The night-sun 17 sails in his gold canoe,
The spirits 18 walk in the realms of air
With their glowing faces and flaming hair,
And the shrill, chill winds o'er the prairies blow.
In the Tee 19 of the Council the Virgins light
The Virgin-fire 20 for the feast to-night;
For the Sons of HeyÓka will celebrate
The sacred dance to the giant great.
The kettle boils on the blazing fire,
And the flesh is done to the chief's desire.
With his stoic face to sacred East, 21 He takes his seat at the Giant's Feast.

For the feast of HeyÓka 22 the braves are dressed
With crowns from the bark of the white-birch trees,
And new skin leggins that reach the knees;
With robes of the bison and swarthy bear,
And eagle-plumes in their coal-black hair,
And marvelous rings in their tawny ears,
Which were pierced with the points of their shining spears.
To honor HeyÓka, WakÂwa lifts
His fuming pipe from the Red-stone Quarry. 23 The warriors follow. The white cloud drifts
From the Council-lodge to the welkin starry,
Like a fog at morn on the fir-clad hill,
When the meadows are damp and the winds are still.

They dance to the tune of their wild "Ha-ha!"
A warrior's shout and a raven's caw—
Circling the pot and the blaming fire
To the tom-tom's bray and the rude bassoon;
Round and round to their heart's desire,
And ever the same wild chant and tune—
A warrior's shout and a raven's caw—
"Ha-ha,—ha-ha,—ha-ha,—ha!"
They crouch, they leap, and their burning eyes
Flash fierce in the light of the flaming fire,
As fiercer and fiercer and higher and higher
The rude, wild notes of their chant arise.
They cease, they sit, and the curling smoke
Ascends again from their polished pipes,
And upward curls from their swarthy lips
To the God whose favor their hearts invoke.

Then tall WakÂwa arose and said:
"Brave warriors, listen, and give due heed.
Great is HeyÓka, the magical god;
He can walk on the air; he can float on the flood.
He's a worker of magic and wonderful wise;
He cries when he laughs and he laughs when he cries;
He sweats when he's cold, and he shivers when hot,
And the water is cold in his boiling pot.
He hides in the earth and he walks in disguise,
But he loves the brave and their sacrifice.
We are sons of HeyÓka. The Giant commands
In the boiling water to thrust our hands;
And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire
HeyÓka will crown with his hearts desire."

They thrust their hands in the boiling pot;
They swallow the bison meat steaming hot,
Not a wince on their stoical faces bold.
For the meat and the water, they say, are cold,
And great is HeyÓka and wonderful wise;
He floats on the flood and he walks in the skies,
And ever appears in a strange disguise;
But he loves the brave and their sacrifice;
And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire
HeyÓka will crown with his heart's desire.

Proud was the chief of his warriors proud,
The sinewy sons of the Giant's race;
But the bravest of all was the tall Red Cloud;
The eyes of the panther were set in his face;
He strode like a stag and he stood like a pine;
Ten feathers he wore at the great WanmdeÉ; 13 With crimsoned quills of the porcupine
His leggins were worked to his brawny knee.
Blood-red were the stripes on his swarthy cheek,
And the necklace that girdled his brawny neck
Was the polished claws of the great MatÓ 14 He grappled and slew in the northern snow.

Proud Red Cloud turned to the braves and said,
As he shook the plumes on his haughty head:

"Ho! the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire
HeyÓka will crown with his heart's desire!"
He snatched from the embers a red-hot brand,
And held it aloft in his naked hand.
He stood like a statue in bronze or stone,—
Not a muscle moved, and the braves looked on.
He turned to the chieftain,—"I scorn the fire,—
Ten feathers I wear of the great WanmdeÉ;
Then grant me, WakÂwa, my heart's desire;
Let the sunlight shine in my lonely tee. 19 I laugh at red death and I laugh at red fire;
Brave Red Cloud is only afraid of fear;
But WiwÂstÈ is fair to his heart and dear;
Then grant him, WakÂwa, his heart's desire."

The warriors applauded with loud "Ho! Ho!" 24 And he flung the brand to the drifting snow.
Three times WakÂwa puffed forth the smoke
From his silent lips; then he slowly spoke:
"MÂhpÍya is strong as the stout-armed oak
That stands on the bluff by the windy plain,
And laughs at the roar of the hurricane.
He has slain the foe and the great MatÓ
With his hissing arrow and deadly stroke.
My heart is swift but my tongue is slow.
Let the warrior come to my lodge and smoke;
He may bring the gifts; 25 but the timid doe
May fly from the hunter and say him no."

WiwÂstÈ sat late in the lodge alone,
Her dark eyes bent on the glowing fire.
She heard not the wild winds shrill and moan;
She heard not the tall elms toss and groan;
Her face was lit like the harvest moon;
For her thoughts flew far to her heart's desire.
Far away in the land of the HÓhÉ 15 dwelt
The warrior she held in her secret heart;
But little he dreamed of the pain she felt,
For she hid her love with a maiden's art.
Not a tear she shed, not a word she said,
When the fair young chief from the lodge departed;
But she sat on the mound when the day was dead,
And gazed at the full moon mellow hearted.
Fair was the chief as the morning-star;
His eyes were mild and his words were low,
But his heart was stouter than lance or bow;
And her young heart flew to her love afar
O'er his trail long covered with drifted snow.
But she heard a warrior's stealthy tread,
And the tall WakÂwa appeared, and said—
"Is WiwÂstÈ afraid of the spirit dread
That fires the sky in the fatal north? 26 Behold the mysterious lights. Come forth
Some evil threatens,—some danger nears,
For the skies are pierced with the burning spears."

The warriors rally beneath the moon;
They shoot their shafts at the evil spirit.
The spirit is slain and the flame is gone,
And his blood lies red on the snow fields near it.
But again from the dead will the spirit rise,
And flash his spears in the northern skies.

Then the chief and the queenly WiwÂstÈ stood
Alone in the moon-lit solitude,
And she was silent and he was grave.
"And fears not my daughter the evil spirit?
The strongest warriors and bravest fear it
The burning spears are an evil omen;
They threaten the wrath of a wicked woman,

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3 In the days that are forgotten,
Dwelt a tall and tawny hunter—
Gitchee PÉz-ze-Ú—the panther,
Son of Waub-Ojeeg,

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