LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 DQDDaHD4112 
 

 C.OFffiiGKT DEPOSm 
 
MANY MANY MOONS 
 
MANY MANY MOONS 
 
 A BOOK OF WILDERNESS POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 LEW SARETT 
 
 n 
 
 WITH AM INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 CARL SANDBURG 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 1920 
 
CoPYaiGHT, 1930 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 MAR 30 1320 
 
 BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
 RAHWAY NEW JERSEY 
 
 ©CI;A585419 
 
TO 
 
 MY WIFE 
 
 MARGARET 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 
 
j;tl!" 'smoq 
 
 •ni.-ioijij i^rfi^:-! () iO 
 PREFACE .rl)m ,--;.^h ;>n:u 
 
 The specific words and phrases which the Americai^fT 
 Indian utters in song and ceremony are few ai^ frajg^ij 
 mentary. In their original forms of expi^Sj^ion,],^^;) 
 utterances of Indian dance, song, and ritual '^fe Xtft^^r, 
 crude and inadequate. Literal translation, th§pj^^Te, 
 will rarely reveal the emotional and ideational cpnte|]tj^j 
 of a ceremony. For example, the only words futtefjej^- 
 in the course of a long and richly meaningful scaiprf 
 dance song may be the following: 
 
 " I am dancing in the sky, 
 I am dancing in the sky 
 With a Sioux scalp." 
 
 The few fragmentary phrases may be repeated over 
 and over again, interspersed with apparently mean- 
 ingless syllables and ejaculations. The meager phrase 
 in a medicine song may be slight in its denotation; 
 it can represent merely the peaks of an emotional 
 flight, or it can merely symbolize a great situation. 
 Yet if the fragmentary ideas be interpreted against 
 a background of legend, or supplemented by the ac- 
 companying incidents of the dance, — its music, pos- 
 tures, gestures, and vocal embellishments, — if they be 
 refracted through the prismatic glass of Indian imagi- 
 nation, the few words that are uttered may suggest 
 
 vii 
 
viii PREFACE 
 
 a great colorful complex of ideas and emotions. The 
 poems of Indian theme in Parts I and III of this 
 volume, therefore, are in no sense literal translations 
 of original utterances of aboriginal song and council- 
 talk ; they are, rather, very free, broad interpretations. 
 I have endeavored to interpret most broadly the origi- 
 nal Indian motives through their suggestive connota- 
 tions, — in the light of Indian symbolism and mys- 
 ticism, of the mythology and superstition involved, 
 and of the attendant ceremonies. 
 
 Although I have been very free in my interpreta- 
 tions, I have endeavored to maintain steadily and 
 accurately the consciousness of the genuine American 
 Indian of today, his peculiar mental and emotional 
 slants. I have sought, moreover, to maintain con- 
 sistently the point of view of the modern reservation 
 type of red man, — more copper or bronze than red, — 
 who in his present transition from the primitive wild 
 life to the new civilization offers a paradoxical amal- 
 gam or mosaic of the old and the new, the ideal and 
 the material, the majestic and the grotesque. 
 
 The romantic red man in the picturesque setting 
 of war-dances and ambuscaded prairie schooners has 
 gone the way of the builalo, the flintlock, and the 
 stone-ax. With him has gone much of the romantic 
 beauty of the wild yesterdays; the old glory of the 
 lawless Indian frontier has grown a bit faded and 
 tawdry. Yet in the life and the aspirations of the 
 red man of today, and particularly in the character 
 of the more remote, primitive Northern woods Indian, 
 there is a new, strange, often bizarre beauty which, 
 
PREFACE ix 
 
 because of the economic and social complexities cre- 
 ated by modern reservation life, is infinitely more 
 colorful and kaleidoscopic than that of the old roman- 
 tic days. In this transitional type of the Original 
 American there is a rugged charm distinctive of the 
 New World, and of the race of pioneers that struggled 
 here to beat back the v^^ilderness and to fling out the 
 borders of a new civilization. About this bronze fig- 
 ure, the symbol of our vanished West and of our 
 beaten borderlands, hovers a wild poetic beauty as 
 peculiarly American in fragrance as the redolence 
 of burning pine, or the odor of a cornfield after rain. 
 Beneath the drab surface of the modern transitional 
 type of Indian in his semi-civilized setting of the 
 reservation there is comedy, cosmic tragedy, and a 
 wealth of literary materials that are epic in sweep. 
 Consider the pathos of his desperate struggle of three 
 centuries to stem the tide of a subtle, irresistible civili- 
 zation, to withstand the ravages of the white man's 
 diseases, to beat oflF the packs of astute grafters who 
 were ever ready to pounce upon him as wolves upon 
 a wounded deer. In the great drama enacted in the 
 American wilderness these bronze stoics have played 
 every role, — hero and villain, hunter and hunted, vic- 
 tor and vanquished ; yesterday defiant, imperious, bat- 
 tling victoriously with naked hands against storm and 
 wind and snow and cyclone, against man and beast 
 and hunger and pestilence; today poverty-stricken, 
 servile, making their exit in the West and the North, 
 a handful of broken people, a thin line of bedraggled 
 figures in the twilight, straggling across the desert 
 
X PREFACE 
 
 with muffled footfall into the Valley of Night to the 
 ultimate companionship of the stars. 
 
 In much of the seeming cacophony of the modern 
 Indian's music there is lyric poetry. In the primitive 
 dances to which the pagan elder folk have clung so 
 tenaciously, and in which today the Indian sings his 
 soul out of its rags back for a moment to the old 
 glory of the wild days, there is a pungent, elemental 
 charm. Rugged dignity and power mark his council 
 oratory. A pagan spiritual beauty glitters in all the 
 religious rituals that express his cosmic theory; for 
 his pantheistic conception of the phenomena of nature 
 is sublime in its personification of the wilderness, in 
 its humanization of earth and sky and water, of beast 
 and bird and reptile, of the flash of the lightning, the 
 rumble of thunder, and the roar of the big winds. In 
 the supernatural world created by his imagination 
 there is a weird mysticism; for the Indian walks 
 through life ever beckoned by unseen hands, ever 
 communing with the ghosts of the unseen spirit of 
 beast and devil and god. 
 
 His life is not, however, wholly in shadow; it has 
 its high lights of comedy and humor. There is humor 
 in his naive attempts to adapt himself to the white 
 man's mode of living with its baffling machines and 
 its incomprehensible customs; sometimes a ludicrous 
 incongruity in his domestic environment with its ag- 
 glomeration of primitive birch-basket and battered 
 alarm clock, papoose cradle and broken sewing ma- 
 chine, — ^the latter often purchased as a thing of orna- 
 ment rather than of utility, — quaint stone pestle and 
 
PREFACE XI 
 
 mortar and the badge of affluence, that sine qua non 
 of Indian aristocracy, the cheap talking machine eter- 
 nally playing its one record. There is unconscious 
 humor, and often subtle wit, in much of his talk, and 
 in his modern dialect, a hybrid language in which the 
 simple dignity of the old poetic diction is now shot 
 through with the mixed idioms, the crudities, and the 
 twisted phrases of borderland slang and of French- 
 Canadian patois. The comedy in his character, — 
 largely the humor of grotesqueness, inconsistency, and 
 paradox, — is best suggested perhaps by the incongrui- 
 ties of the costume which he often wears at some 
 idealistic old ceremonial dance; a nondescript outfit 
 composed of buckskin moccasins and conspicuous 
 white man's underwear, beaded medicine bag and 
 shoddy trousers, eagle feathers and a battered derby 
 hat. 
 
 It is the spirit of this more modern type of Indian, 
 — and particularly of the more remote Northern woods 
 Indian of Algonquian stock, — with his peculiar an- 
 achronistic combination of the primitive and the mod- 
 ern, the tragic and the comic, the ideal and the real, 
 the romantic and the drab, the spiritual and the 
 material, — it is the spirit of this transitional type of 
 red man which I wish to catch in Fart I and Part 
 III of this volume. I desire, furthermore, not only 
 to catch the spirit of the woods Indian, but also, 
 through the nature poems in Part II, to capture some- 
 thing of the atmosphere of the Indian's environment, 
 of his setting of the Northern wilderness. ^ If, there- 
 fore, the poems in this book convey in some degree 
 
xii PREFACE 
 
 the wild beauty of the North, and of its wilderness 
 folk, a beauty so inadequately expressed by the printed 
 word, I shall be most happy. If they do not thus 
 succeed — it was Walter Savage Landor — was it not? 
 — who said, " There is delight in singing, though none 
 hear beside the singer." 
 
 Although a few of the poems in Parts I and III 
 presuppose on the part of the reader some knowledge 
 of the American Indian, most of them will readily 
 yield their meaning without the aid of supplementary 
 notes. I have incorporated in each poem most of 
 the special information concerning Indian folk-lore 
 of which the casual reader may not be informed. 
 Likewise, the correct pronunciation of the various 
 Chippewa words which are used is made clear by the 
 accents and the phonetic spelling; and their meanings 
 may be readily grasped from their context. However, 
 for the benefit of the reader who may be interested 
 in further details concerning the ceremonials and 
 legends that lie at the foundation of certain of the 
 poems, I have added a brief section of expository 
 comments in the Appendix, beginning on page 71. 
 I suggest that the reader glance at these supplementary 
 notes before reading the poems in Part I and Part III 
 upon which they bear. 
 
 I wish to take this opportunity to express my deep 
 gratitude to Miss Harriet Monroe, the editor of 
 Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, to Mr. Carl Sandburg, 
 and to Professor Stuart P. Sherman of the University 
 of Illinois for their encouragement and their helpful 
 suggestions, and to many other friends for valuable 
 criticisms. Lew Sarett. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Preface vii 
 
 Introduction. By Carl Sandburg . . . xv 
 
 PART I 
 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 The Blue Duck 3 
 
 Chippewa Flute Song 8 
 
 The Squaw-Dance 11 
 
 Beat Against Me No Longer .... 16 
 
 The Conjurer 18 
 
 Red-Rock, the Moose-Hunter .... 22 
 
 Rain Song: Motive I 25 
 
 Rain Song: Motive II 26 
 
 Rain Song: Motive III 28 
 
 PART II 
 LONE FIRES 
 
 The Loon 33 
 
 God Is AT the Anvil 34 
 
 Philosophic Frogs 35 
 
 The Wolf Cry 37 
 
 The Cabin on the Cliff 38 
 
 The Fog-Bell 39 
 
 The Granite Mountain 40 
 
 Dakotah .42 
 
 The White-Throat 43 
 
 Refuge 44 
 
 Swamp-Owl 45 
 
 Of These Four Things I Cannot Write . . 46 
 
 The Great Divide 48 
 
 xiii 
 
XIV 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART III 
 
 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 
 
 A Group of Indian Council Talks 
 
 The Winds of Fifty Winters 
 Chief Bear's-Heart " Makes Talk ** 
 Little-Caribou Makes " Big Talk " . 
 Whirling-Rapids Talks 
 Appendix . . ... 
 
 51 
 55 
 59 
 62 
 
 71 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Books say Yes to life. Or they say No. " Many 
 Many Moons " says Yes. 
 
 Picking classics in contemporary books is like pick- 
 ing winners in baseball or durable forms of govern- 
 ment among nations. One man's guess is as good as 
 another's. 
 
 We might say, " Herewith is entered Lew Sarett 
 and * Many Many Moons ' as a runner for a place 
 among the classics." And it would be only a guess. 
 
 However, there is nothing in the stipulations of 
 the Espionage Act nor in the Code of Chesterfield 
 nor in the Marquis of Queensbury rules, that stops us 
 from asking: 
 
 *' Why not have the loam and the lingo, the sand 
 and the syllables of North America in the books of 
 North America ? " 
 
 And so Sarett . . . with tall timber, freshwaters, 
 blue ducks, and a loon in him. The loon, a poet's 
 bird for sure, is here. Unless there is a loon cry 
 in a book the poetry is gone out of it. We have too 
 many orderly, respectable, synthesized poets in the 
 United States and in England. In their orientation 
 with the library canary fed from delicatessen tins, 
 they are strangers to the loon that calls oflf its long 
 night cry in tall timber up among the beginnings of 
 the Mississippi. 
 
