A DIVERSION.
Never did moon so ebb, or seas so wane,
But they left Hope-seed to fill up again.
HERRICK.
But even in the black abysses of the hell down which he had fallen,
a flower could grow to the eye of Manton. It was the strange birth
of a wizard evil place; yet, as it spread beneath his nourishing eye
and hand, it daily grew more beautiful to him. It may have been the
unconscious contrast of a something young, living, and blooming in
an unnatural sphere like this, where he, with the sudden weight of
centuries upon him, breathed with such heavy gasping. He could not
tell what it was that thickened this drear air; he only felt the
oppression on his lungs, and shuddered when sleep had partly sobered
him, and he could realise it for the hour. His sympathies had been
first touched for that ugly, impish, persecuted child, to which we
have frequently referred, because he saw, at once, that the mother’s
querulous jealousy was forever subjecting it to a species of covert
torture, which kept it always haggard and wretched. Had it been a
sick and neglected kitten on the hearth, he would have felt for it
the same kind of sympathy. He accordingly noticed and caressed the
child, and endeavoured to rouse its low, ignoble frontal region into
activity. The response of a hungry and vivid animality, surprised him
with its aptitude of apparent intelligence. He did not understand
that marvellous faculty of imitation which, in all the animal tribes
approximating man, or which, in other words, are born with embryo
souls, assumes the external semblances of intelligent expression. The
faculty of music is below man, and common both to bird and beast; and
he had yet to learn, to his heavy cost, how a perception and detection
of the physical harmonies of sound may be utterly distinct from the
spiritual comprehension of their meaning. He had yet to fearfully
realise how this insensate aptitude of harmony, which enables the
monkey of the organ-grinder to dance in perfect time the most wild and
rapid strathspey that ever Highland pibroch rung, or a stupid parrot
to whistle the divinest strains of Mozart, could yet bestow upon the
combined parrot and monkey of our own race that semblant mockery of the
“gift of tongues,” the use of the soul’s higher language. In a word,
he would have been greatly shocked to hear the affiliated Poll and
Jocko talk down Shelley in his own etherealisms, and appal Byron with
the mad bravado of forgotten lines from his own reckless and besotted
misanthropy.
Poll and Jocko are easy enough to detect through all the human
disguises of their combined powers, if the man of common sense and
society meets the impersonation for the first time, when developed,
or in most of the latter stages of development. But it was a very
different thing with poor Manton, who only saw an undeveloped, abject
animal, from which he expected little but the gratitude of the brute
for protection, and from which anything like a vivid response was as
surprising as it was unconsciously gratifying to his egotism, for the
reason that all that was really pleasurable in it was owing to the fact
of its constituting a close reflection of his own mind.
Gradually the feeling took possession of him, as he observed in her an
excessive sensibility, that could weep at a moment’s warning, and laugh
like April through the glistening storm in the next instant, that he
would make amends for the great sin of his life, in working upon this
sensitive organisation for good. The fine delicate chords of this frail
instrument might be made to respond to the divinest notes; and this
creature, with developed brain and expanding soul, become a medium of
the loftiest intelligence—aye, be even to him the consoler of after
years. The idea was a strange one, but it suited the intellectual
audacity of Manton for that very reason.
It seemed to his darkened hopelessness, that here, through the
innocence of childhood, he might renew that broken chain of living
light which held him in communion with the upper world, until its
blackened, severed links, falling about him, had left his manacled
soul in hopeless bondage. He dreamed that if he guarded it with holy
zeal, his prayers might rise upon the first odors that went up from
this strange young flower to Heaven, and bring its light down too, in
forgiveness, to him.
He did not know—for he had fed on poisons until it had become a kind of
second nature to him, as to that old Pontiac king—that the pure light
of spheres could never reach him through this lurid glare, which he had
now come to think the natural day—that the odor of no flower could rise
through its thickened air to meet the keen, grey stars. The man became
bewildered with the gorgeous dream he nourished; and, day by day,
without knowing why, he threw himself between the child and the baleful
shadow of its mother. He spread his hands above her in blessing; he
watched that he might shield her.
