noted places of residence at the great sand dunes of _Naigow Wudjoo_,
called by the French _La Grandes Sables_. Here they were frequently
seen in bright moonlight evenings, and the fishermen while sitting in
their canoes on the lake often saw them playing their pranks, and
skipping over the hills. There was a grove of pines in that vicinity
called the manito wac, or Spirit wood, into which they might be seen to
flee, on the approach of evening, and there is a romantic little lake
on those elevated sand-hills, not far back from the Great Lake, on the
shores of which their tracks could be plainly seen in the sand. These
tracks were not bigger than little children's footprints, and the
spirits were often seen in the act of vanishing behind the little
pine-trees. They love to dance in the most lonesome places, and were
always full of glee and merriment, for their little voices could be
plainly heard. These little men, the pukwudjininees, are not deeply
malicious, but rather delighted in mischief and freaks, and would
sometimes steal away a fisherman's paddle, or come at night and pluck
the hunter's feathers out of his cap in the lodge, or pilfer away some
of his game, or fish. On one occasion they went so far as to entice
away into their sacred grove, and carry off a chief's daughter--a small
but beautiful girl, who had been always inclined to be pensive, and
took her seat often in these lonesome haunts. From her baby name of
_Neenizu_, my dear life, she was called Leelinau, but she never
attained to much size, remaining very slender, but of the most pleasing
and sylph-like features, with very bright black eyes, and little feet.
Her mother often cautioned her of the danger of visiting these lonely
fairy haunts, and predicted, playfully, that she would one day be
carried off by the Pukwudjees, for they were very frolicsome,
mischievous and full of tricks.
To divert her mind from these recluse moods and tastes, she endeavored
to bring about an alliance with a neighboring forester, who, though
older than herself, had the reputation of being an excellent hunter,
and active man, and he had even creditably been on the war path, though
he had never brought home a scalp. To these suggestions Leelinau had
turned rather a deaf ear. She had imbibed ideas of a spiritual life and
existence, which she fancied could only be enjoyed in the Indian
elysium, and instructed as she was by the old story-tellers, she could
not do otherwise than deem the light and sprightly little men who made
the fairy footprints as emissaries from the _Happy Land_. For this
happy land she sighed and pined. Blood, and the taking of life, she
said, the Great Spirit did not approve, and it could never be agreeable
to minds of pure and spiritual moulds. And she longed to go to a region
where there was no weeping, no cares, and no deaths. If her parents
laughed at these notions as childish, her only resource was silence, or
she merely revealed here motions in her eyes. She was capable of the
deepest concealment, and locked up in her heart what she feared to
utter, or uttered to deceive. This proved her ruin.
At length, after a series of conversational interviews on the subject,
she announced her willingness to accede to the matrimonial proposals,
and the day was fixed for this purpose. She dressed herself in the
finest manner possible, putting flowers in her hair, and carrying a
bunch of wild flowers, mixed with tassels of the pine-tree in her hand.
One only request she made, which was to make a farewell visit to the
sacred grove of the fairies, before she visited the nuptial bower. This
was granted, on the evening of the proposed ceremony, while the
bridegroom and his friends gathered in her father's lodge, and
impatiently waited her return. But they waited in vain. Night came but
Leelina was never more seen, except by a fisherman on the lake shore,
who conceived that he had seen her go off with one of the tall fairies
known as the fairy of Green Pines, with green plumes nodding o'er his
brows; and it is supposed that she is still roving with him over the
elysian fields.
WILD NOTES OF THE PIBBIGWUN.
CONTENTS.
The Pibbigwun 307
The Chippewa Girl 307
Doubt 308
Fairy Whisperings 309
Song of the Opechee 310
Chant to the Fire-fly, the Watasee 311
Fairy Chief's Carol 312
Song of a Captive Creek Girl 312
Female Song 313
Male Song 313
Love of the Forest 314
Light of Christianity in the Wigwam 315
The Nocturnal Grave Lights 316
Manito 317
Niagara, an Allegory 318
Chileeli, a Spirit's Whisperings 319
Stanzas on the State of the Iroquois 322
The Loon's Foot--a Song 324
Tulco, Prince of Notto 325
On Presenting a Wild Rose plucked on the Sources
of the Mississippi 326
The Red Man 327
The Skeleton wrapped in Gold 330
Waub Ojeeg's Death Whisperings 332
To the Miscodeed 333
The Star Family 335
Song of the Wolf-Brother 339
Abbinochi 341
To Pauguk 342
NOTES.
