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 An Historical Sketch of 
 Fort Madison, in Verse 
 
 BY 
 
 EARLE SLOAN SMITH 
 
 reprinted from 
 
 The Evening Democrat 
 
 Fort Madison. Iowa, 
 
 OF Nov. 8. 1916 
 
PotoWonok 
 
 The brilliant leaves so gay and bright, 
 So rich with crimson, dark and light. 
 Well mingled with a golden hue 
 And some of autumn's yellow too. 
 All painted up to dance their last 
 Are flying on October's blast. 
 See, they are whirling, twirling here 
 And breathing music on my ear. 
 But list, they seem to breath a sigh 
 As rustling, bustling they flit by. 
 What do they say in dancing pur? 
 They're speaking in a gentle whir 
 While they in circles roll and ride. 
 Or through the sylvian bowers glide. 
 
 "Come close," they said to me one day, 
 
 "And we will sing for you a lay. 
 
 That you may write in measured rhyme 
 
 A story of the early time." 
 
 And this is what the leaves told me 
 
 While they were whirling thus in glee: 
 
 "We all were members of a band 
 
 That used to roam this pleasant land. 
 
 We fought with Blackhawk, tried and true. 
 
 And all this land that's known to you. 
 
 In those old days now long gone by. 
 
 Did echo with our battle cry. 
 
 "The paleface drove us from our land, 
 Despoil'd our graves, dispers'd our band. 
 Till we in sorrow driven, died — 
 Our love for home we could not hide; 
 So we have changed our forms to leaves, 
 And when the autumn zephyr breathes 
 We deck ouselves in war-like hue 
 And come to dance and sing for you." 
 
 The leaf did pause, and by the side 
 
 The Mississippi, grand and wide. 
 
 Spake up and said, " 'Tis true, 'tis true. 
 
 I've heard the tale the leaves told you. 
 
 O yes, 'tis so; O yes, 'tis so, 
 
 I've seen it all, that's how I know." 
 
 The stately oak, the creek beside. 
 Whose branches are so wondrous wide, 
 Began by nodding to and fro. 
 Then whispered softly, "It is so." 
 The spokesman of the leaves then said, 
 "I'll tell a tale you never read. 
 Now listen closely, you shall hear 
 The tale we whisper once a year: 
 Back in the year of eighteen eight 
 The paleface laden with his freight 
 Stopped here and built a stockade 'round 
 This very piece of sacred ground. 
 
 "Our most loved maid with gentlest heart, 
 Soon learned to love the white man's art. 
 She loved to hear the captain's praise, 
 His gentle voice and pleasing phrase. 
 Full fair was he, the paleface chief. 
 To her young heart 'twas the belief 
 That he was nearer god than man. 
 
As fires flame before the fan, 
 
 So flames the love within the heart 
 
 When once the little spark does start. 
 
 So in the breast of this dark maid 
 
 A spark of love for paleface laid, 
 
 Which breaking forth did brightly glow 
 
 As burning embers in the snow. 
 
 "At night, they arm in arm would go 
 In forest shade and moonlight glow 
 While birds were chirping up above 
 They whispr'd softly words of love. 
 By river bank and woodland tree. 
 They wander'd lovingly and free. 
 Till Quash-a-qua-ma, jealous chief. 
 Was fill'd with rage; 'twas his belief 
 That paleface came to this fair land 
 To steal our dusky maiden's hand. 
 
 "While thus enrag'd he plann'd to burn 
 The fort and inmates in their turn. 
 So we were deck'd in feathers tall, 
 Put on bright paints and blankets, all 
 Beneath, concealed, was fix'd the knife 
 With which to end the white man's life. 
 We'd plann'd to go up to the fort. 
 To give a dance we would report, 
 And when engag'd in dizzy whirl 
 From off our shoulders we would twirl 
 The heavy blankets, one and all. 
 Then on the helpless whites we'd fall. 
 While going to the fort to dance 
 Each savage spirit seem'd to prance; 
 Each heart was throbbing by a knife 
 We pray'd would take a white man's life. 
 
 "Our dreams were vain; the paleface knew. 
 And he was ready for us, too. 
 The chief alone was shown within; 
 The rest with restless savage din 
 Broke tor the gate, a curtain raised. 
 Into a cannon's mouth we gazed; 
 And drawn behind in perfect line 
 The soldiers stood, each taking finest 
 Aim at us. Then pointing to 
 Our chief, 'Brave Quash-a-qua-ma do 
 No more of this, the captain said, 
 'You are our brothers, braves of red. 
 Yet you must know this brings but grief. 
 The great white chief hates sneaky chief. 
 So go your way rememb'ring that 
 This foolish trick of yours fell flat.' 
 