 XV 
 
xvi INTRODUCTION 
 
 Sarett has equipment. Years a forest ranger and 
 a wocKlsman, other years a wilderness guide, com- 
 panion of red and white men as an outrider of civili- 
 zation, university instructor, headline performer at 
 western Chautauquas, magazine writer, he brings wis- 
 dom of things silent and things garrulous to his book. 
 Old men with strong heads and shrewd slow tongues, 
 young men with tough feet, the wishing song of mate 
 for mate — they are here. The loam and the lingo, 
 the sand and the syllables of North America are here. 
 " Many Many Moons " says Yes. 
 
 Carl Sandburg. 
 
NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 Of the poems in Part I and Part III of this book, 
 many were first published in Poetry: A Magasine of 
 Verse. The author is indebted to the editors for 
 permission to include them in this volume. For the 
 privilege of reprinting other copyrighted poems in this 
 book he wishes to thank the editors of the following: 
 Reedy's Mirror; The Outing Magazine; The Stratford 
 Journal; The Argosy Magazine; Others; Outdoor 
 Life; Birds and Nature Magazine; the Nature-Study 
 Review; American Forestry; Outer's Book and Recre- 
 ation; The Farm Journal; The Pagan; The Boston 
 Transcript. 
 
 L. S. 
 
PART I 
 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
THE BLUE DUCK ♦ 
 
 Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! To be read 
 
 tt: I Tj- 1 tt: I tr: i ^^'/t a vigorous 
 
 Hi ! Hi ! irli ! Jrll ! ;./^ emphasizing 
 
 Hee-ya ! H6i-ya ! the drumbeats. 
 
 Hee-ya ! H6i-ya ! 
 
 Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, Ma-ni-do, 
 
 The hunter-moon is chipping, 
 
 Chipping at his flints, 
 
 At his dripping bloody flints ; 
 
 He is rising for the hunt. 
 
 And his face is red with blood 
 
 From the spears of many spruces, 
 
 And his blood is on the leaves 
 
 That flutter down. 
 
 The Winter-Maker, White Bee-b6an, 
 
 Is walking in the sky, 
 
 And his windy blanket 
 
 Rustles in the trees. 
 
 He is blazing out the trail 
 
 Through the fields of nodding rice 
 
 For the swift and whistling wings 
 
 Of his She-she-be, 
 
 For the worn and weary wings 
 
 * See Appendix, page 71, for supplementary comments con- 
 cerning "The Blue Duck" and other poems in this group, 
 Part I. 
 
 3 
 
4 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 Of many duck — 
 
 Ho ! Plenty duck ! Plenty duck ! 
 
 Ho ! Plenty, plenty duck ! 
 
 Hi ! Hi ! More slowly 
 
 XT' i TT- j and quietly, 
 
 XT.1 . XT.1 . verging on a 
 
 Hi! Hi! chant 
 
 Hi! Hi! 
 
 Hoy-eeeeeee ! Ya ! 
 
 Hoy-eeeeeee ! Ya ! 
 
 Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, Ma-ni-do, 
 
 The seasons have been barren. 
 
 In the Moon-of -Sugar-Making, 
 
 And the Moon-of-Flowers-and-Grass, 
 
 From the blighted berry patches 
 
 And the maple-sugar bush, 
 
 The hands of all my children 
 
 Came home empty, came home clean. 
 
 The big rain of Nee-bin, the Summer-Maker, 
 
 Washed away the many little partridge. 
 
 And good Ad-ik-kum-aig, sweet whitefish, 
 
 Went sulking all the summer-moons. 
 
 Hiding in the deepest waters, 
 
 Silver belly in the mud, 
 
 And he would not walk into my nets ! Ugh ! 
 
 Thus the skin-sacks and the mo-kuks 
 
 Hang within my weeg-a-wam empty. 
 
 Soon the winter moon will come. 
 Slipping through the silent timber. 
 Walking on the silent snow, 
 
THE BLUE DUCK 
 
 Stalking on the frozen lake. 
 
 Lean-bellied, 
 
 Squatting with his rump upon the ice, 
 
 The phantom wolf will fling 
 
 His wailings to the stars. 
 
 Then Ween-di-go, the Devil-Spirit, 
 
 Whining through the lodge-poles. 
 
 Will clutch and shake my teepee, 
 
 Calling, 
 
 Calling, 
 
 Calling as he sifts into my lodge; 
 
 And ghostly little shadow-arms 
 
 Will float out through 
 
 The smoke-hole in the night — 
 
 Leaping, tossing shadow-arms. 
 
 Little arms of little children, 
 
 Hungry hands of shadow-arms. 
 
 Clutching, 
 
 Clutching, 
 
 Clutching at the breast that is not there. . . 
 
 Shadow-arms and shadow breasts. . . 
 
 Twisting, 
 
 Twisting, 
 
 Twisting in and twisting out 
 
 On the ghastly clouds of smoke. , . . 
 
 Riding on the whistling wind. . . . 
 
 Riding on the whistling wind 
 
 Riding on the whistling wind , 
 
 Starward! . . . 
 
 Blow, blow, blow Kee-way-din, North Wind, 
 
 Warm and gentle on my children, 
 
 To he chanted 
 from this point 
 on — slower in 
 rate — higher 
 and higher in 
 pitch — mount- 
 ing to melan- 
 choly wailing. 
 
 A sustained 
 wailing chant, 
 gathering power 
 steadily. 
 
6 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 Cold and swift upon the wild She-she-be, 
 Ha-a-ah-eee-ooo . . . Plenty duck ... 
 Ha-a-a-a-ah-eeee-ooooo . . . Plenty duck. . . . 
 
 Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Faster— with a 
 
 Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! %hT'"' 
 
 Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, Ma-ni-do, 
 
 Blow on Ah-bi-too-bi many wings; 
 
 Wings of teal and wings of mallard, 
 
 Wings of green and blue. 
 
 My little lake lies waiting, 
 
 Singing for her blustery lover; 
 
 Dancing on the golden-stranded shore 
 
 With many little moccasins, 
 
 Pretty little moccasins, 
 
 Beaded with her silver sands, 
 
 And with her golden pebbles. 
 
 And upon her gentle bosom 
 
 Lies Mah-no-min, sweetest wild-rice, 
 
 Green and yellow. 
 
 Rustling blade and rippling blossom — 
 
 Hi-yee ! Hi-yee ! Blow on Ah-bi-too-bi plenty duck ! 
 
 Ho! Plenty, plenty duck! 
 
 Ho! Plenty duck, plenty duck! 
 
 Ho! Ho! 
 
 Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! 
 Hee-ya! H6i-ya! Hee-ya! H6i-ya! 
 Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, Ma-ni-do, 
 I place this pretty duck upon your hand; 
 Upon its sunny palm and in its windy fingers. 
 
THE BLUE DUCK 7 
 
 Hi-yeee ! Blue and beautiful Faster, louder. 
 
 Is he, beautifully blue! tt^ t^' 
 
 Carved from sleeping cedar with abandon. 
 
 When the stars like silver fishes 
 
 Were a-quiver in the rivers of the sky ; 
 
 Carved from dripping cedar 
 
 When the Koo-koo-koo dashed hooting 
 
 At the furtive feet 
 
 That rustle in the leaves — 
 
 Hi! And seasoned many moons, many moons, 
 
 Ho! Seasoned many, many, many sleeps! 
 
 Hi-yeee! Blue and beautiful 
 
 Is he, beautifully blue! 
 
 Though his throat is choked with wood. 
 
 And he honks not on his pole, 
 
 And his wings are weak with hunger. 
 
 Yet his heart is plenty good. 
 
 Hi-yee! His heart is plenty good! 
 
 Hi-yee! Plenty good, plenty good! 
 
 Hi-yee! Hi-yee! Hi-yee! His heart is good! . . . 
 
 My heart like his is good! Brokenly and 
 
 brusquely. 
 
 Ugh! My tongue talks straight! 
 Ho! 
 
CHIPPEWA FLUTE SONG 
 
 To he chanted softly and monotonously in a high 
 pitchj with a dowmvard inflection at the end of every 
 sentence and at other places where the voice naturally 
 falls. 
 
 Hah-eeeeeeeee-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo ! 
 My little Pigeon-Woman, 
 
 For you alone as I float in my little birch canoe in the 
 purple twilight, 
 
 I am singing, I am calling 
 
 on my little cedar lute tenderly. 
 For you alone, for you alone I am playing 
 
 on my little yellow flute mellowly. 
 And though the singing of my throat is like the 
 grumping of the frog 
 
 at night among the water-lilies, 
 
 yet the notes from my cedar Bee-bee-gwun 
 
 are like silver bubbles in the moonlight. 
 Therefore why do you hide away from me like the 
 timid little fawn 
 
 that peers tremblingly at me 
 
 from yonder bending willows, 
 My little Pigeon-Woman, 
 My Kah-lee-lee-6h-kah-lay-kway ! 
 
 8 
 
CHIPPEWA FLUTE SONG 9 
 
 Hah-eeeeeeeee-00-00-00-00-00-00-00-00! 
 
 From the clouds of purple twilight on yonder shore 
 
 the wailing loon is calling, calling, 
 
 calling for his woman drearily. 
 And I am also calling 
 
 on my little yellow flute wearily. 
 In the dewy glade of yonder valley 
 
 the whip-poor-will is crying for his mate; 
 In the somber lonely shadows of the timber 
 
 the melancholy owl is also calling. 
 But the owl and the whip-poor-will 
 
 do not hear an answer 
 
 to their many, many callings — 
 Nor do I hear an answer to my melody. 
 The meadow-lark is fluting his golden song; 
 
 and from the lilied meadows 
 
 other golden notes come floating back to him 
 
 like little golden bells. 
 And though the meadow-lark does not sing more 
 tenderly 
 
 than my little yellow flute, 
 
 you do not answer my callings. 
 My little Pigeon-Woman, 
 My Kah-lee-lee-6h-kah-lay-kway ! 
 
 Hah-eeeeeeeee-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo! 
 
 And now the purple wings of the night 
 are softly folded down 
 upon my sleeping little lake, 
 and the sighing silver balsams. 
 
10 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 The cooing wood-dove has slipped her sleepy head 
 
 beneath her downy wings; 
 
 and the hermit-thrush 
 
 with his running-water notes 
 
 will pipe his song no longer. 
 The eyes of the many little stars are peering down 
 
 upon me from the sky steadily; 
 And the wan and sickly moon is smiling yellowly at 
 
 me — ~' 
 
 I do not like the many little peering eyes, 
 
 I do not like the smiling yellow moon; 
 
 I love the sun that dances down the sky 
 
 with a swirl of scarlet robes, 
 
 her head flung back over her shoulder, 
 
 a taunting smile on her vermilion face. . . . 
 And now the flutings of my little Bee-bee-gwun avail 
 
 me no longer; 
 For you have flown away from me, you have flown 
 away from me t 
 
 like the sun that slipped down behind the willows 
 
 trailing her purple veils behind her 
 
 on the shimmering waters of my lake 
 
 and over the edge of the world. 
 But tomorrow the sun will come back to me, 
 
 the sun will come back tomorrow, 
 My little Pigeon- Woman, 
 My Kah-lee-lee-6h-kah-lay-kway ! 
 
THE SQUAW-DANCE 
 
 Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom, 
 Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum. 
 Hoy-eeeeeee-yah ! Hoy-eeeeeee-yah ! 
 Shuffle to the left, shuffle to the left, 
 Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left. 
 Fat squaws, lean squaws, gliding in a row, 
 Grunting, wheezing, laughing as they go; 
 Bouncing up with a scuffle and a twirl, j^ ^^ ^^^^ 
 Flouncing petticoat and hair in a whirl. rapidly with 
 Rheumatic hags of gristle and brawn, and%ncopaicd 
 Rolling in like a ponderous billow; dance rhythm. 
 
 Fair squaws lithe as the leaping fawn, — 
 Swaying with the wind and bending with the willow; 
 Bouncing buttock and shriveled shank. 
 Scuffling to the drumbeat, rank on rank; 
 Stolid eye and laughing lip. 
 Buxom bosom and jiggling hip. 
 Weaving in and weaving out, 
 Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! with a laugh and a shout, 
 To the beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom, 
 Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum; 
 And a shuffle to the left, a shuffle to the left, 
 A shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left, — 
 Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 
 
 II 
 
12 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 Medicine men on the medicine drum, 
 
 Beating out the rhythm with a steady thrum. 
 