THE PIBBIGWUN.[107]
I ope my voice, not with the organ's tone,
Deep, solemn and majestic; not with sounds
Of trump or drum, that cheer armed squadrons on,
In coats of steel, o'er lines of bloody grounds,
Nor is my tone, the tone of rushing storms,
That sweep in mad career through forests tall,
Up-tearing gnarled oaks, with sounds of hellish forms,
That bode destruction black, and death to all.
Nor is it yet the screaming warrior, loud,
With hand upraised to mouth, hyena-strong,
That tells of midnight onrush, hell-endowed,
And bleeding scalp of aged, mild and young.
Ah no! it is a note that's only blown,
Where kindness fills the heart, and every thrill
Is peace and love, while music's softer tone
Steals on the evening air, its simple aims to fill,
Waking the female ear to carols of the Pibbigwun.
[107] Indian flute.
THE CHIPPEWA GIRL.
They tell me, the men with a white-white face
Belong to a purer, nobler race;
But why, if they do, and it may be so,
Do their tongues cry, "Yes"--and their actions, "No?"
They tell me, that white is a heavenly hue,
And it may be so, but the sky is blue;
And the first of men--as our old men say,
Had earth-brown skins, and were made of clay.
But throughout my life, I've heard it said,
There's nothing surpasses a tint of red;
Oh, the white man's cheeks look pale and sad,
Compared to my beautiful Indian lad.
Then let them talk of their race divine,
Their glittering domes, and sparkling wine;
Give me a lodge, like my fathers had,
And my tall, straight, beautiful Indian lad.
DOUBT.
Ninimosha,[108] think'st thou of me,
When beneath the forest tree?
Do'st thou in the passing wind,
Catch the sighs I've cast behind?
Ah! I fear--I fear--I fear,
Evil bird hath filled thine ear.
Ninimosha, in the clear blue sky,
Canst thou read my constancy,
Or in whispering branches near,
Aught from thy true lover hear?
Ah! I fear--I fear--I fear,
Evil bird hath filled thine ear.
[108] My sweetheart.
FAIRY WHISPERINGS.
Supposed to be addressed to, and responded by a young pine-tree, in a
state of transformation.
INVOCATION.
Spirit of the dancing leaves,
Hear a throbbing heart that grieves,
Not for joys this world can give,
But the life that spirits live:
Spirit of the foaming billow,
Visit thou my nightly pillow,
Shedding o'er it silver dreams,
Of the mountain brooks and streams,
Sunny glades, and golden hours,
Such as suit thy buoyant powers:
Spirit of the starry night,
Pencil out thy fleecy light,
That my footprints still my lead
To the blush-let Miscodeed,[109]
Or the flower to passion true
Yielding free its carmine hue:
Spirit of the morning dawn,
Waft thy fleecy columns on,
Snowy white, or tender blue,
Such as brave men love to view.
Spirit of the greenwood plume,
Shed around thy leaf perfume,
Such as springs from buds of gold
Which thy tiny hands unfold.
Spirits, hither quick repair,
Hear a maiden's evening prayer.
[109] Claytonia Virginica.
RESPONSE.
Maiden, think me not a tree,
But thine own dear lover free,
Tall and youthful in my bloom
With the bright green nodding plume.
Thou art leaning on my breast,
Lean forever there, and rest!
Fly from man, that bloody race,
Pards, assassins, bold and base;
Quit their dim, and false parade
For the quiet lonely shade.
Leave the windy birchen cot
For my own light happy lot;
O'er thee I my veil will fling,
Light as beetle's silken wing;
I will breathe perfume of flowers,
O'er thy happy evening hours;
I will in my shell canoe
Waft thee o'er the waters blue;
I will deck thy mantle fold,
With the sun's last rays of gold.
Come, and on the mountain free
Rove a fairy bright with me.
SONG OF THE OPECHEE, THE ROBIN.
The Chippewas relate that the robin originated from a youth who was
subjected to too severe a task of fasting.
