The following legend was obtained from the lips of a Chippeway woman
named Penaqua, or the Female Pheasant, and I hardly know which to
admire most, the simple beauty of the plot, or the graphic and unique
manner of the narrative, of which, I regret to say, I can hardly give
a faithful translation.
Among the rivers of the North, none can boast of more numerous charms
than the St. Louis, and the fairest spot of the earth which it waters is
that where now stands the trading post of Fond du lac. Upon this spot,
many summers ago, there lived a Chippeway chief and his wife, who were
the parents of an only daughter. Her name was Weesh—Ko-da-e-mire, or the
Sweet Strawberry, and she was acknowledged to be the most beautiful
maiden of her nation. Her voice was like that of the turtle-dove, and
the red deer was not more graceful and sprightly in its form. Her eyes
were brilliant as the star of the northern sky, which guides the hunter
through the wilderness, and her dark hair clustered around her neck like
grape vines around the trunk of the tree they loved. The young men of
every nation had striven to win her heart, but she smiled upon none.
Curious presents were sent to her from the four quarters of the world,
but she received them not. Seldom did she deign to reply to the many
warriors who entered her father’s lodge, and when she did, it was only
to assure them that while upon earth she would never change her
condition. Her strange conduct astonished them, but did not subdue their
affection. Many and noble were the deeds they performed, not only in
winning the white plumes of the eagle, but in hunting the elk and the
black bear. But all their exploits availed them nothing, for the heart
of the beautiful girl was still untouched.
The snows of winter were all gone, and the pleasant winds of spring were
blowing over the land. The time for making sugar had arrived, though the
men had not yet returned from the remote hunting grounds, and in the
maple forests bright fires were burning, and the fragrance of the sweet
sap filled all the air. The ringing laugh of childhood and the mature
song of women were heard in the valley, but in no part of the wilderness
could be found more happiness than on the banks of the St. Louis. But
the Sweet Strawberry mingled with the young men and maidens of her tribe
in a thoughtful mood and with downcast eyes. She was evidently bowed
down by some mysterious grief, but she neglected not her duties; and
though she spent much of her time alone, her buchère-bucket was as
frequently filled with the sugar juice as any of her companions.
Such was the condition of affairs when a party of young warriors from
the far North came upon a frolic to the St. Louis River. Having seen the
many handsome maidens of this region, the strangers became enamored of
their charms, and each one succeeded in obtaining the love of a maiden,
who was to become his bride during the marrying season of summer.
The warriors had heard of the Sweet Strawberry, but, neglected by all of
them, she was still doomed to remain alone. She witnessed the happiness
of her old playmates, and, wondering at her own strange fate, spent much
of her time in solitude. She even became so unhappy and bewildered that
she heeded not the tender words of her mother, and from that time the
music of her voice was never heard.
The sugar making season was now rapidly passing away, but the brow of
the Sweet Strawberry was still overshadowed with grief. Everything was
done to restore her to her wonted cheerfulness, but she remained
unchanged. Wild ducks in innumerable numbers arrived with every southern
wind, and settled upon the surrounding waters, and proceeded to build
their nests in pairs, and the Indian maiden sighed over her mysterious
doom. On one occasion she espied a cluster of early spring flowers
peering above the dry leaves of the forest, and, strange to say, even
these were separated into pairs, and seemed to be wooing each other in
love. All things whispered to her of love, the happiness of her
companions, the birds of the air, and the flowers. She looked into her
heart, and, inwardly praying for a companion whom she might love, the
Master of Life took pity upon her lot and answered her prayer.
It was now the twilight hour, and in the maple woods the Indian boys
were watching their fires, and the women were bringing in the sap from
the surrounding trees. The time for making sugar was almost gone, and
the well-filled mokucks, which might be seen in all the wigwams,
testified that the yield had been abundant. The hearts of the old women
beat in thankfulness, and the young men and maidens were already
beginning to anticipate the pleasures of wedded life and those
associated with the sweet summer time. But the brow of the Sweet
Strawberry continued to droop, and her friends looked upon her as the
victim of a settled melancholy. Her duties, however, were performed
without a murmur, and so continued to be performed until the trees
refused to fill her buchère-bucket with sap, when she stole away from
the sugar camp and wandered to a retired place to muse upon her sorrows.
Her unaccountable grief was very bitter, but did not long endure; for,
as she stood gazing upon the sky, the moon ascended above the hills and
filled her soul with a joy she had never felt before. The longer she
looked upon the brilliant object, the more deeply in love did she become
with its celestial charms, and she burst forth into a song—a loud, wild,
and joyous song. Her musical voice echoed through the woods, and her
friends hastened to ascertain the cause. They gathered around her in
crowds, but she heeded them not. They wondered at the wildness of her
words, and the airy-like appearance of her form. They were spell-bound
by the scene before them, but their astonishment knew no limits when
they saw her gradually ascend from the earth into the air, where she
disappeared, as if borne upward by the evening wind. And then it was
that they discovered her clasped in the embraces of the moon, for they
knew that the spots which they saw within the circle of that planet were
those of her robe, which she had made from the skins of the spotted
fawn.
Many summers have passed away since the Sweet Strawberry became the
Maiden of the Moon, yet among all the people of her nation is she ever
remembered for her beauty and the mystery of her being.