Many, many moons ago, an old and very celebrated hunter of the
Pottowattomie nation was at the point of death, in a remote forest. He
was alone on his bed of leaves, for he had been stricken by the hand of
disease while returning from a hunting expedition. Among the treasures
that he was to leave behind him was a beautiful hickory arrow, with
which he had killed a great number of animals. The head thereof was made
of a pure white flint, and the feathers which adorned it had been
plucked from the wings of the scarlet birds. It had been the means of
saving his life on many occasions, and its virtues were so peculiar,
that it could pass entire through a buffalo without being tinged with
the life-blood of the animal.
The greatest weight which rested upon the mind of the dying Indian,
arose from the idea that he could not bequeath his arrow to his oldest
son. He was alone in the wilderness, and it made him very unhappy to
think that the treasure of his family might yet become the property of
an enemy, who would be likely to cross his trail after the ravens or
wolves had eaten his flesh. But this was a thought that he could not
possibly endure, and as the pall of night settled upon the world, he
fixed his eyes upon the northern star, which had guided him through many
dangers, and prayed to the Master of Life that he would take his arrow
and carry it safely to the smiling planet. A moment more and the unknown
hunter buried his head among the dry leaves, and—died.
On the following night, a terrible gale of wind swept over the land,
which took the arrow from the ground and hurled it into the upper air. A
strange silence immediately followed, when the northern star was seen to
tremble in the sky: another brief period elapsed, and there was a
deafening noise heard in the firmament, when the evening star left its
own quiet home, and fell upon the northern star for the purpose of
winning, by single combat, the arrow of the great hunter. The conflict
was a desperate one, and as the two stars fought for the earthly prize,
sparks of white light shot from their sides, and in unnumbered particles
fell upon the country now known as Michigan. A long rain storm soon
followed, by which the particles of light were taken to the river, and
by a decree of the Master of Life, were changed into the beautiful white
lilies which adorn the numerous streams of the western country.