 Medicine gourd with its rattle, rattle, rattle, 
 
 Flinging wild with the call of battle. 
 
 Beaded drummers squatting in the ring 
 
 Leap to its challenge with a crouch and a spring; 
 
 Weathered old bucks that grunt and wheeze 
 
 As they jangle bells on their wrists and their knees,— 
 
 Shining new and olden bells, 
 
 Silver, copper, golden bells, 
 
 Cow-bells, toy bells, ringing sleigh-bells. 
 
 Beaded dance bells, " give-away " bells, 
 
 Jingling, jangling, jingling bells, 
 
 Set-the-toes-atingling bells, 
 
 To the beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom, 
 
 Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum ; 
 
 And a shuffle to the left, a shuffle to the left, 
 
 A shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left,— 
 
 Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 
 
 Old bucks stamping heel and toe. 
 Ugh ! as they snort and they cackle and they crow, — 
 Yowling like the lynx that crouches nigh. 
 Howling like the wolf at the prairie sky; 
 Growling and grunting as they shift and they tramp, 
 Stalking, crouching, — with a stamp, stamp, stamp, — 
 Sleek limbs, lithe limbs, strong and clean limbs. 
 Withered limbs, bowed limbs, long and lean limbs; 
 Flat feet, bare feet, dancing feet, 
 Buckskin-moccasined prancing feet. 
 Eager child- feet, scuffling feet, 
 
THE SQUAW-DANCE 13 
 
 Feet, feet, feet, feet, shuffling feet! 
 
 Hi ! Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom. 
 
 Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum ; 
 
 Shuffle to the left, shuffle to the left, 
 
 Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left,— 
 
 Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 
 
 KEE-WAY-DIN-d-KWAY, THE " NORTH-WIND-WOMAN," 
 SINGS : 
 
 " I have a pretty present for Mah-een-gans, 
 
 For * Little-Wolf ' I have a pretty medicine bag. 
 
 Broidered upon it are many little beads 
 
 In many pretty patterns of wild lilies, — 
 
 Yellow beads and beads of the color of the cornflower. 
 
 Through the many winter moons 
 
 I labored on this token of love; 7^ ^^ chanted. 
 
 In this gaily patterned medicine bag 
 
 I left my weary eyes and my worn fingers. 
 
 Now I wish * the Wolf ' to dance with me in the ring. 
 
 Hi ! Beat, beat upon the drums, old medicine men ! 
 
 Dance ! Dance in the ring, my people, and sing ! " 
 
 {Ho! Ho! . . . Hi-yah! Hi-yah!) 
 
 Tx* '1 I TT' 'ui With a lilt and 
 
 Hoy-eeeeeeeee-yah ! Hoy-eeeeeeeee-yan ! ^^^^^ rhythm. 
 
 Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 
 
 Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom. 
 
 Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum, 
 
 As a bouncing breast and a lean long thigh, 
 
 Caper to the ring with a whoop and a cry, 
 
14 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 And shuffle to the left, shuffle to the left, 
 Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left,— 
 Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 
 
 MAH-EEN-GANS, THE ** LITTLE-WOLF," SINGS: 
 
 " I have a present for the * Wind-Woman,* 
 
 A present equal in value to her medicine bag. 
 
 Ho! A pretty present, a mi-gis chain Dance ceases— 
 
 Of many little mi-gis shells,— '^''''*' 
 
 As beautiful as the ' North-Wind-Woman.' 
 
 My chain of shells will shimmer on her breast 
 
 As the little silver brooks that tinkle 
 
 Down the moonlit bosom of yonder mountain. 
 
 Now I wish the woman to dance with me in the ring. 
 
 Hi ! Beat, beat upon the drums, old medicine men ! 
 
 Dance ! Dance in the ring, my people, and sing ! " 
 
 Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 
 
 Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah ! 
 
 Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the tom-tom, 
 
 Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat upon the drum. 
 
 Medicine gourd with its rattle, rattle, rattle. 
 
 Ringing wild with the call of battle. To he read 
 
 Rheumatic hags of gristle and brawn, '''^oulming'' 
 
 Rolling in like a ponderous billow ; iance rhythm, 
 
 Fair squaws lithe as the leaping fawn,- %iit'^^' ^''^' 
 
 Swaying with the wind and bending with the willow. 
 
 Bouncing buttock and shriveled shank. 
 
 Scuffling to the drumbeat, rank on rank. 
 
 Old bucks stamping heel and toe, 
 
 Ugh ! as they snort and they cackle and they crow, — 
 
 r 
 
THE SQUAW-DANCE 15 
 
 Sleek limbs, lithe limbs, strong and clean limbs, 
 
 Withered limbs, bowed limbs, long and lean limbs ; 
 
 Flat feet, bare feet, dancing feet, 
 
 Buckskin-moccasined prancing feet; 
 
 Shuffle to the left, shuffle to the left, 
 
 Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to the left, to the left; 
 
 With a crouch and a spring and a grunt and a wheeze, 
 
 And a clanging of bells at the wrists and the knees, — 
 
 Shining new and olden bells, 
 
 Silver, copper, golden bells — 
 
 Feet, feet, feet, feet, scuffling feet! 
 
 To the drumbeat, drumbeat, beat, beat, beat — 
 
 Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! 
 
 Hoy-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-yah! 
 
BEAT AGAINST ME NO LONGER 
 
 Ai-yee! My Yellow-Bird-Woman, 
 My ne-ne-moosh, ai-yee! my Loved-One, 
 Be not afraid of my eyes! 
 Beat against me no longer! 
 Come! Come with a yielding of limbs! 
 Ai-yee! Woman, woman, 
 Trembling there in the teepee 
 Like the doe in the season of mating, 
 Why foolishly fearest thou me? 
 Cast the strange doubts from thy bosom ! 
 Be not afraid of my eyes ! 
 Be not as the flat-breasted squaw-sich 
 Who feels the first womanly yearnings 
 And hides, by the law of our people, 
 Alone three sleeps in the forest; 
 Be not as that brooding young maiden 
 Who wanders forlorn in the cedars, 
 And slumbers with troubled dreams, 
 To awaken suddenly, fearing 
 The hot throbbing blood in her bosom. 
 The strange eager life in her limbs. 
 Ai-yee! Foolish one, woman. 
 Cast the strange fears from thy heart! 
 Wash the red shame from thy face! 
 Be not afraid of my glances! 
 x6 
 
BEAT AGAINST ME NO LONGER 17 
 
 Be as the young silver birch 
 
 In the Moon-of-the-Green-Growing-Flowers— 
 
 Who sings with the thrill of the sap 
 
 As it leaps to the south wind's caresses ; 
 
 Who yields her rain-swollen buds 
 
 To the kiss of the sun with glad dancing. 
 
 Be as the cool tranquil moon 
 
 Who flings off her silver-blue blanket 
 
 To bare her white breast to the pine; 
 
 Who walks through the many-eyed night 
 
 In her gleaming white nudeness 
 
 With proud eyes that will not look down. 
 
 Be as the sun in her glory, 
 
 Who dances across the blue day, 
 
 And flings her red soul, fierce-burning, 
 
 Into the arms of the twilight. 
 
 Ai-yee! Foolish one, woman. 
 
 Be as the sun and the moon! 
 
 Cast the strange doubts from thy bosom ! 
 
 Wash the red shame from thy face! 
 
 Thou art a woman, a woman! 
 
 Beat against me no longer! 
 
 Be not afraid of my eyes! 
 
THE CONJURER 
 
 Come ye, spirits three! To be chanted. 
 
 Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North 1 
 
 Rise ye, ma-ni-do, from your weeg-a-wams 
 
 In the corners of the earth ! 
 
 Blow, blow, blow thy raging tempests 
 
 Through the ranks of whining pine! 
 
 Come ye! Come ye to my chee-sah-kan 
 
 Riding on thy crazy-running winds. 
 
 Hear! Hear my potent chantings! 
 
 Bestow me the strength to work my conjurings! 
 
 Hi ! Take ye my good medicine. 
 
 This precious skin of the jumping-rat 
 
 Killed in the hour when death, 
 
 When purple death walked into my lodge, — 
 
 And three m-oons, three moons dried 
 
 On the grave of my youngest son. 
 
 Hi! Hear me! Hear me, ma-ni-do! 
 
 Come ye, spirits three! 
 
 Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North ! 
 Hi! Blow, blow, blow thy whirling winds! 
 Sway my wigwam, sway it 
 With the breathings of the cyclone! 
 Hi! Bend its birchen poles 
 
 i8 
 
THE CONJURER 19 
 
 Like the reeds in yonder bay! 
 Hi ! Clutch my teepee, bend it 
 Till its peak shall scrape the ground! 
 Hear me ! Hear me, ma-ni-do ! . . . 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 How! How! Brokenly, con- 
 
 Behold ! my friends, it bends IT-tZf-^'ti" 
 
 Like a lily in the storm! the audience. 
 
 Come ye, spirits three! To be chanted. 
 
 Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North ! 
 
 On the wings of the wind send into my lodge - 
 
 The lean spirit of a lean coyote — 
 
 Of the dying prairie wolf whose whimperings 
 
 We followed many sleeps across the desert. 
 
 Make him, ma-ni-do, fling up again 
 
 His last long mournful wailings 
 
 When thirst and hunger clutched 
 
 His withered aching throat — 
 
 That the old men of my tribe may hear 
 
 Again his ghostly callings as of old. 
 
 Hear me ! Hear me, ma-ni-do ! . . . 
 
 * « • • • 
 
 How ! How ! Conversa- 
 
 TT I T^i- • iionally in an 
 
 Ho! Ihere is a power "aside." 
 
 In my precious ratskin! 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Come ye, spirits three ! To be chanted. 
 
 Out of the East, out of the West, out of the North! 
 On the wings of the wind send into this lodge 
 The spirit of Sings-in-the-Hills 
 
20 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 Who walked to his death in his birch canoe 
 
 Over the falls of the Cut- Foot Waters. 
 
 Blow his spirit into my lodge, 
 
 That his aged father who sits without 
 
 May hear his voice again. 
 
 Hear me! Hear me, ma-ni-do! 
 
 Make his ghost to talk from my lodge 
 
 That the people who watch my juggling 
 
 May know his voice again. . . . 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 How ! How ! Conver- 
 
 Hear, my people? sationally. 
 
 My medicine-skin is strong with power! 
 
 • • * * • 
 
 Hear ye, spirits three ! To be chanted. 
 
 Go ye back to thy weeg-a-wams 
 
 In the corners of the earth! 
 
 Into the East, into the West, into the North ! 
 
 Leash again the wolves of the wind. . . . 
 
 To thee, O Ma-ni-do of the East, 
 
 This handful of burning balsam 
 
 Which I fling on the dying wind; 
 
 To thee, O Ma-ni-do of the West, 
 
 This handful of yellow medicine. 
 
 Powder of precious clays; 
 
 To thee, O Ma-ni-do of the North, 
 
 This red-willow twig whereon I have rubbed 
 
 My potent medicine ratskin. 
 
 Go ye back, ye ma-ni-do. 
 
 To the comers of the earth! 
 
 Hah-eeee-yooooooooooo ! 
 
THE CONJURER 2i 
 
 . TT I Conver- 
 
 How! How! sationally. 
 
 Enter ye the teepee, my friends 1 
 Unbind ye the basswood cords from my body! 
 I am done I 
 How ! How I 
 
RED-ROCK, THE MOOSE-HUNTER 
 
 Bronze in the rose-dusted twilight, 
 A statue of bronze, arms uplifted, 
 He stands ankle-deep in the lilies 
 As rigidly fixed and as silent 
 As a red granite butte on the prairie. 
 As still as the dusk in the foot-hills — 
 " Ugh ! Red-Rock, big hunter-of-moose ! 
 Red-Rock, him fool-um old bull! 
 Red-Rock, big moose-killer ! — Ugh ! " 
 Bronze in the tranquil sunset, 
 Statuesque bronze in the willows. 
 
 A sudden rush through the lilies; 
 
 A splashing of flashing limbs. 
 
 Shattering his mirror of silver, — 
 
 Juggling his gold-glinted rainbows, 
 
 And flinging them into the winds; 
 
 A sudden swoop through the waters, 
 
 A sudden scoop of the hands, — 
 
 And bronze in the copper twilight. 
 