In the boundless woods there are berries of red,
And fruits of a beautiful blue,
Where, by nature's own hand, the sweet singers are fed,
And to nature they ever are true.
We go not with arrow and bow to the field,
Like men of the fierce ruddy race,
To take away lives which they never can give,
And revel the lords of the chase.
If danger approaches, with instant alarm
We fly to our own leafy woods,
And there, with an innocent carol and charm,
We sing to our dear little broods.
At morning we sally in quest of the grain
Kind nature in plenty supplies,
We skip o'er the beautiful wide-stretching plain,
And sport in the vault of the skies.
At evening we perch in some neighboring tree
To carol our evening adieu,
And feel, although man assert he is free,
We only have liberty true.
We sing out our praises to God and to man,
We live as heaven taught us to live,
And I would not change back to mortality's plan
For all that the mortal can give.
Here ceased the sweet singer; then pluming his breast,
He winged the blue firmament free,
Repeating, as homeward he flew to his rest,
Tshee-ree-lee--Tshee-ree-lee--Tshee-ree-lee!
EVENING CHANT OF INDIAN CHILDREN TO THE WATASEE, THE FIRE-FLY.
Fire-fly, fire-fly! bright little thing,
Light me to bed, and my song I will sing.
Give me your light, as you fly o'er my head,
That I may merrily go to my bed.
Give me your light o'er the grass as you creep,
That I may joyfully go to my sleep.
Come, little fire-fly--come, little beast--
Come! and I'll make you to-morrow a feast.
Come, little candle that flies as I sing,
Bright little fairy-bug--night's little king;
Come, and I'll dance as you guide me along,
Come, and I'll pay you, my bug, with a song.
SONG OF A FAIRY CHIEF.
Addressed to the winds on transferring his sister to a position as
one of the planets in the morning sky.
Blow, winds, blow, my sister lingers
From her dwelling in the sky,
Where the moon with rosy fingers
Shall her cheeks with vermil dye.
There my earliest views directed,
Shall from her their brilliance take
And her smiles through clouds reflected,
Guide me on, by wood and lake.
While I range the highest mountains,
Sport in valleys, green and low,
Or beside our Indian fountains,
Raise my tiny hip hallo.
SONG OF A CAPTIVE CREEK GIRL,
Who was an exile in a distant northern tribe, confined on an island
in Lake Superior.
To sunny vales, to balmy skies,
My thoughts, a flowery arrow, flies;
I see the wood, the bank, the glade,
Where first, a wild wood girl, I played.
I think on scenes and faces dear;
They are not here--they are not here.
In this cold sky, in this lone isle,
I meet no friends, no mother's smile.
I list the wind, I list the wave;
They seem like requiems, round the grave,
And all my heart's young joys are gone;
It is alone--it is alone.
FEMALE SONG.
My love is a hunter--he hunts the fleet deer,
With fusil or arrow, one-half of the year;
He hunts the fleet deer over mountain and lea,
But his heart is still hunting for love and for me.
My love is a warrior; when warriors go,
With fusil or arrow, to strike the bold foe,
He treads the bright war-path with step bold and free,
But still his thoughts wander to love and to me.
But hunter or warrior, where'er he may go,
To track the swift deer, or to follow the foe,
His heart's warm desire, field and forest still flee,
To go hunting his love, and make captive of me.
MALE SONG.
My love, she gave to me a belt, a belt of texture fine,
Of snowy hue, emboss'd with blue and scarlet porcupine;
This tender braid sustain'd the blade I drew against the foe,
And ever prest upon my breast, to mark its ardent glow.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely fighting stand,
I, in the din, a trophy win, that gains Nimosha's hand.
My love, she is a handsome girl, she has a sparkling eye,
And a head of flowing raven hair, and a forehead arched and high;
Her teeth are white as cowry shells, brought from the distant sea,
And she is tall, and graceful all, and fair as fair can be.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely wooing stand,
And with address my suit I press, I gain Nimosha's hand.
Oh, I will search the silver brooks for skin of blackest dye,
And scale the highest mountain-tops, a warrior's gift to spy!
I'll place them where my love shall see, and know my present true;
Perhaps when she admires the gift, she'll love the giver, too.
And if with art I act my part, and bravely wooing stand,
I'll gain my love's unsullied heart, and then I'll gain her hand.