From the moment when his attention had been first attracted to her, she
seemed to become illuminated; her ungainly body appeared assuming the
lines of beauty; her mean, harsh features, softened, as the gnarled
shrub assumes, in slow unfolding, the graceful mellowed drapery of
spring. The coarse, elfin locks, grew tamed and smooth; a dark blue,
in soft and gradual displacement, entered the sharp, greenish, animal
eyes. The low, ape-like forehead, swelled above meekly-curved brows
that had lost their hirsute squareness. Indeed, so rapid was the
expansion of the frontal region, that it absolutely startled and
affrighted the devout experimenter, when he placed his hand upon it,
and felt it almost lifted by the wild throbbings beneath. The work
was progressing _too_ fast; he feared that the general health of the
subject might fail; but how to check and remedy this powerful reaction,
so as to control it from fatal results, now so fully occupied the
spiritual subtilty of the man, as to leave him little time to think of
himself.
The loathsome contact of the reptile mother daily grew more abhorrent
to him; and her characteristic cunning soon discovered that she had
no real hold upon him herself, and at once encouraged this growing
interest in the daughter, with the same assiduous art that she had
before displayed in tormenting her with jealous gibes. Through this
help she hoped he might be held within her reach. She had already, by
her malapert, silly, malignant interference, so far completed his ruin
as to have brought about a desperate, and finally fatal collision,
between himself and his business associate in the Journal, which his
genius had built up; and now he was thrown again to struggle hap-hazard
with the world, he had become more reckless and desperate than before,
so that she feared he might, at any time, break away from his bondage,
and that, too, while he was still of use to her, and before she had
gloated fully upon his ruin. She had studiously taught the child the
process of those infernal arts, of which we have seen something; and,
although the creature understood nothing of the _rationale_ involved,
yet her imitative cunning made her a most sharp pupil and practitioner.
By saying that the child did not understand, we mean to convey, that
she could not have explained to herself, or to others, what effect
certain manipulations would produce specifically; yet she had a feeling
of them, a vicious intuition, that answered with her all the purposes
of intellection. To look at her through the eyes of Manton, the uncouth
and grotesque girl had become a fond and graceful plaything, that
clung about him in soft caresses, that kept his heart warmed towards
her, and caused him to regard the mother even with a modified sense of
the growing disgust which was possessing him, and of which her shrewd
insight made her fully aware.
Her child had become necessary as a bait—and her child let it be—for,
in her hideous creed, nothing was sacred. She was filled towards her
victim with fierce yearnings, and, had she possessed the actual entity
of soul, would have loved him madly—but no, she hated him, as the slave
hates the despotic master to whom he hourly cringes for each favor. In
a word, she hated him as a man—or in his double capacity of a spiritual
being, rather; and, as even her hate was secondary, her appetites
towards him were those of the weir-wolf for mankind. She would devour
him body and soul, but she meant to feast alone.
Fearing lest the tenderness of his nature might be too strongly moved
towards the child, if not diverted in other directions, she at once
set her subtle wits to work to furnish her “Tiger,” as she called him,
with sufficient toys of the same kind to keep him quiet, and avert the
chances of his leaning more towards one than another. Some letters were
hastily despatched to New England, and the result was the appearance of
a fair and gentle child, about the age of her own.
Elna and the stranger, Moione, sprang into each other’s arms when
they met, as if their very heart were one. They were fast friends,
it seemed, and a thousand times had Elna said how dearly she loved
the gentle Moione; and so jealous were the children of their first
meeting, that Manton saw little of either for several days. A glance at
the broad, serene brow, great, clear eyes, and delicate mouth of the
new-comer, filled him with a strange, inexplicable sense of confidence,
and even relief; which he could not well explain, to be sure, because
it was too undefined to himself. He could only wonder how that
white-browed creature came in such a place. It seemed as though it were
a promise, answering to his prayer for the elfish Elna, that this calm
spirit should have descended in their midst.
The vehement and headstrong petulance of her nature promised to find
here a balance that would sober it within the bounds of reason; and
strangely, although he saw hope for her, and for his own yet undefined
purpose in her development, he saw nothing definitely in the stranger,
but a good angel sent to aid him. His soul went out to greet her, but
was it yet his heart?
These children were both dedicate to art; and Manton found it now by
far the most pleasing occupation, to watch and give direction to the
rapid unfolding of this instinct for the creative. The newly-aroused
intellect of Elna here displayed many impish and brilliant
characteristics of the imitative faculty, that might easily have been
mistaken, by a less partial observer than Manton, for genius. These
peculiarities were strikingly contrasted with the placid, but vigorous
style of Moione, to a degree that one formed the exact offset to the
other, not alone in art, but in all physical and mental, as well as
spiritual idiosyncrasies. As these children grew upon him, there
seemed something strangely familiar in them to Manton. He often tried
to account for this to himself. Had he seen them before in dreams?