 With arms uplifted he stands. 
 
 Statuesque bronze in the lilies — 
 
 " Red-Rock, big caller-of-moose ! — Ugh ! " 
 
 Dripping, dripping, dripping 
 Blue-shimmering drops through his fingers; 
 
 22 
 
RED-ROCK, THE MOOSE-HUNTER 23 
 
 Dripping, dripping, dripping 
 
 Thin tinkling streams from his palms; 
 
 Plashing, plashing, plashing 
 
 Cupped handfuls of silvery waters 
 
 Splashing among the lilies, — 
 
 Black bronze in the purple twilight, 
 
 Statuesque bronze in the night — 
 
 " Red-Rock ! Big hunter-of-moose !— Ugh ! " 
 
 A long low call from the valley; 
 
 A bellow, an echoing bugle 
 
 Mellow and deep with the passion 
 
 Of lone longing male for his mate: 
 
 " Hark ! Hark ! sweet One-in-the-Lilies ! 
 
 Ho! my Splashing-One ! Ho! 
 
 I come! — with my limbs aquiver! 
 
 I come ! — with a straining of flanks ! '* 
 
 Beat-beating, beat-beating, beat-beating, 
 
 Long-loping feet in the forest ; 
 
 A clashing of horn in the timber, 
 
 A crashing of hoofs in the brush, — 
 
 A splash in the placid bayou, 
 
 An eager nose to the air. 
 
 And lo ! a palpitant bellow, 
 
 A wild-ringing rapturous blare ! . . . 
 
 Black bronze in the cool blue moonlight! 
 Black statuesque bronze in the night! 
 Cupped hands to the stars uplifted, — 
 Dripping, dripping, dripping 
 
24 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 Thin tinkling streamlets of silver, 
 Soft-plashing fountains of silver, 
 Shimmering-blue sprinklings of silver — 
 " Red-Rock ! Big killer-of-moose !— Ugh ! " 
 
RAIN SONG 
 
 Motive I 
 
 God of the Thunders, Thunder-God, To he read with 
 
 Hear thou our medicine rattles ! t'afofZnc. 
 
 Hear ! Hear our sounding drums ! rhythm. 
 
 Hi ! Our medicine bag on yonder rock 
 Has a power, a big-good medicine power — 
 Three silver scales of the Great Sea Monster — 
 Ho ! Big rain-medicine ! Strong rain-medicine ! Ho ! 
 Ugh ! Behold ! On the rock by the stream the Beast 
 Has placed three scales from his slimy belly — 
 Ho ! Big medicine ! Ho ! Strong medicine ! — 
 Silver scales of the Big Sea Monster! 
 Hi! Spirit-of-Thunder, come in thy fury, 
 Come with thy wet winds, come with thy many waters ; 
 Come in thy wrath against thy foe 
 That taunts thee there with his filthy poison. 
 All the children of the earth are good, 
 Heap-good in the heart to the Thunders; 
 All the children of the earth are bitter — 
 Ugh! — bitter to thy foe, the Demon! — 
 We spit! — Behold! we spit on him! 
 Come with a heart that is good to thy children — 
 Ho ! And big-many waters and heap-much rain ! 
 Come with a heart that is bad to our enemy — 
 
 25 
 
26 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 Ho ! And big-much lightning, plenty-big storm ! 
 Ho ! Silver-wing God, with thy swift wet feet, 
 Come ! Come ! Come in thy big black war clouds ! 
 Hurl thy arrows of flashing flame ! 
 Rush at our foe with thy whirlwind waters! 
 Crush with thy storms the stinking beast 
 That defies thee here with his slimy poison — 
 Ho! Big medicine! Ho! Strong medicine! — 
 Silver scales of the Big Sea Snake! 
 
 Ho! 
 
 Motive II 
 
 Hah-yee ! Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! 
 
 God of the Thunders, Thunder-God, Dance rhythm 
 
 Hear thou our medicine rattles ! ^^^f/^'^ ^^^^^^ 
 
 Hear! Hear our sounding drums! minor wail. 
 
 Two moons the mountain brooks have been dr}% 
 
 And the panting birds like ghosts in a row, 
 
 Sit in the shade and sing no longer. 
 
 Our Brother, the Sun, can find his face 
 
 No more in the shining-glass of the river; 
 
 His eyes see nothing but yellow cracked mud 
 
 As wrinkled as the skins of our old women ! 
 
 Eagerly the sunflower lifts her mouth to the dew, 
 
 Yet her lips parch and her head droops, 
 
 And her leafy arms grow thin and wither ! 
 
 Ai-yee! Thunderer, Spirit of the Big Waters, 
 With burning tongues all the children of the earth — 
 
RAIN SONG 2*7 
 
 The flower-people and the hungry grasses, 
 The sky-flyers and the water-walkers — 
 All, all are calling, calling, calling to thee ! — 
 Hear! Hear our many, many callings! 
 Hah-yee ! Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! 
 
 Thick with hot dust the old men of the forest 
 
 Stand with bended heads, complaining wearily, 
 
 Grumbling ever at the hot winds, 
 
 Mumbling ever of the beating sun. 
 
 Among the brittle pines the fires run 
 
 With many swift feet through the crackling bushes; 
 
 And the deer, like whirling leaves in the wind, 
 
 Scurry madly before their scorching breath. 
 
 The sweet wet grass of our valley-meadows 
 
 Is blown by the hot winds into powder; 
 
 And our ponies nibble at rustling rushes. 
 
 Like the papoose that puts its hungry mouth 
 
 To the scrawny breast of an old squaw, 
 
 The corn thirstily sucks at the earth — 
 
 In the blistered earth there is dust, dust! 
 
 And my brothers talk with thick hot tongues, 
 
 And my people walk with skinny bellies, 
 
 And die like the burning grass of the prairies! 
 
 Ai-yee ! Thunderer, Spirit of the Big Waters, 
 With parching mouths all the children of the earth — 
 The many- foot- walkers and the belly-creepers. 
 The timber-beasts and the all-over-the-earth- 
 
 walkers — 
 All, all are calling, calling, calling to thee ! 
 
28 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 Hear ! Hear their many, many callings ! 
 Hah-yee 1 Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! Hah-yo-ho-o-o-o ! 
 
 Ugh! 
 Ugh! 
 
 Motive III 
 
 Hah-yaaaaaaah ! Hah-yaaaaaaah ! To he read with 
 
 Hah-yaaaaaaah ! Hah-yaaaaaaah ! with tile Ult Zd 
 
 God of the Thunders, Thunder-God, the steady beat 
 
 Hear thou our medicine rattles! rhytitm 
 
 Hear ! Hear our sounding drums ! 
 
 Hi-yee! Behind the clouds on the far horizon, 
 
 Beat, beat, beat on thy crashing war drums! 
 
 Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! To the war-dance beat, 
 
 Shake the earth with thy stamping feet ! 
 
 Over the fires of the blazing sky 
 
 Fling thy blankets of thick wet mist! 
 
 Roll from the hills the wet gray fog! 
 
 Blow from the hills the cool wet winds ! 
 
 Hi ! Come ! Come ! Come, thou God of the Thunder ! 
 
 Come on thy whirling winds from the West! 
 
 Come with a rush of thy wings of silver! 
 
 Crush our foe with thy tramping feet! 
 
 Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! With thy flame-plumed war club, 
 
 Crack the skies in wrath asunder; 
 
 And pour from thy hand through thy silver fingers 
 
 Cool sweet- waters on the panting earth ! 
 
RAIN SONG 29 
 
 Ho! Winged-One of the rumbling rain clouds, 
 With thy war drums, sky drums, call thy Water- 
 Spirits. 
 On thy serpent- foe — we spit on him ! — 
 Let loose thy fire-flashing Thunder! 
 Ho! Big Tornado! Ho! Thou Cyclone! 
 Rouse from slumber, dash from the North! 
 Ho! Big Hand-Walker, who goes head down, 
 With twirling legs that walk in the sky. 
 Come over the plains with thy trailing hair 
 Of tangled winds and twisting rains ! 
 
 Ho! Thou God of the Thunder-drums, 
 Pour from thy hands the many-many waters: 
 Ho ! Rains like clouds of silver lances. 
 Cool long rains that slant from the West; 
 Rains that walk on gentle little moccasins. 
 Softly slipping from the fogs in the East; 
 Cold white rains from the Land-of-Winter, 
 Dripping in the trees, beating on the birchbark ; 
 Soft rains, gray rains, rains that are gentle. 
 Swift rains, big rains, rains that are windy^- 
 Rains, rains, many-many rains! 
 
 Hi! Thou God of the Sounding Thunder, 
 Split the clouds with thy club asunder! 
 Come! Come! Come with thy stamping feet! 
 Hi! Hi! Hi! To the war-dance beat! 
 Bitter in the heart to the Great Sea Monster ; 
 Bitter to our foe; bitter to his poison — 
 
30 
 
 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 Ho! Big medicine! Ho! Strong medicine! 
 Silver scales of the Big Sea Snake! 
 
 Ho! Ho! 
 
 Medicine Man to the Assembled Tribe: 
 
 Go to thy wigwams, my people. 
 Already the morning star is high. 
 Sleep with untroubled hearts. 
 
 Conversation- 
 ally in a 
 matter-of-fact 
 tone. 
 
 Come tomorrow to the dancing-ring ; 
 
 The doctors will then dance the Thanks-Song. 
 
 Bring presents — Ho ! — and plenty grub ! 
 
 Medicine Man to a Fellow Medicine Man: 
 
 Ugh! Lame- Wolf! . . . Tobacco! . . . 
 
 Ugh ! . . . I spit on your red-willow tobacco ! 
 
 It has no teeth ! It is for squaws ! Brusquely. 
 
 Give me your white man's tobacco-r— 
 
 The black stick with the stuck-on silver dog! . . . 
 
 Ho! 
 
PART II 
 LONE FIRES 
 
THE LOON 
 
 A lonely lake, a lonely shore, 
 A lone pine leaning on the moon; 
 All night the water-beating wings 
 Of a solitary loon. 
 
 With mournful wail from dusk to dawn 
 He gibbered at the taunting stars — 
 A hermit-soul gone raving mad, 
 And beating at his bars. 
 
 33 
 
GOD IS AT THE ANVIL 
 
 God is at the anvil, beating out the sun ; 
 
 Where the molten metal spills, 
 
 At His forge among the hills 
 He has hammered out the glory of a day that's done. 
 
 God is at the anvil, welding golden bars; 
 
 In the scarlet-streaming flame 
 
 He is fashioning a frame 
 For the shimmering silver beauty of the evening stars. 
 
 34 
 
PHILOSOPHIC FROGS 
 
 A congress of bullfrogs jowl-deep in the slime, 
 To the droll moon was croaking its notions of rime. 
 And puffy with pride each wight in the throng 
 Expounded with vigor the charm of his song: 
 
 " Gr-rump ! Gr-rump ! " bellowed Green-back, " I 
 sing of the mud ; oh, the beautiful, beautiful 
 mud ! " 
 
 And he flopped his big belly — ker-plunk! — in the 
 clay with a heave and a terrible thud. 
 
 "Quite r-right! Quite r-right!" rejoined the 
 
 philosophic band, 
 " Sing of the true, the real, of the common thing 
 
 at hand." 
 
 " Ker-r-r-chug ! " piped Yellow-Vest, " I sing of the 
 
 slimy pond; 
 Eternal Beauty is there, and not in the moons 
 
 beyond." 
 
 " Yer-r r-right ! " quoth Plunk, " but don't be silly ; 
 Praise not the slime, but its fruitage, the lily." 
 
 35 
 
36 LONE FIRES 
 
 " Get along-ng-ng ! though flowers are sweet," 
 scoffed Blink, " we'll not concede a jot ! 
 
 Vermin nest in the hearts of flowers; all lilies 
 are touched with rot ! " 
 
 " Jug-o'-r-r-rum ! " croaked Puff, " why sing of the 
 
 stars, so cold, remote, and high ! 
 I pray to a closer, warmer light; I sing of the 
 
 firefly ! " 
 
 And thus deriding the heavenly host, this tribe with 
 
 vocal might 
 And philosophic grunt held forth through many a 
 
 summer night. . . . 
 