THE LOVE OF THE FOREST.
To rove with the wild bird, and go where we will,
Oh, this is the charm of the forest-life still!
With our houses of bark, and our food on the plain,
We are off like an eagle, and back there again.
No farms can detain us, no chattels prevent;
We live not by ploughing--we thrive not by rent;
Our herds rove the forest, our flocks swim the floods,
And we skim the broad waters, and trip through the woods.
With ships not of oak wood, nor pitchy, nor strong,
We sail along rivers, and sail with a song;
We care not for taxes--our laws are but few;
The dart is our sickle, our ship the canoe.
If enemies press us, and evil fear stray,
We seize on our war-clubs, and drive them away,
And when there is nothing to fear or withstand,
We lift the proud rattle, and dance on the land.
In feasting and dancing, our moments are gay;
We trust in the God who made heaven and day;
We read no big volumes, no science implore,
But ask of our wise men to teach us their lore.
The woods are our pastures; we eat what we find,
And rush through the lands like a rattling wind.
Heaven gave us the country; we cling to the west,
And, dying, we fly to the Lands of the Blest!
LIGHT OF CHRISTIANITY IN THE WIGWAM.
Oh why, ye subtle spirits, why
Lift I my eyes to yonder floating sky,
Where clouds paint pictures with so clear a hue?
A heaven so beautiful it must be true.
For if I but to earth withdraw my eyes,
And fix them on the creature man
To scan his acts, the dear, fond picture dies,
And worse he seems in thought, and air, and plan
Than the hyena, beast that only digs
For food, and not rejoices in the dart,
That stopped the warm blood current of the heart.
Had men but had just what the earth can give,
It would be misery, and lies, and blood,
Pinching and hunger, so that he who lives
But lives, as some poor outcast drowning in a flood.
And then--ah, tell me!--whither goes the soul?
Oh why, ye spirits blest, oh why
Is truth so darkened to the human eye?
As if a sombre cloud all heaven made black,
And the sun shone but through a chink or crack,
Within a wall, where light is but the accident of things,
And not the purport. Truth may be then as the white men write,
And all our tribes in a darkness set, instead of light.
NOCTURNAL GRAVE LIGHTS.
It is supposed to be four days' journey to the land of the dead;
wherefore, during four nights, the Chippewas kindle a fire on the
grave.
Light up a fire upon my grave
When I am dead.
'Twill softly shed its beaming rays,
To guide the soul its darkling ways;
And ever, as the day's full light
Goes down and leaves the world in night,
These kindly gleams, with warmth possest,
Shall show my spirit where to rest
When I am dead.
Four days the funeral rite renew,
When I am dead.
While onward bent, with typic woes,
I seek the red man's last repose;
Let no rude hand the flame destroy,
Nor mar the scene with festive joy;
While night by night, a ghostly guest,
I journey to my final rest,
When I am dead.
No moral light directs my way
When I am dead.
A hunter's fate, a warrior's fame,
A shade, a phantom, or a name,
All life-long through my hands have sought,
Unblest, unlettered, and untaught:
Deny me not the boon I crave--
A symbol-light upon my grave,
When I am dead.
MANITO.
"Every exhibition of elementary power, in earth or sky, is deemed, by
the Indians, as a symbolic type of a deity."--_Hist. Inds._
In the frowning cliff, that high
Glooms above the passing eye,
Casting spectral shadows tall
Over lower rock and wall;
In its morn and sunset glow,
I behold a Manito.
By the lake or river lone,
In the humble fretted stone,
Water-sculptured, and, by chance,
Cast along the wave's expanse;
In its morn and sunset glow,
I behold a Manito.
In whatever's dark or new,
And my senses cannot view,
Complex work, appearance strange,
Arts' advance, or nature's change--
Fearful e'er of hurt or woe,
I behold a Manito.
In the motions of the sky,
Where the angry lightnings fly,
And the thunder, dread and dire,
Lifts his mighty voice in fire--
Awed with fear of sudden woe,
I behold a Manito.
Here my humble voice I lift,
Here I lay my sacred gift,
And, with heart of fear and awe,
Raise my loud _Wau-la-le-au_.
Spirit of the fields above,
Thee I fear, and Thee I love,
Whether joy betide or woe,
Thou, thou art my Manito.