Had he known them in some different world, and in a previous stage
of being? Why was it that the vehement eccentricities of temper, the
elfin wildness of motion, and light, mocking spirit of this child
Elna, all seemed to him so familiar? Why was it that the coming of the
fair-browed Moione had surprised him so little? There was that in her
pure, calm face to startle most observers; yet, from the first, he had
looked upon it as a matter of course, and as if he had unconsciously
waited for her to arrive. Why was it that he had felt comforted since
she came? What was it, in that name of hers, that sounded to him so
much like a half-forgotten music-note?
So he had questioned himself a thousand times, becoming each day more
puzzled than the last, until accident furnished him with the curious
solution of this mystery. One day, in looking over a pile of old
manuscripts, he found one, upon which he seized, with an unaccountable
thrill. In an instant the whole thing flashed upon him—
“I have it! I have it! Here the mystery is solved at last! Strange,
that I should so utterly have forgotten this manuscript! Two years ago,
before I ever saw these people, this strange foreshadowing of what
seems now a reality in my life, came to me in a summer’s day-dream; and
I wrote it off, to be thrown aside and forgotten until this moment.
It seems the most wonderful coincidence. I am no believer in miracles,
but this appears a marvellous reach of the soul into the future; I was
conscious of nothing when I wrote, but the pleasure of embodying in
words what seemed to me a beautiful thought; strange, it should have
been thus thrown aside and so utterly forgotten, until the increasing
coincidences of my present relation have gradually forced me back to
find it! What blind instinct, struggling in me, sent me here to look
through these old manuscripts, with no definite purpose? What vague
struggle of consciousness and memory is this, that has been moving me
for weeks to understand why it is those children seem so familiar to
me? Strange! strange! strange!”
Manton now proceeded to read this curious manuscript, the contents of
which we shall also place before you:—
THE LEGEND OF THE MOCKING-BIRD.
Friend, do you know the Mocking-Bird? I warrant, if he is a familiar
of your childhood, you have a thousand times wondered at the strange
malignant intelligence which characterises his tyrannical supremacy
over all the feathered singers. Not only is he “accepted king of song,”
but he is the pest and terror of the groves and meadows. Spiteful and
subtle, he conquers in battle, or by manœuvre, all in reach of him; and
you may easily detect his favourite haunts, by the incessant din and
clatter of wrath and fear he keeps up by his malicious mockery among
his neighbors. From my earliest childhood, I can remember having been
singularly impressed by the weird and curious humors of this creature.
Since those times of innocent wonder, I have been a wide wanderer. The
prepossessions of my fancy were irresistibly attracted by the wild
legend I give below. It was told me by an old Wako warrior.
On a hill-side, above an ancient village of his tribe, while we were
stretched upon the grass beneath a moss-hung live-oak, he related it.
The moon was out, gilding with silver alchemy the shrub-crowned crests
of prairie undulations—piled, as we may conceive the waves of the
ocean would be—stayed by a word from heaven, while on the leap before
a tempest. It was a fitting scene for such a story. Out from the dark
gorges on every side ascended the night-song of the mocking-bird. The
old man had listened to the rapid gushing symphonies for some time in
silence, then drawing a long breath he remarked—“That is an evil bird!”
I begged him for an explanation, and he proceeded.
Those peculiarities, indeed, of the Indian’s phraseology—those
broken-pointed expressions, so condensed and meaning, and eked out
continually by significant gestures, I could hardly hope to convey,
were I fully able to remember them. The wild and fanciful methods of
the Indian mind, believing what it dwells upon, yet half conscious that
it is dreaming, are difficult to remember or repeat. We can only do the
best we may to preserve the idiosyncracies.
“Yahshan, the Sun,” said the old chief, pausing reverently as he
uttered the name, “in his great wigwam beyond the big waters, made the
first Wako! He laid him in his fire-canoe and oared his way up through
the thick mists that hung everywhere. When his arm tired of pulling,
he took him out and stretched him upon his back on a wide dark bank,
and then rowed on his path and left him. The Wako lay like the stem of
an oak, still and cold. Before Yahshan entered his night-lodge in the
west, a dim hazy light had hung over the figure, but this only made
its broad couch look blacker—for nothing that had form could be seen.