 Autumn marched in with its bluster and blow; 
 And winter rushed down with a whirling of snow. 
 The swamp-world lay dead and th* amphibian choir 
 Slept songless and lean in the beautiful mire. 
 Where the muck-rooted lilies and slender reeds 
 Were a mess of rank rubbish and rotting weeds. 
 And the will-o'-the-wisp, the substitute star. 
 The ideal of Life, of " things as they are," 
 Curled up his carcass and jerked up his knees, — 
 His lamp flickered out in the first autumn breeze. 
 
 And the placid old moon widely yawned, slyly blinked ; 
 And the stars with a chuckle looked pond-ward, and 
 winked ! 
 
THE WOLF CRY 
 
 The Arctic moon hangs overhead; 
 
 The wide white silence lies below. 
 A starveling pine stands lone and gaunt, 
 
 Black-penciled on the snow. 
 
 Weird as the moan of sobbing winds, 
 A lone long call floats up from the trail ; 
 
 And the naked soul of the frozen North 
 Trembles in that wail. 
 
 37 
 
THE CABIN ON THE CLIFF 
 
 The little cabin seems to wear 
 Such a panic-stricken air, — 
 Clinging perilously high 
 Silhouetted on the sky. 
 
 There is such a tragic fear 
 In the furtive eyes that peer 
 Down upon the ocean's jaw, 
 Red and ravenous of maw. 
 
 Such a terror in her soul 
 When the casual pebbles roll, — 
 Oh, the frantic nervous gripping, 
 Fearful that her hands are slipping ! 
 
 Such a never-ending dread 
 Of the forest overhead, — 
 Wondering when the inching spruce 
 Will crowd her aching fingers loose. 
 
 38 
 
THE FOG-BELL 
 
 All the long night, all the long day, 
 
 When the thick gray fogs of the sea were rolling, 
 Where combers boom in the leaden gloom, 
 
 I heard the lugubrious fog-bell tolling. 
 
 All the long night, all the long day, 
 
 With a sullen song and a voice grown weary, 
 
 The slow-tongued bell at each long low swell, 
 Complained of a life abysmally dreary. 
 
 All the long night, all the long day, 
 
 Rest from the tides! was the theme of her nioamng; 
 But the thin-lipped surge, a pitiless urge, 
 
 Cracked his white lash and jeered at her groaning. 
 
 39 
 
THE GRANITE MOUNTAIN 
 
 To C. S, 
 
 I know a mountain, lone it lies 
 Under wide blue Arctic skies. 
 
 Gray against the crimson rags 
 Of sunset loom its granite crags. 
 
 Gray granite are the peaks that sunder 
 The clouds, and gray the shadows under. 
 
 Down the weathered gullies flow 
 Waters from its crannied snow; 
 
 Tumbling cataracts that roar 
 Cannonading down the shore ; 
 
 And rivulets that hurry after 
 With a sound of silver laughter. 
 
 Up its ramparts winds a trail 
 To a clover-meadowed vale. 
 
 High among the hills and woods 
 Locked in lonely solitudes. 
 40 
 
THE GRANITE MOUNTAIN 41 
 
 Only wild feet can essay 
 
 The perils of that cragged way. 
 
 And here beneath the rugged shoulders 
 Of the granite cliffs and boulders, 
 
 In the valley of the sky 
 
 Where tranquil twilight shadows lie. 
 
 Hunted creatures in their flight 
 Find a refuge for the night. 
 
DAKOTAH 
 
 Vast is the silent far-flung plain, 
 Shouldering its fields of rippling grain. 
 
 Wide are the winds that hurry by, 
 Out of the stretch of the prairie sky. 
 
 And the far horizons seem to be 
 But a hint of a Vast Infinity. 
 
 42 
 
THE WHITE-THROAT 
 
 Att 
 
 day long 
 
 fiddlin\ fiddlin', Jiddlin. 
 
 Deep in the somber solitude. 
 Where only curious stars intrude, 
 In the sultry blight of August haze, 
 Or the rain-washed air of April days, 
 The white-throat flutes in cadence long 
 His golden rivulet of song: 
 " All-day-long-fiddlin^ fiddlin', fiddlin'J 
 
 What joy he feels, what pride he takes 
 
 In the simple tune he makes ! 
 
 He never envies Robin's trills ; 
 
 He never seems to care for frills — 
 
 Just content in a humble way 
 
 On his single golden string to play : 
 
 " All-day-long-fiddHn', fiddlin', fiddlin'.' 
 
 O lone drab singer ! never weary 
 When other brilliant birds are dreary, 
 Teach me my humble task to do 
 With buoyant faith and courage true; 
 With a gladsome heart in sun or rain 
 To sing unheard the brave refrain : 
 " All-day-long-fiddlin', fiddlin', fiddlin'.' 
 43 
 
REFUGE 
 
 When stars ride in on the wings of dusk, 
 
 Out on the silent plain, 
 After the fevered fret of day, 
 
 I find my strength again. 
 
 Under the million friendly eyes 
 That smile in the lonely night. 
 
 Close to the rolling prairie's heart, 
 I find my heart for the fight. 
 
 Out where the cool long winds blow free, 
 
 I fling myself on the sod ; 
 And there in the tranquil solitude 
 
 I find my soul, — and God. 
 
 44 
 
SWAMP-OWL 
 
 A brooding pond in the hush of dusk, 
 
 As black as the pools of night; 
 Rimmed round with spires of somber spruce,- 
 
 Gaunt ghosts in the phantom light. 
 
 A beating of heavy wings in the dark; 
 
 A rush from the dismal glen ; 
 A sudden swoop, and the leaden wings 
 
 Went beating back again. 
 
 In the utter gloom of that sunken land. 
 
 Never a creature stirred, 
 As night beat into the sullen swamp 
 
 With the wings of that ghostly bird. 
 
 4S 
 
OF THESE FOUR THINGS I CANNOT WRITE 
 
 Of these four Things I cannot write: 
 
 After the scourge of the molten sands of the desert, 
 After the sunken hot eyes and the panting tongue, — 
 The thrill of the cool blue springs in the foothills, 
 The cold-fingered dew on the lips parched and 
 
 blazing. 
 And the silvery tinkle of green glacial waters 
 That sprinkle the throbbing brow. . . . 
 
 After the anguish of hot leaden limbs on the portage. 
 After the feverish days over deadland trails, — 
 
 The repose of the gray-veiled and quiet-eyed twi- 
 light. 
 The shimmering haze of the blue mountain valley. 
 And the tranquil blue deep of the pool where trem- 
 ulous 
 Sleep the calm swimming stars. . . . 
 
 After the footfalls of sinister night in the gullies, 
 After the ominous moan of the canyoned winds, — 
 The touch of a quiet gray Presence beside me. 
 The confident sense of Hands hovering about me, 
 And the Call from the hills where the murmurous 
 
 river 
 Spills over the white cascades. . . . 
 
 46 
 
OF THESE FOUR THINGS 47 
 
 And when at last, struggling to utter 
 
 The cry of these three glories, 
 
 My pen shall cease to stutter across the page,— 
 
 Shall be no longer a futile stammering thing, 
 
 But a burning soul, articulate, — 
 
 Then I shall sing! Oh, then I shall sing 
 
 Of the glorious whole of these wild splendors! 
 
 Oh, then I shall sing of the eyes, 
 
 Of the dusky eyes of a Woman. 
 
THE GREAT DIVIDE 
 
 When I drift out on the Silver Sea, 
 
 O may it be 
 
 A blue night 
 
 With a white moon 
 
 And a sprinkling of stars in the cedar tree ; 
 
 And the silence of God, 
 
 And the low call 
 
 Of a lone bird, — 
 
 When I drift out on the Silver Sea. 
 
 48 
 
PART III 
 
 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 
 
 A Group of Indian Council Talks 
 
THE WINDS OF FIFTY WINTERS * 
 
 The Weasel-Eye, the hawk-nosed one, 
 
 With the long white heard and soft white hands, 
 
 Arose before the Pillagers and Otter tails 
 
 Who squatted by the council- fire. 
 
 Fixing on his nose the little windows, 
 
 And putting on his face a pretty smile, 
 
 The Weasel-Eye " made talk, big talk ": 
 
 THE WEASEL-EYE TALKS *. 
 
 " My brothers, good red brothers. To he read with 
 
 Brothers each and all, It/t^'Tnorid, 
 
 By me, his honest trusted agent declamatory 
 
 Whose heart is good to the Indian, ^^^nner. 
 
 The Great White Chief sends greetings 
 To his good red children — 
 Ah! and many pretty presents! 
 
 {Ho! 
 
 Hi-yah ! Hi-yah ! 
 
 How! How! How!) 
 
 " Gaze ye ! — Flashing silver-glass 
 And tinkling copper bells! 
 And powder kegs and beads, 
 
 *For supplementary notes on "The Winds of Fifty Win- 
 ters" and other poems in Part III, see Appendix, page 71. 
 
 51 
 
52 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 
 
 And tall black shining hats! 
 Ye shall walk arrayed 
 Like yon gorgeous blazing sun 
 If ye but heed my counsel. 
 
 (Ho! Ho! Ho!) 
 
 " Go ye North ! 
 
 Forsake these rolling hills; 
 
 This vast, too-vast country. 
 
 Forsake these wolf-infested forests, 
 
 That Pale-Face tillers of the soil 
 
 May lay their Iron-Roads 
 
 And scratch the ground for harvests. 
 
 Go ye North! to the barren lands, 
 
 To the land of the marked-out ground. 
 
 And though there be no moose 
 
 Within its flame-swept timber, 
 
 Nor whitefish in its waters. 
 
 Nor patches of wild berries, 
 
 Nor fields of nodding rice, 
 
 Yet will ye be content 
 
 For I will pay ye well ; 
 
 To every warrior, guns, — 
 
 Six beavers* worth; 
 
 To every headman, blankets, — 
 
 Red as yonder sky; 
 
 To every chieftain, ponies, — 
 
 Six, more or less. 
 
 And there, in the marked-out North, 
 
 Your tribe may eat and dance 
 
 Forever and forever." 
 
THE WINDS OF FIFTY WINTERS 53 
 
 " Gaze upon me, O my brothers, 
 
 My good red brothers, 
 
 And heed ye well my counsel ! 
 
 The winds of fifty winters 
 
 Have blown about my head, 
 
 And, lo ! my hair is white with snow ! 
 
 The winds of fifty winters 
 
 Have blown about my head. 
 
 And, lo! much wisdom lodged therein! 
 
 And from the winds of fifty winters, 
 
 Their wisdom, storms, and snows, 
 
 Lo! I counsel ye: 
 
 Sign ye this treaty! 
 
 Take ye the presents ! 
 
 Go ye to the North ! " 
 
 In the council-grove long silence fell, 
 
 Save for a little laughing wind 
 
 That wandered in the pines. 
 
 Then, sinuous and supple as the wildcat, 
 
 Ah-nah-mah-kee , the '^ Thunder-Bolt" strode forward. 
 
 And stood a moment silent — 
 
 Straight as the Norway pine 
 
 That rears its head above yon timber; 
 
 And in his eyes the many little lightnings Hashed, 
 
 But on the corner of his tnouth a sunbeam played: 
 
 THUNDER-BOLT TALKS I 
 
 " O my brothers, m}^ red brothers, 
 Brothers each and all. 
 
54 
 
 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 
 
 The Weasel-Eye has spoken. 
 
 He has opened up his honey mouth; 
 
 And from the heart that is so good 
 
 He has poured his sounding words. 
 
 His heap-much pretty talk 
 
 Is like the tinkling stream 
 
 Of babbling sweet-water that gurgles 
 
 Down from the mountain springs. 
 
 But like the sweet- water of the brook, 
 
 That stops its pretty running 
 
 In the swamp and stands one sleep 
 
 In the deep and quiet pools, 
 
 The pretty words turn bitter-sour. 
 
 To he read sim- 
 ply and quietly 
 with an under- 
 current of 
 humor and 
 innuendo. 
 
 " Gaze upon me, O my brothers, 
 
 My good red brothers ! 
 
 The winds of fifty winters 
 
 Have blown about my head, 
 
 And, lo! my hair is white with snow! 
 
 The winds of fifty winters 
 
 Have blown about my head, 
 
 And lo! much wisdom lodged therein! 
 