NIAGARA, AN ALLEGORY.
An old gray man on a mountain lived,
He had daughters four and one,
And a tall bright lodge of the betula bark
That glittered in the sun.
He lived on the very highest top.
For he was a hunter free,
Where he could spy, on the clearest day,
Gleams of the distant sea.
"Come out! come out!" cried the youngest one;
"Let us off to look at the sea!"
And out they ran, in their gayest robes,
And skipped and ran with glee.
"Come, Su;[110] come, Mi;[111] come, Hu;[112] come, Cla;"[113]
Cried laughing little Er;[114]
"Let us go to yonder deep blue sea,
Where the breakers foam and roar."
And on they scampered by valley and wood,
By earth and air and sky,
Till they came to a steep where the bare rocks stood,
In a precipice mountain high.
"Inya!"[115] cried Er, "here's a dreadful leap!
But we are gone so far,
That, if we flinch and return in fear,
Nos[116] he will cry, 'Ha! ha!'"
Now, each was clad in a vesture light,
That floated far behind,
With sandals of frozen water drops,
And wings of painted wind.
And down they plunged with a merry skip,
Like birds that skim the plain;
And "Hey!" they cried, "let us up and try,
And down the steep again!"
And up and down the daughters skipped,
Like girls on a holiday,
And laughed outright at the sport and foam
They called Niagara.
If ye would see a sight so rare,
Where Nature's in her glee,
Go, view the spot in the wide wild West,
The land of the brave and free!
But mark--their shapes are only seen
In Fancy's deepest play;
But she plainly shows their wings and feet
In the dancing sunny spray.
[110] Superior.
[111] Michigan.
[112] Huron.
[113] St. Clair.
[114] Erie.
[115] An exclamation of wonder and surprise.--_Odj. lan._
[116] My father.--_Ib._
CHILEELI.
The Chippewas relate that the spirit of a young lover, who was killed
in battle, determined to return to his affianced maid, in the shape of
a bird, and console her by his songs. He found her in a chosen retreat,
where she daily resorted to pass her pensive hours.
Stay not here--the men are base,
I have found a happier place,
Where no war, or want severe,
Haunts the mind with thoughts of fear;
Men are cruel--bloody--cold,
Seeking like lynx the rabbit's wold,
Not to guard from winds or drought,
But to suck its life's blood out.
Stay not here--oh, stay not here,
'Tis a world of want and fear.
I have found those happy plains,
Where the blissful Spirit reigns,
Such, as by our wise men old,
All our fathers have foretold.
Streams of sparkling waters flow,
Pure and clear, with silver glow;
Woods and shady groves abound,
Long sweet lawns and painted ground;
Lakes, in winding shores extend,
Fruits, with flowers, inviting blend;
While, throughout the green-wood groves,
Gayest birds sing out their loves.
Stay not here, my trustful maid,
'Tis a world for robbers made.
I will lead you, soul of love,
To those flowery haunts above,
Where no tears or pain are found--
Where no war-cry shakes the ground;
Where no mother hangs her head,
Crying: "Oh, my child is dead!"
Where no human blood is spilt,
Where there is no pain, or guilt;
But the new-freed spirit roves
Round and round, in paths of loves.
Pauguk's[117] not admitted there,
Blue the skies, and sweet the air;
There are no diseases there;
There no famished eyeball rolls,
Sickness cannot harm the souls;
Hunger is not there a guest,
Souls are not with hunger press'd,
All are happy, all are blest.
Rife the joys our fathers sought,
Sweet to eye and ear and thought,
Stay not here, my weeping maid,
'Tis a world in glooms arrayed.
[117] Death.
Wishes there, all wants supply,
Wants of hand, and heart, and eye;
Labor is not known--that thorn
Pricks not there, at night or morn,
As it goads frail mortals here,
With its pain, and toil, and fear;
Shadows typical and fair,
Fill the woods, the fields, the air,
Stately deer, the forests fill,
Just to have them is to will;
Birds walk kindly from the lakes,
And whoever wants them, takes;
There no drop of blood is drawn,
Darts are for an earthy lawn.