Yahshau, the Moon—the pale bride of Yahshan—came forth when he had
gone in, and rowed her silver bark through the ugly shadows above the
Wako, to watch lest the spirits that hated Yahshan should do harm to
his work, which it had taken him many long ages to finish. He was very
proud of it, and the evil spirits hated him that he had made a thing so
goodly to look upon; and they drifted hideous phantom shapes across
the way of Yahshau, and tried to overwhelm her light canoe, but its
keen shining prow cut through them all, and left them torn and ragged
behind her. At last they fled, for when her eye was on the mute form
of the Wako, they feared to do it any harm. When all were gone, and
nothing that looked like mischief was to be seen, she too went in. And
then they flocked out from the deep places where they had been hid, and
gathered with hot fingers and red eyes about the quiet Wako. He did not
stir, for his senses had not yet been waked. Quick they pried open his
clenched teeth, and poured a green smoking fluid down his throat. Just
then the prow of the fire-canoe appeared parting the eastern mists, and
they all fled.
“Yahshan came on. He looked upon his work and smiled—for he did not
know that evil had been wrought—and came now in glory, riding on golden
billows, scattering the chill mists that clung around the icy form, for
it was time to waken it up with life. He rolled the yellow flood upon
it, and the figure shivered; again the glowing waves pass over it—the
figure was convulsed—tossed its limbs about, and rocked to and fro. Its
eyes were open, but it saw not; its ears were open, but it heard not;
it was tasteless and dumb; it smelt not, nor did it feel. Life had gone
into it, and the heart beat, the pulses throbbed, the blood coursed
fast, and it was monstrous strong. But what was this? Being, self-fed
and self-consumed, hung upon the void of midnight, hurried and driven
from its own still gathering impulse through a chaos of crude matter.
That green liquid of the evil one now rushed in burning currents
through the veins, and it dashed away, crawling, leaping, tumbling,
like a mad torrent, over piled-up rocks across the dark plains,
striking against hard, formless things, and rebounding to rush on more
swiftly, till it had left the fire-canoe and Yahshan all astounded, far
behind, and the terror of darkness was beneath and above it. But what
was this to it? On! on! the green fire still burned within, and it must
go—chasms and cliffs, with jagged rocks—into them, over them all. What
were rough points and bruises, and crashing down steeps, and midnight
to it? There was no feeling, yet the heart leaped, the blood careered,
the limbs must follow. Motion, blind motion—no control, no guide—but
through and over everything, move it must.
“The bad spirits thronged after it, grating and clanging their scaly
pinions against each other, and creaking their pleasant gibes, when
suddenly there was no footing, and the headlong form pitched down,
downward, whirling through the empty gloom, while all the herd of ill
things laughed and flapped themselves in the prone wake behind it.
“At once, with a sigh of wings, like a sharp moan of tree-harps, a
shape of light shot arrowy down amidst them. They scattered, howling
with affright. It bore up the falling Wako on strong, shining vans an
instant, then stretching them out, subsided slowly, and laid it on a
soft, dark couch again. This was Ah-i-wee-o, the soul of harmonies, the
good spirit of sweet sounds. She is the great queen of spirit-land.
Yahshan and Yahshau are her slaves; and all the lesser fire-canoes that
skim in Yahshau’s train obey her. She gives all life its outer being;
to know and feel beyond itself—without her, life is only motion. There
is no form, no law, no existence beside, for she holds and grants
them each sense, and in them reveals all these. Yahshan could give
life—but not content with this, he was ambitious. The formless chaos
his fire-canoe sailed over must be a world of beauty! A soul dwelt in
it, but that world was passionless and barren. Yahshan had given life
to many shapes, but the cold spirit had scorned them all; and yet she
must be wooed to wed herself to life, that, out of the glow of that
embrace, might spring the eternal round of thoughts made vital, clothed
out of shapeless matter with symmetry. He planned an impious scheme.
He would not pray the good Ah-i-wee-o for aid, but would act alone,
and be the great Medicine Spirit. He would frame a creature from out
the subtlest elements within this chaos, so exquisite that, when it
came to live, confusion would be harmonised in it, and the order of
its being go forth the law of beauty and of form to all. Then that coy
spirit of desolation would be won at last, and passing into its life, a
royal lineage would spring forth, and procreation wake insensate matter
in myriad living things, gorgeous ideals, harmoniously wrought, and
self-producing forever. All these would be his subjects, and he would
rule, with Yahshau, this most excellent show himself! So he labored on,
in the deep chambers of his night-lodge, through many cycles. The work
was finished. It lay in state, within his golden wigwam at the east,
that Yahshau and her glittering train might look upon it and wonder.