 "We left the fort, our hatred buru'd 
 For vengeance ev'ry red man yearn'd 
 We did not know this maid of ours 
 Had slipp'd among the leafy bow'rs 
 Unto the paleface fort to tell 
 That all was not a-going well; 
 That we had plann'd to make a raid 
 And told of every detail made. 
 'Twas so, the love within her breast 
 Had conquered race and all the rest. 
 
"The years roU'd on; we wished to fight. 
 We talk'd hy day and watch'd hy night. 
 At length we gather'd warriors strong 
 And with a dash our painted throng 
 Came forth, the stockade to surround. 
 The braves knew ev'ry spot of ground, 
 And ev'ry tree did shield a brave 
 Who wish'd to fill a paleface grave. 
 
 "But lo! before our dazzled eyes 
 A fire lighted all the skies. 
 The stockade there within our view 
 Got red and then it redder grew — 
 Till bursting forth in mighty flame. 
 The fire through ev'ry crevice came. 
 
 "The garrison had gotten weak 
 
 Withstanding winters cold and bleak. 
 
 Their reinforcements did not come; 
 
 For months they had expected some; 
 
 The food supply was getting low; 
 
 They had their choice to die or go. 
 
 The soldiers fled; we tho't them there; 
 
 They'd dug a tunnel with much care 
 
 Out from the well. We little knew 
 
 The things that they had plann'd to do. 
 
 They fired the fort, crawl'd through the hole 
 
 And to the river bank they stole, 
 
 Where, safely tied, they found their boat; 
 
 And down the river they did float; 
 
 While we, with screeching, merry din. 
 
 Stood there and watched the walls cave in. 
 Till last all fell save just the place 
 
 Wherein the paleface kept his fire 
 
 And their old chimney standing high'r. 
 Which by the mighty spirit's grace, 
 Was left to mark the ruin'd place. 
 
 We cried aloud: 'We've won! we've won!' 
 
 Thus ended old Fort Madison. 
 
 "For many years the chimney stood 
 Beside the old primeval wood. 
 And ever when the east wind blew 
 And all our graves were wet with dew, 
 It seemed to whisper soft and low, 
 'Braves, I will stay and you will go.' 
 Old Potowonok then we named it. 
 For that name seem'd most to fit. 
 
 "And thus stood Potowonok old. 
 
 That many tales has often told. 
 
 To those of us who came to see 
 
 And solve its silent mystery. 
 
 It seemed to tell of things to be — 
 
 That soon or late our race would see. 
 
 It did not represent the past 
 
 Or victories that could not last; 
 
 It stood and ever seem'd to tell, 
 
 As did the old deserted well. 
 
 Of diff'rent tribes and new conditions, 
 
 Of newer legends and traditions; 
 
 That our traditions, long and old. 
 
 By other races would be told — 
 
 That customs and traditions all 
 
 In time before the whites would fall. 
 
 It was the driftwood of a tide, 
 
Whose flow was ever swelling wide, 
 That for a few brief years arose 
 To ebb again into repose, 
 Until the wave would stronger be. 
 Then as the billows of the sea, 
 'Twould come again and taking all 
 Our race was surely doomed to fall. 
 
 "Here, on her knees, our maiden prayed. 
 And always longing, ling'ring stay'd 
 By Potowonok's ruin'd base, 
 Like her who watche'd by Basil's vase. 
 Oft' in her anguish she would cry 
 To this old chimney standing by, 
 'Old Potowonok, will my dear, 
 My paleface lover, meet me here?' 
 And when the breeze would softly blow 
 The chimney sadly answer'd, 'no-o-o.' 
 And the maiden drooping waited 
 
 By old Potowonok's side 
 For the one with whom she mated r 
 
 There she waited, there she died 
 A victim of a broken heart; 
 But of the world she's still a part. 
 For when from earth she pass'd away 
 Her lovelorn heart so longed to stay 
 That her great Father, by his art, 
 Transform'd her to a bleeding heart. 
 So she is with us now as then 
 To cheer the hearts of weary men; 
 And on a lonely grave she grows. 
 What grave it is, ah, no one knows, 
 'Tis there her teardrops all are shed 
 Upon her lover's narrow bed. 
 
 "The Potowonok of old days 
 No longer with the east wind plays, 
 No longer stands to mark the place 
 Where once there dwelt a warlike race. 
 Like all things on the sea of life. 
 Which rocks and rolls in endless strife. 
 So must the best things one and all 
 Crumble and waste, in ruin fall. 
 
 "Still, when the autumn breezes blow. 
 And painted leaves about you go, 
 Remember that they dance and play 
 As we in life did many a day; 
 And when the bleeding heart shall grow 
 In quiet places that you know. 
 Pray think of her, our gentle maid, 
 Whose spirit in those flowers stay'd. 
 So shall it be when you are gone. 
 When time has roll'd your spirit on. 
 Some friend of yours, in musing hours. 
 Shall see your likeness in the flowers; 
 For tho' we're gone there lingers still 
 A trace that makes tor good or ill." 
 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 016 086 526 A 
 
 
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