On the willow bank that o'erlooks the stream,
The shallow and turbid stream;
I go to ask my Okkis36 to give To the sleep of my nights the dream that shows The image of things to come, That I may behold the fate of my tribe, And the fate of the Indian race; And count the scalps from Mahas torn, And the prisoners brought from Pawnee lands, And the beads from the town of the Rock37; And number the coal-black horses, The Ricara Braves shall steal From the men who wear the cross, That shines like the cold, pale moon"38. "Go! Priest, go!"
"And whither goest thou, Maiden?
Dove of the forest, whither goest thou?
Maiden, as bright as the Hunter's Star,
Maiden, whose hair is the grape-clustered vine,
Whose neck is the neck of the swan,
Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove,
Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf,
Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing,
Whose step is the step of the antelope's child,
Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon,
Of the rill's most gentle song;
Whither goest thou?"
"I go to make an offering.
I go to lay the gifts of my Brave,
The crest of the Song Sparrow39, that which sang From her bower in the bush, on the beautiful night, When he called me "dearest," And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird, And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush, And the beads that he brought from a far-off land, And the skin of the striped lynx that he slew Ere the mocassins deck'd his feet, Before the Idols, The Man, and Woman, and Dog of Stone, That stand on the willow-bank, On the willow-bank that o'erlooks the stream, The shallow and turbid stream. I make them my Okkis to guard my Brave; I go to ask them to shield his breast Against the Maha's darts; To give to his arm the strength of two; To give to his foot the fleetness of two; To wring from his heart the drop of blood, If he hath such drop, that causes fear To make his cry like the Serpent's hiss40, Among the hills of the setting sun, And when there is Maha blood on his hand, And a bunch of Maha scalps at his back. To send him back to these longing arms, That I may wipe from his weary brow The drops that spring from his toil." "Go! Maiden, go!"
With the above characteristic and wild song, chanted with the action and in the tones peculiar to the Indian story-teller, and which, in truth, is always the manner in which their traditions are related, the Little Snake, the principal chief of the Ricaras, and who was as celebrated throughout the wilds of the west for his skill in song as Carolan in the palace of his mountain lord, or Blondel at the court of Coeur de Lion, commenced his tale. As far as the visual organ was concerned, Mr. Verdier was before acquainted with the curious images to which it referred. He had seen, a few miles back, from the Mississippi, a small "willow-bank," rising in the words of the song above a "shallow and turbid stream," upon which were two stones bearing a great resemblance to the human form, and a third having a still greater resemblance to a dog. He knew that they were objects of exceeding veneration with all the tribes of the west, especially with the Ricaras, and that whenever they passed them, and they often deviated many miles from their path for that purpose, they never failed to make an offering, generally of some ornament, or valued part of their dress, or martial equipment, to propitiate the intelligences supposed to inhabit the statues, and render them favourable to their wants and wishes, and to their success in war, or the chace He saw that the continued observance of this rite for a long period, probably for ages, had collected around the "Idols" a large heap of stones, sticks, blankets, deer-skins, eagle's' feathers, &c., but he had remained till now in ignorance of the tradition, which assigned to them a past existence as human beings. He knew that every thing which is not in the common order of things, even a tree singularly shaped, or presenting an unusual excrescence, a blade of grass twisted into an uncommon form, a berry or a stalk of maize growing to an unusual size, become, in the eyes of these wild and superstitious children of the forest, invested with supernatural interest; but he had supposed that it was the mere resemblance which these statues bore to human beings that had caused the Indians to regard them as objects worthy of the most hallowed form of their rude worship.
It may be as well to say in this place, what I had contemplated making the subject of a note. It is this—that Indian poetry always wants the correspondence of the last sound of one verse with the last sound or syllable of another. There cannot, I imagine, be found a single instance of their having attempted to produce the "harmonical succession of sounds," which has imparted so much richness and beauty to the cultivated languages. It is necessary to state this, that my readers may not suppose that the omission to make the lines rhyme grew out of an attempt to give to the poetry an appearance of greater originality, and of greater singularity and wildness, the supposed first step to success. I could not, consistently with my determination to represent truly the manners and customs of that interesting and hard-used race in their own style and method, attempt to introduce rhyme into their rude lyrics. The poetry I have given, though it may want the inspiration of Indian poetry, will be found to possess its method. Another trait of Indian poetry to be noticed is the frequent repetition of favourite passages and incidents.
The Indian story-teller, having paused a moment to recruit his strength and voice, which had suffered by his energy, and to gather the opinion of the audience, which, for the first time in the present assembly, was expressed by audible signs of satisfaction, an unusual occurrence in an Indian audience, resumed his tale as follows:—
And who are they
To whom the Brave has given his bow,
His arrow, and his spear;
To whom the Hunter has given the flesh,
The juicy flesh of the elk,
At whose feet the Priest has laid his robe,
The shaggy skin of the old black bear,
Where she, as bright as the Hunter's Star41, The Maid with hair like the clustering grapes, Whose neck is the neck of the swan, Whose eyes are the eyes of the dove, Whose hand is as small as the red-oak's leaf, Whose foot is the length of the lark's spread wing. Whose step is the step of the antelope's child, Whose voice is the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song, Has cast the gifts of her Brave, Cast, without a tear, The tuft of the Song Sparrow, that which sang From its bower in the bush on the beautiful night, That he called his maiden, "dearest," And the rainbow-tail of the Spirit Bird, And the shells that were dyed in the sunset's blush, And the beads that he brought from a far-off land, And the skin of the striped lynx that he slew, Ere the mocassins decked his feet? I will tell you who they are: Listen, brother! Thou from the distant land, Pour oil into thine ears, for I Will fill them with a song.
They both were Ricaras,
And the Dog was a Ricara Dog;
It was many suns ago,
Yet ask me not how long,
For the warrior cannot tell,
But this do I know the rivers ran
Through forest, and prairie, and copse,
And the mountains were piled to the base of the clouds,
And the waters were deep,
And the winter was cold,
And the summer was hot;
Grass grew on the prairies,
Flowers bloomed on the lea,
The lark sang in the morning,
The owl hooted at night,
And the world was such a world
As the Ricara world is now:—
My brother hears.
One was a Ricara boy,
And one was a Ricara girl,
And one was a Ricara dog.
My brother hears.