 The winds of fifty winters 
 
 Have blown about my head — 
 
 But, lo ! they have not blown away my brains ! 
 
 To be read in a 
 /I or id, pompous 
 manner. 
 
 I am done 1 " 
 
 (Ho! 
 Hi! Hi! 
 How! How! 
 
 How!) 
 
CHIEF BEAR'S-HEART "MAKES TALK" 
 
 Agent-man from Keetch-ie O-gi-ma, To he read 
 
 Our Big W'ite Chief, t^l^t 
 
 De heart of all de 'Cheebway deep resonant 
 
 T 1. -u ^4. tones and in a 
 
 In my tribe are good to you; ^^^^^ ,„^„„^^ 
 
 My people want your heart broken by 
 
 Be good to all de Eenzhuns. ^stZufed ""tmo- 
 
 tion. 
 
 In Summer-of-de-Many-Rains, 
 
 Comes Long-Blade soldier, Major Rice, 
 
 An' Black-Robes priest, for mak'-um treaty. 
 
 Dey mak'-um talk in council, so : 
 
 " 'Cheebway, 'Cheebway, mak'-um treaty ; 
 
 Walk on far-away reservation an' live ; 
 
 You go new reservation, you get-um plenty t'ing 
 
 From Keetch-ie O-gi-ma: 
 
 Get-um plenty grub an' money; 
 
 Plenty t'ing for belly an' for back." 
 
 Den Long-Blade stick-um one hand 
 
 On Big-Black-Book an' treaty-paper, 
 
 An' raise-um oder hand to Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do, 
 
 De w'ite man's Big Spirit, an' say: 
 
 " 'Cheebway, all dose t'ing on treaty sure will be ! " . . . 
 
 Ho! Eenzhun scratch-um paper; 
 
 Stick-um t'umb on treaty; 
 
 An' walk on reservation. 
 
 55 
 
56 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 
 
 Wat's come treaty now! Ugh? 
 
 No got-um plenty grub! 
 'Cheebway got-um small flat belly; 
 No got-um w'ite man's big fat belly! 
 
 Comes soon de Winter-Maker, 
 
 Blowing on de river wit' hees icy breath 
 
 An' making dem stand still IVith repressed 
 
 Wit' sleep beneat' de snow. ZThcril^in 
 
 An' Nort' Wind whistle crazy-wild power. 
 
 T'rough crying spruce an' cedar; 
 
 An' Miik-wa, ol' fat bear, he sleep 
 
 An' sheever in hees hole; 
 
 An' Pee-nay, hungry pa'tridge. 
 
 Bury in de balsam snow-drif. 
 
 Now walk on Eenzhun wee-ga-wam! 
 
 'Cheebway sit dere hungry, — 
 
 In winter no can get-um grub lak moose 
 
 Who paw big hole in snow for plenty moss. 
 
 No got-um plenty money ; 
 
 No got-um w'ite man's grub. 
 
 Squaw, she got-um sick, — 
 
 Bad osh-kee-shee-gwa-pee-nay, — 
 
 She sick on eye lak devil-hell. 
 
 Squaw-sich, little gal, 
 
 She got-um measles-sick, 
 
 De Spotted-Sickness on de face. 
 
 Little boy, he got-um heap-sick, — 
 
 Bad 6h-pun-nah-pee-nay, — 
 
 Bad Coughing-Sickness ; 
 
BEAR'S-HEART "MAKES TALK" 5; 
 
 Ugh! He spit all-tamM— 
 
 Got-um sick on lung, an' hot on cheek; 
 
 Got-um eye she blaze lak wildcat! . . . 
 
 W*y should be dose t'ing? 
 
 Ugh ! Go w'ite man's town : Slowly and 
 
 TT i. 1 .L u brokenly with a 
 
 He got-um plenty grub; „^,^ of irony. 
 
 Hees belly laugh wit' grub ! 
 
 VV'y should be diff'rence, ha-aaah? 
 
 Mebbe w'ite man's God he want-um diff'rence ! Ugh ! 
 
 Mebbe Ma-ni-do no lak-um Eenzhun chil'en ! Hah ! 
 
 Mebbe Ma-ni-do f orget-um Eenzhun chil'en ! Ugh ! 
 
 Mebbe so ! Mebbe so ! . . . 
 
 Mebbe no! With dramatic 
 
 Look-um straight! 
 
 Talk-um straight! 
 
 Ai-yee! Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do 
 
 He no f orget-um 'Cheebway Eenzhun! 
 
 Eenzhun chil'en, good chil'en! 
 
 Big Spirit lak-um Eenzhun chil'en 
 
 Jus' so much he lak-um Long- Knife. Slowly, with 
 
 r zj I zj t subtle changes 
 
 {Ho! Mo! of emotion 
 
 How! How!) from humor 
 
 T J. n^ ^ 1 and ironv to 
 
 Inspector 1 aylo , sarcasm ^ and 
 
 In council of olden tarn' bitterness. 
 
 De Long-Blade stick-um hand on Big-Black-Book, 
 An' raise-um oder hand to sky an' say : 
 *' All dose t'ing on treaty-paper sure will be ! " 
 
 Mebbe. ... 
 Mebbe. . . . 
 
=;8 
 
 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 
 
 Mebbe he was only fool for fun ! Hah? 
 Ho! Long-Blade only fool for fun! Ho! 
 
 Mebbe so! . . . Mebbe so! . . . 
 
 Mebbe hees tongue talk-um 
 Little bit crooked! Ho? 
 
 Mebbe so! . . . Mebbe so! . . . 
 
 Mebbe he got-uni forks in tongue, 
 Wit' little poison-gland ! Ugh ! 
 Eenzhun t'ink — 
 He lie! . . . 
 
 With intense 
 dramatic force 
 — somewhat re- 
 pressed. 
 
 Look on me! . . . 
 Look on me! ... 
 Look on me! . . . 
 
 Talk-um straight today! 
 
 No got-um double-snake-tongue! 
 
 I have said it! 
 
 {Ho! 
 
 How! How! 
 
 Ho! Ho! Ho!) 
 
LITTLE-CARIBOU MAKES "BIG TALK" 
 
 Boo-zhoo ! Boo-zhoo ! 
 
 Me, Ah-deek-koons, I mak-um big talk. 
 
 Me, ol' man; I'm got-um sick on knee 
 
 In rainy wedder w'en I'm walk. Ugh! 
 
 Me, lak moose w'at's ol', 
 
 I'm drop-um plenty toot'! 
 
 Yet I am big man ! Ho ! 
 
 An' I am talk-um big ! Ho ! 
 
 To he read 
 brokenly in a 
 high-pitched 
 voice with a 
 touch of queru- 
 lousness and 
 Petulance, and 
 an occasional 
 note of 
 drollery. 
 
 (Hi-yee! Blow lak moose, oV man! 
 Ho! Ho! 
 
 Hi-yi! Little-Caribou him talk 
 Lak 0-mah-kah-kce, dose Bullfrog: 
 Big moiif, big belly, 
 No can fight!) 
 
 Ugh ! Close mout', young crazy buck ! 
 
 You stop-um council-talk, 
 
 You go 'way council! 
 
 Sit wit' squaw ! 
 
 You lak little poh-toong, 
 
 Lak pollywog tad-pole : 
 
 No can jump-um 
 
 Over little piece mud; 
 
 59 
 
6o CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 
 
 Can only shake-um tail 
 Lak crazy-dam-fool ! . . . 
 
 Keetch-ie O-gi-ma, Big Preshiden', 
 
 He got-um plenty t'ougbts in head ; 
 
 Me, Caribou, Vm got-um plenty-good t'ougbts, 
 
 Got-um plenty-good t'ougbts in bead. 
 
 Yet Eenzbun-Agent all-tam* saying : 
 
 "Ab-deek-koons, be crazy ol' fool ! '* 
 
 Ugb ! He crazy ol' fool ! 
 
 Keetcb-ie O-gi-ma long tam' ago 
 
 Was say in Pine Point Treaty: 
 
 " All de 'Cbeebway sbould be farmer ; 
 
 All will get from Wasbin'ton gov'ment 
 
 Good allotment farm land, 
 
 One bondred-sixty acre eacb." Ho! 
 
 Ho! Eenzbun scratcb-um treaty ! 
 
 Stick-um t'umb on treaty ! 
 
 Wat's come treaty? Hab? 
 
 Eenzbun got-um bondred-sixty acre, 
 
 But got-um too mucb little pieces, — 
 
 Pieces scattered over lake 
 
 Lak leaves sbe's blow by wind. 
 
 In tam'rack swamp by Moose Tail Bay 
 
 He got-um forty acre piece. 
 
 Ten mile away, on Lake of Cut-Foot Sioux, 
 
 In mush-kaig an' in rice-field, 
 
 He got-um forty acre more. 
 
 On Bowstring Lake, sbe's forty-mile away. 
 
LITTLE-CARIBOU MAKES "BIG TALK" 6i 
 
 In sand and pickerel weed. 
 
 He got-um forty acre more. 
 
 Hondred mile away, on Lac La Croix, 
 
 Were lumberman is mak' big dam 
 
 For drive-um log, — an' back-um up water 
 
 All over Eenzhun allotment land, — 
 
 He got-um forty acre more, — all under lake ! 
 
 How can Eenzhun be good farmer ! Ugh ? 
 
 He's got-um land all over lake ! 
 
 He's got-um land all under lake! 
 
 For Eenzhun be good farmer 
 
 Eenzhun should be good for walking under water! 
 
 Should be plow hees land wit' clam-drag! 
 
 Should be gadder potato crops wit' fish-net! 
 
 For Eenzhun be good farmer 
 
 Eenzhun should be fish! 
 
 Ugh! 
 
 I have said it! 
 
 {Ho! Ho! Ho! 
 
 Hi! Hi! Plenty-big talk! 
 
 How!) 
 
WHIRLING-RAPIDS TALKS 
 
 Boo-zhoo ! Inspector Taylor ! 
 
 I, Wah-wee-yah-tun-ung, Chief Whirling-Rapids, 
 
 Make this talk, " big talk," for all my people 
 
 Sitting there in the pines. To he read 
 
 stolidly and 
 monotonously 
 
 In eighteen eighty-nine i^^ith deep resc 
 
 The Long-Blade, Major Rice, ''''''* '^"'^• 
 
 Called council with the Ojibways on Pine Point, 
 And there he made this big and pretty talk: 
 K'tchee-gah-mee Indians, men of the land of the Big- 
 Water, 
 Today we will make a good treaty; 
 Go to the marked-out reservation; 
 Here will come no white men; 
 Here will ye hunt and dance in peace. 
 Free from all the Long-Knives." 
 
 Ho! Good talk! Pretty talk! 
 
 {Ho! 
 Ugh! 
 Ho! Ho!) 
 
 Ugh ! Talk now of the Treaty of Pine Point ! 
 Comes too much white man on the reservation ! 
 
 62 
 
WHIRLING-RAPIDS TALKS 63 
 
 My people know the story ! 
 
 It is marked on the slashed pine, 
 
 And the burned timbers, 
 
 And the scratched earth. 
 
 Came the trappers for our beaver; 
 
 Came the crazy Iron-Roads, 
 
 And the crazy Fire- Wagons, 
 
 Blowing Devil's-Noise, 
 
 Puffing Devil's-Breath — 
 
 Ugh! 
 
 Came the loggers with their axes. 
 
 With their flashing iron axes; 
 
 And our mighty forests trembled 
 
 From the cursings — from the clashings 
 
 Of the irons everywhere — 
 
 Ugh! 
 
 Came the rat-eyed little traders 
 
 With their shining silver clocks, 
 
 Their eesh-kwo-day-wah-boo. 
 
 Their plenty Fire- Water, 
 
 Their plenty Devil's- Spit — 
 
 Ugh! 
 
 Came many, many Long-Knives, 
 
 Pretty on the outside. 
 
 Rotten in the heart; 
 
 From the many, many towns 
 
 Came many waves of white men- — 
 
 Big wave, big wave. 
 
 Wave, wave, wave. 
 
