was our comfort was not confined to places; here were
no altars, nor marble tablets--but here in this humble house we knew God
would meet and be with us.
An Indian silently opened the church door and entered. As strange to him
was the solemn decorum of this scene, as to us were the useless
ceremonies we every day witnessed. He watched the countenance of the
clergyman, but he knew not that he was preaching the doctrine of a
universal religion. He saw the sacred book upon the desk, but he could
not read the glorious doctrine of a world redeemed by a Saviour's blood.
He heard the voice of prayer, but how could his soul like ours rise as
on eagle's wings, and ascend to the throne of God! Who was he, this
intruder? It may be a descendant of those who guarded the oracles of
God, who for a time preserved them for us.
No wonder he tired and turned away. Not his the fault that he did not
join in the solemn service, but ours. If we disregard the temporal wants
of the Dahcotah, can we shut our ears against their cry, that rises up
day after day, and year after year,--Show us the path to happiness
and God?