Then he carried it forth; but evil spirits are wise, and, though it was
a mighty work, they knew that it was too daring, and that Ah-i-wee-o
would punish its presumption, and would not let the senses wake with
life; so they poured that fearful fluid in, that fires the blood, and
makes life slay itself. They say the white man has dealt with them,
has learned from them the spell of that bad magic, and makes his
“fire-water” by it. So when Yahshan waked up life, its power waked too;
for he knew not of the craft, and it tore the glorious work from out
his hands, while they flew behind and mocked him.
“Ah-i-wee-o bent over the swooning Wako; for the life that had been so
tumultuous scarcely now stirred his pulse. She was a thing of beams,
silvery and clear; a warm, lustrous light clung around her limbs and
showed their delicate outline. She floated on the air, her wings and
figure waving with its eddies, like the shadows of a Lee-ka-loo bird
upon the sea. Her eyes, deep as the fathomless blue heaven, looked down
on him with pity and unutterable gentleness. It was a marvellous work
the overdaring Yahshan had accomplished. Beautiful, exceedingly, was
that mute form, and rarely exquisite its finish. Must that glorious
mechanism be destroyed, and all the noble purpose of its framing be
lost? No! She moves her tiny, flower-like hand above it, and every
blotch and all the bruises disappear, and it was fair to view, and
perfect as when Yahshan had given it the last touch. Now she stooped
beside and touched him, white sparks flew up, and she sang a low song.
At the first note, the dark, formless masses round them quivered and
rocked: the Wako smiled; for feeling now first thrilled along his
nerves. The song rose; the dumb things shook and stirred the more.
She touched his nostrils and his lips; the sparks played between her
small fingers and danced up. Yet a louder note swelled out, and the
thick mists swayed and curled, and a cool wind rushed through them,
and dashed a stream of odor on his face. He drew long breaths, and
sighed with the burden of delight, and moved his lips to inarticulate
joy; and now that wondrous song pealed out clear, ringing bursts
that shook the blue arch and swung the fire-boats, cadent with its
gushes; and through the dim mists great shapes, like rocks and trees,
leaped to the measure, marshalling in lines and order. Now she pressed
his eyelids with her fingers; the silver sparks sprung in exulting
showers, snapping and bursting with sweet smells. Once more, pealing
triumphant, a keen, shining flood, that symphony poured wilder forth;
his eyes fly open, and that heavy mist, like a great curtain, slowly
rises. First the green grass and the flowers, bending beneath the
gentle breeze, turn their deep eyes and spotted cups towards him in
salutation, and all the creeping things and birds, that love the low
herbs, dew-besprent, are there: and as the mist goes up, majestically
slow, other forms of bird and beast are seen, and dark trunks of trees,
and great stems beside them, looking like trees, until his eyes have
traced them up to the great moose, the big-horned stag, the grizzly
bear, and the vast-moving mammoth. But then it has drunk the harmony of
grades; for all are there. And, side by side, he marks how, from the
crawler, every step ascends, in beautiful gradation; the last linked
to the first in one all-perfect chain. Then came the knotted limbs,
with all their burden of green leaves; and, underneath, the round,
yellow fruits, or purple flushing of rich clusters and gay forms, that
flutter through them on wings of amethyst, or flame, or gold, their
every movement a music-note, although all was dumb to him as yet.
Still higher the mist-curtain goes; and the grey cliffs, with shining
peaks, and a proud, fierce-eyed bird perched on them, meet his gaze;
and then the mists float far away, and scatter into clouds, and all
the splendor and the pomp of the thronged earth is spread, a gorgeous,
but voiceless, revelation to his new being. With every touch of the
enchantress, Ah-i-wee-o, the soul of chaos had passed into a sense; and
all the pleasant harmonies the Wako felt, and all the scented harmonies
the Wako tasted and inhaled—all the thoughts of harmony in grand
or graceful forms the Wako saw—that blissful interpenetration gave
conception to, and the magic of that powerful song brought forth. One
more act, and his high marriage to eternity is consummated: ecstacy has
found a voice, and all these harmonies articulation, yet his ears were
sealed; and though music flowed in through every other sense, his dumb
lips strove in vain to wake its language.