 And my people wither like the oak-leaves; 
 
 And hunger stalks about my village ; 
 
64 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 
 
 And sickness spots my little children; From this point 
 
 And often in the Moon-of-Freezing ihoJidTe read 
 
 The chantings for the dead are as many -^th a stfstained 
 
 As the wailings of the starving panthers. li^X' increasing 
 
 Ai-yeee ! Pity us ! «« volume and 
 
 Ai-yeee! Pity us! power.''^ 
 
 Little wave, little wave, 
 
 Big wave, big wave, 
 
 Wave, wave, wave, — 
 
 So comes the white man in the North, 
 
 Like the waters of the ocean. 
 
 On the waters of that sea walks the Indian 
 
 In his frail and battered Chee-mon, 
 
 In his dancing birch canoe. 
 
 And he paddles from the dawn to the twilight. 
 
 Comes the little rippling water on the bow. 
 
 Little white fingers rippling on the birch-bark. 
 
 Rippling white fingers blowing in the breeze. 
 
 Comes little wave of white men. 
 
 Little wave, little wave, 
 
 Many pretty waves. 
 
 Comes bigger wave of white men, 
 Bigger wave of white men. 
 Big waves, big waves. 
 Tumbling into the silver shore, 
 Rumbhng as they come; 
 Foaming, roaring, leaping billows. 
 Bending like the weeping willows, 
 Rolling up and tumbling over. 
 
WHIRLING-RAPIDS TALKS 65 
 
 Rolling, 
 
 Rolling, 
 
 Rolling up and rolling under, 
 
 Growling with a mighty thunder, — 
 
 Higher, higher, wildly leaping higher — 
 
 Flashing tongues across the sky, 
 
 Fire in the crackling clouds, fire! — 
 
 Wave, wave, wave. 
 
 Rolling up and tumbling over. 
 
 Shattering silver spray 
 
 On the Indian in the Chee-mon, 
 
 Battering iron fists upon his birch-bark, — 
 
 Crazy laughing crazy-waters, 
 
 Crazy hands and crazy arms 
 
 Splashing wildly in the wind, 
 
 Crashing madly on the tossing birch-bark. 
 
 Smashing wildly at the wailing 'Cheebway . . , 
 
 And the Indian walking on the waters 
 
 Flings his chantings to the Spirits in the sky: 
 
 " Hah-eee-00000! Kectch-ie Md-ni-do, 
 
 I sing the chant of death! 
 
 O pity me I To be read with 
 
 And stop the crazy-waters, ?*!!&'"' 
 
 Ai-yee! the rolling waves of white men, . . . 
 
 pity me! 
 
 Hah-eee-ooooo! Kectch-ie Md-ni-do! 
 
 1 am asking with a good heart 
 That 
 
 "Ai-yee! The Spirit cannot hear me; 
 Nothing does he hear 
 
65 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 
 
 But the clashing iron axes. ^rt'cTViih 
 
 The rumblings of the waters, dramatic force 
 
 And the cursings in the timber on the sHgMy re-^ 
 
 shore. . . . wailing. 
 
 " Ai-yee ! He hurls his balls of fire, 
 Fiercely crashing in the timber, — 
 In the timber 
 There is Death! 
 
 " O pity me ! 
 
 ** Ai-yee ! He lashes at his clouds. 
 At his frightened shivering clouds. 
 With his whips 
 Of cracking wind I 
 
 " O pity me ! 
 
 *' Ai-yee ! He lunges with his spear, 
 With his double-lightning spear, 
 At the trembling 
 Little Chee-mon! 
 
 " O pity me ! 
 O pity me! 
 
 »» 
 
 Look! He plunges at the wailing ^Cheebway- 
 Look!— With crazy hands of crazy-waters! . 
 
WHIRLING-Rx\PIDS TALKS 67 
 
 Lo ! and Death walks with the Indian 
 On the bottom of the lake, 
 Beneath the crazy-waters, 
 Crashing up and rolling over . . . 
 Crashing up . . . and rolling over . . . 
 Crashing up . . . and rolling over . . . 
 Rolling . . . rolling ... 
 Rolling over . . . over . . . 
 Rolling . . . rolling . . . rolling . . . 
 
 Now the dripping sun is laughing in the rainbow-sky, 
 
 On the quivering silver birches on the land ; 
 
 And the laughing little waters with their little white 
 
 - , Quietly with 
 
 feet, Q iiit^ 
 
 Run pattering on the shifting yellow sand. 
 
 But the Devil- Spirit, Much-ie Ma-ni-do, 
 
 Is walking on the bottom of the lake, 
 
 In the drifting tangled weeds. 
 
 In the water shimmering green 
 
 Where the fishes flash 
 
 And shiver in the sun. 
 
 He is shaking his big belly, 
 
 He is winking his red eye 
 
 At the Long-Knife who stands chuckling 
 
 Where the waters wash the shore, 
 
 At the buzzard-taloned white man 
 
 Who stands gazing at the bottom of the waters. 
 
 Ugh 1 Crazy Long-Knife ! . . . 
 
68 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 
 
 Ugh ! Crazy Devil ! . . . Quietly and 
 
 brokenly — zaith 
 sharp changes 
 
 Ai-ee! Drifting body of emotion. 
 
 That lies tangled in the weeds ! . . . 
 
 I have said it! 
 
 {Ho! 
 
 How! How! How! 
 
 Ho!) 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 / / 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 The following supplementary notes concerning the 
 legends and superstitions which form the background 
 of certain of the poems of Indian theme in Parts I 
 and III may prove helpful to the reader. It is sug- 
 gested, therefore, that if he wishes to grasp their 
 full meaning, he read the notes in the Appendix 
 before reading the poems in these two groups. 
 
 FLYING MOCCASINS 
 
 THE BLUE DUCK 
 
 " The Blue Duck " is a poetic interpretation of an 
 American Indian medicine dance. In early autumn 
 the tribe, which has gathered in the dancing-ring, is 
 supposed to have placed on a pole by the shore of 
 Ah-bi-too-bi (Half-full-of-water), — a lake adjoining 
 the Indian village, — a crudely carved wooden duck. 
 The ceremony is begun by the drummers who beat 
 monotonously upon the drums. The singers and the 
 dancers then begin to stamp and to shout and to 
 grunt, and finally to dance. The chief medicine men 
 — priests, " mystery men," who by virtue of their 
 special, powerful medicine songs and their rare " med- 
 
 71 
 
yz MANY MANY MOONS 
 
 icines " are thought to have supernatural power in in- 
 fluencing the spirits with which the earth, the sea, 
 and the sky are inhabited — finally break into a song 
 and sometimes a chant, in which they invoke Keetch-ie 
 Ma-ni-do, " The Big Spirit," to send down from the 
 North a big flight of ducks for the fall hunt, " to 
 make a good duck season." 
 
 " Keetch-ie Ma-ni-do," a word which appears in 
 many of the poems, means literally, " Big Spirit," — 
 broadly, " The Great Mystery," " The Big God." In 
 the mind of the American Indian of pagan faith, the 
 world is full of spirits, good and evil; the spirits of 
 beasts, of birds, and of the dead; the spirits of the 
 four winds, of the storm and of thunder and of 
 lightning, — the several lieutenants of the " Big Spirit." 
 But above all these minor deities rules Keetch-ie 
 Ma-ni-do, the All-Powerful One. 
 
 " The Blue Duck " and the other interpretations 
 of Indian dances should be read aloud. Their rhyth- 
 mic beat should be maintained vigorously and stead- 
 ily, except where the dancing ceases and periods of 
 chanting are noted. 
 
 CHIPPEWA FLUTE SONG 
 
 Notwithstanding the seeming chaos and lack of mel- 
 ody in Indian song, the Indian is very musical. Every 
 phase of his life and every aspiration finds expression 
 in some lyric burst of music. There are religious 
 songs, hunting songs, and medicine songs; dream 
 
APPENDIX yi 
 
 songs, lullabies, and love songs ; war-dance, pipe-dance, 
 and social dance songs ; gambling-game songs, songs 
 narrating personal achievements, songs to accompany 
 gifts and songs of thanks, songs for the spirits, songs 
 for the dead, and songs to heal the sick, — songs with- 
 out number. In all his music there are many weird, 
 haunting qualities, — certain qualities and certain mo- 
 tives which American musicians might profitably 
 study, and develop into a distinctive American con- 
 tribution to musical history. Indian music may be 
 instrumental, — as for example the music of the Bee- 
 bee-gwun, the Indian flute, — or it may be vocal. The 
 latter may be accompanied, as in the dances, the medi- 
 cine songs, and similar ceremonies, by drums and 
 rattles, or it may be unaccompanied. 
 
 All Indian music, despite its seeming formlessness, 
 its complexity, and its cacophony, is for the most part 
 quite simple, and fairly definite in form. In most 
 of his songs he uses but few simple notes, and these 
 usually in downward progression, beginning with high 
 falsetto tones and ending in low guttural sounds, 
 punctuated with an occasional slurred note, a slide, 
 a quaver, a wail, a call, or an explosive shout. 
 
 Although the " Chippewa Flute Song " will yield 
 its melody through any one of several simple methods 
 of interpretation that will occur to the reader, if in 
 interpreting the poem aloud he will improvise his 
 own melody, merely bearing in mind the suggestion 
 that he should chant the words softly with an occa- 
 sional downward slide at the end of every sentence 
 — not line — and at other points where the voice natu- 
 
74 MANY MANY MOONS 
 
 rally falls, he will most accurately catch the spirit 
 of the poem and of the original situation which I 
 have sought to express. 
 
 THE SQUAW-DANCE 
 
 " The Squaw-Dance," or " Woman's Dance," often 
 called the *' Give-Away Dance," is a poem written 
 from the point of view of the " outsider " and de- 
 scriptive of a very common Chippewa social dance 
 in which both men and women may participate. In 
 the United States, bands of Indians often gather at 
 some reservation village to celebrate the Fourth of 
 July with a big ** war-dance " to which white men 
 are invited. Generally, however, the " war-dance " 
 is really the rollicking, social " Squaw-Dance " ; the 
 celebration is called a " war-dance " often for the 
 benefit of the gullible, thrill-hunting tourist to whom 
 all Indian music is alike. 
 
 In the course of the dancing it is customary for 
 the Indian to present a gift, — a bit of tobacco, a 
 trinket, a pair of moccasins, — to some friend, either 
 a man or a woman. Whereupon the recipient must 
 dance with the friend thus complimenting him, and 
 return the honor with a gift of equal value. And 
 thus with these frequent interruptions due to the 
 " giving away " of presents, the celebration continues 
 all day with much vigorous dancing, loud laughter, 
 and lusty singing. The Squaw-Dance celebration has 
 no place for a melancholy, moribund person, or for 
 a dour, dyspeptic misanthrope. 
 
APPENDIX 75 
 
 BEAT AGAINST ME NO LONGER 
 
 In this interpretation of an Indian love song the 
 lines beginning, " Be not as the flat-breasted squaw- 
 sich . . . who hides three sleeps in the forest . . .," 
 refer to an old Algonquian custom that a young girl 
 in the period of puberty must leave the village in 
 shame and must live alone for a certain period of 
 time in a wigwam in the wilderness. 
 
 THE CONJURER 
 
 The chee-sah-kee, the conjurer or juggler, is a sort 
 of mystery-man who works in league with the bad 
 spirits and Much-ie Ma-ni-do, the Devil-Spirit, rather 
 than with the good spirit-helpers of the medicine men, 
 — although some conjurers may be both chee-sah-kee 
 and medicine men. This magician is regarded by the 
 older superstitious folk, — and by many pagan Indians 
 today, — as possessing the power to establish a league 
 with the evil spirits, whereby he may perform great 
 feats of magic and of spiritualism. In one of his 
 performances the juggler is bound with ropes of tough 
 bark and is placed in the chee-sah-kan, his specially 
 built teepee, the poles of which are so stout and so 
 deeply planted in the earth that they cannot be moved 
 by a human being. The conjurer then chants his 
 " magic song," uses his " charms," invokes the aid 
 of the spirits, and thereby performs the feats sug- 
 
^6 MANY MANY MOONS 
 
 gested in this poem, — if his medicine is " strong." (If 
 a conjurer or medicine man ever fails, it is not the 
 fault of the rehgion, or of the philosophy ; the medi- 
 cine was " bad," or some jealous spirit treacherously 
 worked against him.) " The Conjurer " is a very free 
 interpretation of the chant which the chee-sah-kee 
 sings as he lies bound in the wigwam and performs 
 his conjurings. The short, isolated, indented stanzas 
 in the poem are the conjurer's " asides " to his Indian 
 audience. 
 