Hunters, warriors, chiefs, are there,
Plumed and radiant, bright and fair;
But they are the ghosts of men,
And ne'er mix in wars again;
They no longer rove with ire,
Wood or wold, or sit by fire;
Council called--how best to tear,
From the gray-head crown its hair,
Dripping with its vital blood,
Horror--echoed in the wood.
Stay not here--where horrors dwell,
Earth is but a name for hell.
Oh, the Indian paradise is sweet,
Naught but smiles the gazers meet;
All is fair--the sage's breast,
Swells with joy to hail each guest--
Comes he, from these sounding shores,
Or the North God's icy stores,
Where the shivering children cry,
In their snow-cots and bleak sky;
Or the far receding south,
Burned with heat, and palsied drought,
All are welcome--all receive,
Gifts great Chibiabos gives.
Stay not, maiden--weep no more,
I have found the happy shore.
Come with me, and we will rove,
O'er the endless plains of love,
Full of flowers, gems, and gold,
Where there is no heart that's cold,
Where there is no tear to dry
In a single human eye.
Stay not here; cold world like this,
Death but opes the door to bliss.
ON THE STATE OF THE IROQUOIS, OR SIX NATIONS.
In 1845, the Legislature of New York directed a census of these
cantons, which evinced an advanced state of industry.
The lordly Iroquois is tending sheep,
Gone are the plumes that decked his brow,
For his bold raid, no more the wife shall weep--
He holds the plough.
The bow and quiver which his fathers made;
The gun, that filled the warrior's deadliest vow;
The mace, the spear, the axe, the ambuscade--
Where are they now?
Mute are the hills that woke his dreadful yell--
Scared nations listen with affright no more;
He walks a farmer over field and dell
Once red with gore.
Frontlet and wampum, baldric, brand, and knife,
Skill of the megalonyx, snake and fox,
All now are gone!--transformed to peaceful life--
He drives the ox.
Algon, and Cherokee, and Illinese,
No more beneath his stalwort blow shall writhe:
Peace spreads her reign wide o'er his inland seas--
He swings the scythe.
Grain now, not men, employs his manly powers;
To learn the white man's arts, and skill to rule,
For this, his sons and daughters spend their hours--
They go to school.
Glory and fame, that erewhile fired his soul,
And nerved for war his ever vengeful arm,
Where are your charms his bosom to control?--
He tills a farm.
His war-scar'd visage, paints no more deform--
His garments, made of beaver, deer, and rat,
Are now exchanged for woollen doublets warm--
He wears a hat.
His very pipe, surcharged with sacred weed,
Once smoked to spirits dreamy, dread and sore,
Is laid aside--to think, to plan, to read--
He keeps a store.
This is the law of progress--kindlier arts
Have shaped his native energies of mind,
And back he comes--from wandering, woods and darts
Back to mankind.
His drum and rattles, both are thrown away--
His native altars stand without a blaze,--
Truth, robed in gospel light, hath found her way--
And hark! he prays!
THE LOON'S FOOT.
I thought it was the loon's foot, I saw beneath the tide,
But no--it was my lover's shining paddle I espied;
It was my lover's paddle, as my glance I upward cast,
That dipped so light and gracefully as o'er the lake I passed.
The loon's foot--the loon's foot,
'Tis graceful on the sea;
But not so light and joyous as
That paddle blade to me.
My eyes were bent upon the wave, I cast them not aside,
And thought I saw the loon's foot beneath the silver tide.
But ah! my eyes deceived me--for as my glance I cast,
It was my lover's paddle blade that dipped so light and fast.
The loon's foot--the loon's foot,
'Tis sweet and fair to see,
But oh, my lover's paddle blade,
Is sweeter far to me.
The lake's wave--the long wave--the billow big and free,
It wafts me up and down, within my yellow light canoe;
But while I see beneath heaven pictured as I speed,
It is that beauteous paddle blade, that makes it heaven indeed.
The loon's foot--the loon's foot,
The bird upon the sea,
Ah! it is not so beauteous
As that paddle blade to me.
TULCO, PRINCE OF NOTTO.
Tulco, a Cherokee chief, is said to have visited, in 1838, the rotunda,
or excavations, under the great mound of Grave Creek, while the Indian
antiquities were collected there, and the skeleton found in the lower
vault was suspended to the wall, and the exudations of animal matter
depended from the roof.