“But this was the supremest gift of all. This was the charm that had
drawn beauty out of chaos—the magic by which Ah-i-wee-o ruled in
spirit-land, and chained the powers of evil. It were death to spirits
less than she, to hear the fierce crashing of those awful symphonies
she knew. His nature could not bear the revelation. Besides, what had
he to do with that celestial minstrelsy which led the heaven-fires on
their rounds? There was ambition, full enough, up there; and Yahshan
had been playing far too rashly on those burning keys. She would not
curse this perfect being with a gift too high, and add another daring
rebel to her realm! No! he must be ruler here, as she ruled everything.
From all those harmonies he must extract the tone, and on it weave his
song of power to lead them captive. This divine music is the voice of
all the beautiful, the higher language of every sense; and not until
the soul is brimmed to overflowing with sparkling thoughts of it,
drank in through each of them, will the beamy current run, as streams
do in the skies. He must lead the choir of all this being—yet, this
infinite sense would overbear his nature, if suddenly revealed; it
can only wake in other creatures, as its birth matures in him—and he
shall go forth into silence—every living thing shall be mute—and from
the low preluding of the waters and the winds the first notes of his
exulting powers shall be learned, and they shall learn of him—until all
the air is one harmony—all breath takes music on, and echoes bear the
twice-told glee—until fainter, more faint, it is gone!
“She touched his ears—the sparks leaped up—she pressed his lips with
one entrancing kiss and sprang away. The quick moan of her pinions
cleaving the air is the first sound that steals on the new sense, and
stirs the dead vast of silence that weighs upon his being. And now
myriad soft wavelets of the infinite ocean follow—breaking gently over
him—the whisper of quivering leaves to the caressing zephyr, the low
tremble of the forest-chords, and the deep booming of great waves afar
off; the ring and dash of cascades nearer, the tinkling of clear drops
in caves, the gush and ripple of cold springs, the beat of pulses,
the purr of breathings, and the hum of wings, in gentlest ravishment
possess his soul—for now is the bridal of his immortality consummate in
a delirium of bliss, and lulled upon his couch he sweetly sinks into
the first sleep.
“The Wako is roused next morning by a warm flood from the
fire-canoe—for Yahshan had come forth right royally, and though
Ah-i-wee-o had humbled his presumption and would not permit him to
be sole lord as he had hoped, yet all he had dared attempt had been
accomplished, and he believed it to be in full his own work, and thus
wore all his panoply of splendor in honor of his glorious creation. The
Wako rose, and lo! around him as far as the eye could reach, a mighty
multitude of all the animals of the earth were rising too. They waited
for their king, and it was he. They came flocking around him to caress
him in obeisance—a gentle, eager throng!
“The panther stroked his sleek glossy fur against his legs and
rolled and gambolled like a kitten at his feet. The great bear of the
north rubbed his jaws against his hand and begged to be caressed. Big
mountain (the mammoth) thrust his huge tusks in for a touch; and the
white-horned moose bowed his smooth-bristled neck and plead with meek
black eyes for notice. All the huge grotesque things pressed around,
and the smaller creatures, pied, flecked, and dotted, crowded beneath
their heavy limbs, unhurt—all, full of confidence and love, gracefully
sporting to win one glance.
“Above him the air was thick with wings, and the whirr and winnowing
of soft plumes made pleasant music, and the play of brilliant hues was
like a thousand rainbows arched and waving over him; and the little
flame-like things would flutter near his face, and gleam their sharp
brown eyes into his, and strive, in vain, to warble out their joy, for
their sweet pipes were not yet tuned.
“All were there, great and small; and the wide-winged eagle came from
its high perch and circled round his head, and brushed its strong
plumes with light caressing, through his hair. He went with them into
the forest burdened with rich fruits, and ate, then shook the heavy
clusters down for them. Then he passed forth to look upon the land, the
first shepherd, with that countless flock thronging about his steps.
“It was, indeed, a lovely land! Here a rolling meadow, there a heavy
wood; the trees all bearing fruits, or hung with vines and bloom. A
still, deep river, doubled sky and trees in its clear mirror, and he
gazed, in a half-waking wonder, when the ripples the swan-trains made,
shivered it to glancing fragments.