 Naturally one may be skeptical about the power 
 of a man to work these wonders. Nevertheless, they 
 are actually performed by Indian " doctors " today. 
 My Indian friend, Ah-zhay-waince, " Other-Side," a 
 medicine man of the Pigeon River Reservation, can 
 perform these feats and many others as mysterious. 
 
 RED-ROCK. THE MOOSE-HUNTER 
 
 When the primitive Indian of the Canadian North 
 went hunting, he " called " or lured moose by two 
 methods. Sometimes with a bit of birch-bark he 
 would imitate the call of a moose. This scheme still 
 survives among woods Indians, and is familiar to the 
 white man. In the other lesser-known method, dur- 
 ing the quiet evening when it is the habit of moose 
 to come out of the " bush " to the lakes, to drink, to 
 feed upon the lilies, and to plunge into the water 
 in order to shake off the moose-flies, the deer-flies, 
 and the " no-see-ums," the moose-hunting Indian 
 
APPENDIX ^y 
 
 would wade into the water of a " plug-hole " or " good 
 moose-lake/' Here for hours he would imitate the 
 splashings and the drippings of feeding moose, on 
 the theory tliat moose in the vicinity would in the 
 quiet evening hear the sounds and be attracted by 
 them. This primitive, little-known method lies at 
 the foundation of the poem, " Red-Rock, the Moose- 
 Hunter." 
 
 RAIN SONG 
 
 This interpretation of an Algonquian-Lenape medi- 
 cine song for " making rain " is based upon an old 
 Indian superstition. During this medicine dance a 
 buckskin sack containing small mica-like scales is 
 placed on a boulder by a stream near the dancing- 
 ground. These bits of mica, — the " rain-medicine," 
 — are believed to be scales from the body of the legen- 
 dary Great Homed Sea Monster. It is believed that 
 if these scales are thus exposed during the ceremony, 
 the Thunderer and his allies, the Thunder-Spirits and 
 the Rain-Spirits, who loathe the Sea Monster, will 
 come with the fury of their storms and clouds and 
 rains to attack their traditional enemy who has the 
 impudence to lift his head out of the stream, and 
 the effrontery to expose a part of his body to the 
 gaze of the Thunder-Beings. 
 
 The conversational section at the close of the poem 
 is not a part of the song proper. I have added these 
 typical colloquial " asides " to illustrate the contrast 
 
78 MANY MANY MOONS 
 
 between the loftiness and the ideaHzations often at- 
 tained in Indian song and ceremony, and the com- 
 monplaceness and the reaHties of much of his extra- 
 ceremonial, colloquial talk. Similarly, my desire to 
 keep the characters in this book true to type, a type 
 that is peculiar in its combination of idealism and 
 materialism, the beautiful and the crass or vulgar, the 
 primitive and the modern, — this desire accounts for 
 many of the incongruities, the strange idioms, and 
 the inelegant phrases in " Rain Song " and in certain 
 other poems. 
 
 The " Rain Song " most clearly illustrates the phi- 
 losophy and the practices of the medicine men. Many 
 Indians, even in this day, have utter faith in the 
 power of the medicine men to accomplish miracles of 
 healing, jugglery, and wonder-working. I have al- 
 ready commented briefly upon their practices ; by vir- 
 tue of their rare medicines, — herbs, clays, skins, sub- 
 stances of all sorts having " power," — and with the 
 aid of their medicine songs which came to them in a 
 dream from the spirits, these " mystery men " are 
 powerful with the gods. In addition, every medicine 
 man has a special " helper " and adviser, a spirit, — 
 generally that of some bird or beast, — with whom he 
 constantly communes, and of whom he is but the 
 mouthpiece. To illustrate, the night preceding the 
 day set for the ceremonial feast at which I was to 
 be christened or blessed with a Chippewa name, my 
 Indian godfather, Ah-zhay-waince, *' Other-Side," 
 had a dream in which his special spirit-guide advised 
 him concerning the name that I should bear. And 
 
APPENDIX 79 
 
 after the feast, when Ah-zhay-waince blessed me 
 with the name Pay-shig-ah-deek, " Lone-Caribou," the 
 old' mystery-man made a talk in eulogy of his special 
 ma-ni-do and declared that he was acting merely as 
 the agent of his " strong " spirit-helper, the " Thunder- 
 Bird," one of the extremely powerful Thunder-Gods 
 mentioned in the " Rain Song." Thus because of their 
 power to secure the influence and the advice of these 
 " strong helpers " and the other ghosts of the spirit 
 world, the medicine men may be called upon to ap- 
 pease the wrath of the spirits in times of drought; 
 or to drive out of a sick Indian the bad spirits which 
 it is believed possess him; to regulate the weather; 
 or to invoke the aid of the gods whenever the tribe 
 enters upon some great task. The utter faith of som.e 
 of the older folk in the power of the medicine man 
 is illustrated by the following incident : 
 
 One day I journeyed to the wigwam of Mis-kwee- 
 mee-giz-zi, " Blood-Eagle," an old Chippewa (some- 
 times written and pronounced " Ojibway ") to induce 
 him to join in a canoe trip. I found the old fellow 
 sitting in the sun in front of his cedar shack, morose 
 and stolid, with a high fever and other significant 
 symptoms. In reply to a question concernmg the 
 nature of the trouble, old "Eagle" grunted, "I 
 got-um 'sumbtion " (consumption). 
 
 " Then why don't you see the doctor at the settle- 
 
 " I go w'ite man doctor ten sleep ago, he replied ; 
 "no damn good! I give-um wan dolla', he give-um 
 wan glass bottle,— no-good med'cine! TomxDrrow I 
 
8o MANY MANY MOONS 
 
 go Eenzhun med'cine man. He sing 'way Bad Spirits 
 in lung. In tVee sleep — me — I go hunt wit' you." 
 
 Needless to say Mis-kwee-mee-giz-zi didn't turn up 
 for the trip in " t'ree sleep." The old man will never 
 hunt again, except in the Big Hunting Ground. 
 
 CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES 
 
 THE WINDS OF FIFTY WINTERS 
 
 The council is a meeting at which important tribal 
 matters are discussed, a sort of informal Indian legis- 
 lative assembly. In the old war days councils were 
 frequently called between tribes to settle differences, 
 or between Indians and white men for the making 
 of treaties, or among the Indians of one tribe to de- 
 cide tribal and local questions. In these modern days 
 the meetings are generally held for the settlement of 
 problems arising between the Indians and the Federal 
 government of which the Indians are legal wards. If 
 the United States Government, through its Indian 
 Service in the Department of Interior, wishes to in- 
 vestigate tribal conditions or Indian grievances, or 
 desires to determine tribal questions and policies, a 
 council is called. At this meeting appear representa- 
 tives of the government and spokesmen for the In- 
 dians, — generally chiefs and headmen, — who state their 
 cases in " council talks." 
 
 The Indian audiences at these councils are very 
 quiet, attentive, and respectful, — more courteous than 
 the average audience of white men. They are un- 
 
APPENDIX 8i 
 
 demonstrative except for an occasional grunt of ap- 
 proval, — represented in the poems in this group by 
 the exclamations of " Ho ! Ho ! " and " How ! " in 
 italics and parentheses, — or an occasional gruff and 
 guttural " Ugh ! " or grunt of disapproval or disgust. 
 " The Winds of Fifty Winters " is a poetic version 
 of a famous Chippewa council which is recalled by 
 the older folk among the Chippewas with many 
 chuckles. 
 
 CHIEF BEAR'S-HEART " MAKES TALK " 
 LITTLE-CARIBOU MAKES " BIG TALK " 
 
 The remaining poems in this group are poetic coun- 
 cil talk interpretations suggested by speeches made 
 at councils held by the government and Chip- 
 pewa Indians for the discussion of certain alleged 
 violations of the " Treaty of 1889," "The Treaty of 
 1854 " and other treaties. Many of the grievances 
 expressed in these monologues obviously represent 
 but one point of view, the Indian's version of the 
 dispute. Nevertheless, although many of his com- 
 plaints and hardships are due to misunderstanding, 
 to government red tape, or to the Indian's own weak- 
 nesses and defects, and are therefore often unreason- 
 able and prejudiced, there is generally in his cause 
 a proper share of truth and adequate grounds for 
 complaint. 
 
 In order to give to the original Indian utterance 
 clearness, coherence, and completeness, any Anglicized 
 
82 MANY MANY MOONS 
 
 version of a council talk must contain some of the 
 graces of the white man's language, and some of its 
 nuances of diction and idiom. Although such inter- 
 pretations may gain in clarity, they necessarily lose 
 much of the original Indian flavor, certain crude, 
 rugged poetic qualities of the original expression in 
 the Chippewa language, with its small but exceed- 
 ingly suggestive vocabulary limited to strong nouns, 
 strong verbs, and compact, colorful phrases, idioms, 
 and figures. In order, therefore, to catch these more 
 primitive poetic qualities, even though it be at the 
 loss of other virtues, the two poems, " Chief Bear's- 
 Heart 'Makes Talk,'" and "Little-Caribou Makes 
 * Big Talk,' " are written in the dialect spoken by 
 some of the reservation Indians of the North, — on the 
 theory that this broken, labored, colorful pigeon- 
 English of the remote Indian more accurately regis- 
 ters certain elements of the strange charm and the 
 rugged power of Chippewa oratory. 
 
 The phrases " Boo-zhoo ! " " Boo-zhoo, boo-zhoo ! " 
 and " Boo-zhoo nee-chee ! " are forms of the friendly 
 salutation that is common among the Chippewas. 
 They are apparently corruptions of the French " Bon- 
 jour!" of the Canadian-French voyageurs and cour- 
 eurs-des-bois, many of whom have mingled with the 
 Chippewas and have married into the tribe. 
 
 In the days of the old frontier the Indian was 
 greatly impressed by the uniforms and the sabers of 
 the cavalry officers. Therefore he spoke of soldiers 
 as " Long-Blades," or *' Long-Knives " ; and he fre- 
 quently used these terms to designate all white men. 
 
APprK'^'X: 83 
 
 Thus the expression *' Long-Blades " in these poems 
 means soldiers and white men. 
 
 LITTLE-CARIBOU MAKES " BIG TALK " 
 
 The American Indian is usually very deferential 
 and courteous to the aged, not only at councils but 
 at all ceremonies. In this poem, therefore, the in- 
 terruptions by the young. Indians, the " asides," and 
 the sallies (represented in the poem by the indented 
 stanzas in italics and parentheses) and the ensuing 
 amusing colloquy between the shrewd patriarch, Little- 
 Caribou, and his young hecklers, are rather unusual. 
 
 It is commonly believed that the Indian lacks hu- 
 mor; that he never laughs or jokes; that he is always 
 the taciturn, sullen, stern type of the theatrical Indian. 
 The idea is erroneous. Although in formal meetings 
 and in his dealings with the white man the Indian 
 is generally a man of a few simple, dignified, stern 
 words, among his own people he laughs often and 
 loud. Moreover, the women and children seem to 
 be forever laughing and joking and giggling over 
 nothing. Among the Indians, especially among the 
 older folk, there are many droll characters that have 
 a subtle sense of humor in addition to the dignity, 
 the shrewdness, and the vigor which most of the better 
 types of Indian possess. The poem, " Little-Caribou 
 Makes * Big Talk,' " illustrates this little-known side 
 of Indian character and this not uncommon Indian 
 type. 
 
84 MANY MANY MOONS 
 
 WHIRLING-RAPIDS TALKS 
 
 The allegory, "Whirling-Rapids Talks," illustrates 
 the tendency of the Indian to symbolize all the ex- 
 periences of life. This personification of nature, of 
 every bird that soars and every beast that walks or 
 crawls, and this symbolizing of life by moon and 
 sun, by water, thunder, and lightning, and by the 
 star-people of the sky, — these are of the essence of 
 his poetic thought. Because of his conception of the 
 walking, the swimming, and the green-growing things 
 of the wilderness, it is safe to say that no race has 
 ever established a contact with nature more spiritual 
 or more vital than has the American Indian. 
 
 THE END