“But wander which way he might, he came to tall gray cliffs, with small
streams, that pitched from their cloudy summits, and bounding off from
the rough crags below, filled all the valley with cool spray.
“He found his lovely world was fenced about with square towering rocks,
that nothing without wings could scale. But there was room enough for
all, and profuse plenty the fruitful earth supplied.
“At noon, he went beneath a grove of sycamores, where a great stream
gushed out, and laid him down beside its brink, while his subjects
stretched and perched around him, in the shade, to rest. His sleep was
broken by strange new melodies that crept in. He opened his eyes; near
him were two maidens, and all the birds and beasts were gathered around
them, and they were singing gay, delicious airs, teaching the birds to
warble.
“One of them was fair—white as the milk-white fawn that licked her hand
and gazed up at her musical lips; but her hair was dark and a strong
light gleamed in her small black eye. This was Ki-ke-wee. She sung and
laughed and kissed the song-bird that perched upon her finger, and
when it tried to follow her wild carol, she mocked its blunders and
stamped her tiny foot, and frowned and laughed and warbled yet a wilder
symphony to puzzle it the more.
“The other was a darker maiden with large, gentle eyes. This was
Mnemoia; her voice was soft and low—and she sang sweet songs and looked
full of love and patience. The Wako half rose in joy and wonder. They
bounded towards him—sang a rapturous roundelay to a giddy, whirling
dance, then threw their arms about his neck and kissed him. They became
his squaws, and Yahshau smiled upon them as she sailed by that night.
“The Wako was very happy and Ki-ke-wee was his favorite. She grew very
lovely and full of curious whims that each day became more odd. She
loved the blue jay most among the birds, and taught him all his antics;
and the magpie was a pet; and the passionate, bright hummer lived about
her lips.
“As yet nothing but sounds and scenes of love were in that little
world; and the strong, terrible brutes knew not that they had fierce
passions or the taste for blood; but Ki-ke-wee would stand before the
grizzly bear and pluck his jaws and switch his fierce eyeballs until
he learned to growl with pain, and then she would mock him; and when he
growled louder she would mock him still, until at last he roared with
rage and sprang upon the panther—for he feared Ki-ke-wee’s eye!—and
the panther tasted blood and sprang to the battle fiercely. And now
the tempest broke, and everything with claws and fangs howled in the
savage discord. Ki-ke-wee clapped her hands and laughed. Mnemoia
raised the enchantment of her song above it all, and it was stilled.
Then Ki-ke-wee would tease the eagle and mock him till he screamed and
dashed at the great vulture in his rage; and she would dance and shout
for joy; and Mnemoia would quell it, then go aside and weep.
“The Wako loved the beautiful witch, and when he plead with her she
would mock even him, and every day and every hour this mocking elf
stirred some new passion, until at last even Mnemoia’s song had lost
its charm, and the bear skulked in the deep thickets and shook them
with his growl, and the panther moaned from out the forest, and the
gaunt wolves snapped their white teeth and howled, and all the timid
things fled away from these fierce voices; and battle, and blood, and
death, were rife where love and peace had been. The birds scattered
in affright and sung their new songs in snatches only; and hateful
sounds of deadly passions, and the screams and wails of fear, resounded
everywhere.
“Ki-ke-wee made a bow and poisoned the barbed arrow, and mocked the
death-bleat of the milk-white fawn when the Wako shot it at her
tempting. This was too much! Ah-i-wee-o cursed her and she fell. The
Wako knelt over her and wept; and when the dissolving spasm seemed
upon her, he covered his face with his hands and wailed aloud. A voice
just above him wailed too! He looked up surprised; a strange bird with
graceful form and sharp black spiteful eyes was mocking him! He looked
down—Ki-ke-wee was gone; and the strange bird gaped its long bill
hissing at him; and when it spread its wings to bound up from the twig
in an ecstacy of passion, he knew by the broad white stripes across
them that it was Ki-ke-wee!
“He found the neglected Mnemoia weeping in the forest; and soon after
they scaled the cliffs and fled from that fair land to hide from
Ki-ke-wee. But she has followed them and mocks their children yet, and
we dare not slay her, for the wise men think she was the daughter of
the Evil Spirit that poured the green fluid down the Wako’s throat, and
that the same bad fire burns yet in our veins. Our hunters chasing the
mountain-goat sometimes look from the bluffs into that lovely vale that
lies in the bosom of the Rocky Mountain chain, but they never venture
to go down!”