Once upon a time, many years ago, a war raged between the Chippewas and their enemies, and the lands of the hostile tribes were red with blood. It was then that a small party of the former nation encountered a band of the latter upon an open plain in the country of the Great Lakes. Meteewan, the leader of the Chippewas, was a brave and distinguished warrior; his martial deeds were the theme of every youth who looked to obtain renown in arms, and formed one of the principal subjects of discourse among the different tribes of the land. And never did the chief act with greater bravery, or more distinguish himself for prudence and personal prowess, than on this occasion. After he had, by the valour of his arm, turned the tide of battle against his enemies, and while he was giving the great shout of victory, he received an arrow in his breast, and fell dead upon the plain. No Indian warrior killed thus is ever buried. According to ancient custom, he was placed in a sitting posture upon the field of battle, his back supported by a tree, and his face turned towards the path in which their enemies had fled. His head-dress, with all its feathers and decorations, his martial equipments, his spear, and club, were accurately adjusted, and his bow and quiver leaned against his shoulder. In this posture his companions left him. A fate which appeared so evident to all proved deceptive however in the result. Although deprived of the power of utterance, and the ability to move, he heard distinctly all that had been said by his friends. He heard them lament his death without the power to contradict it; he heard them speak of his great deeds; he heard them depict the grief of his wife when she should be made acquainted with his fate. He felt the touch of their hands as they adjusted his posture, without the power to reciprocate it. His limbs, and all his faculties, except those of thought, were bound in chains of terrible strength, and he could not burst them. His thoughts flowed as freely as ever, but his limbs refused to second their commands. His anguish, when he felt himself thus abandoned, was raised to a dreadful height; but he was compelled to bear it, for no endeavours of his could allay it. His wish to follow his friends, who were about to return to their homes, so completely filled his mind, that, after making a violent exertion, he rose, or seemed to himself to rise and follow them. But he was invisible to them; they neither saw his form, nor heard his voice or steps, and this gave new cause for surprise. Astonishment, disappointment, rage, alternately filled his breast, while he attempted to make himself heard, seen, or felt, and found that he had lost the power to do either. He followed their track, however, with great diligence. Whereever they went, he went; when they walked, he walked; when they ran, he ran; when they encamped, he encamped; when they slept, he slept; when they awoke, he awoke. In short, he mingled in all their labours and toils; but he was excluded from all the sources of refreshment and enjoyment, except that of sleeping, and from participating in their conversation, for nothing, he said, was attended to. He saw them eat the sweet flesh of the deer, and the delicious dish compounded of corn and bison-meat, but no portion came to him; he saw them bend joyfully over the pleasant fire, which administered no reviving warmth to his shuddering limbs. He heard them recount their valiant deeds, but he was unable to tell them how much his own exceeded theirs; he heard them paint the joys which awaited their return to their homes, but wanted the power to say that he too had relatives and kindred not less loving and beloved than theirs.

"Is it possible," he exclaimed, with bitterness, "that you do not hear me—that you do not understand me? Will you suffer me to bleed to death without offering to stanch my wounds?—Will you give me no victuals to eat while your kettles are overflowing with the product of a fortunate hunt, and even the dogs are fed upon the savoury bison hump?—Have those whom I have so often led to war, so often enabled to cry the shrill cry of victory, and display the pole filled with scalps of hostile warriors, have they forgotten me?—Is there no one who recollects me, or who will offer me a morsel of food in my distress?—Am I indeed, as I fear, invisible to all?—Do I cease to wear the human form, and is my voice no longer a thing to be heard?" Thus he continued to upbraid his friends at every stage of the journey, but no one seemed to hear his words, or, if they heard his voice, they mistook its sound for the winds of summer rustling among the green leaves, and shaking the branches of the trees.

At length, the returning war-party reached their village, and their women and children came out, according to custom, to welcome their return, and proclaim their praises. Kumaudjeewug! Kumaudjeewug! Kumaudjeewug! they have met, fought, and conquered, was shouted from every mouth, and resounded through the most distant parts of the village. The aged warrior, whom weakness and decrepitude had compelled to throw down the bow and the spear, and the eagle-eyed boy, who was fast gaining upon the ripened period when he should take them up, did each his part in celebrating the feats which the one had equalled, and the other hoped to outdo. The wife, with a proud mien, came forward to meet the embraces of her renowned husband; the timid maiden, with a downcast eye, to steal a look at her valiant lover. Those who had lost friends came eagerly to enquire their fate, and to know whether they had died like men. The decrepid father consoled himself for the loss of his son with the reflection that he had fallen manfully, and the widow half forgot her sorrow amid the praises that were bestowed on the bravery of her departed husband. The breasts of the youths glowed with martial ardour as they heard these flattering praises, and children joined in the shouts of which they hardly knew the meaning, except that they related to the scalps suspended from the bloody pole. But, amidst all this uproar and bustle, no one seemed conscious of the presence of the wounded chief. He heard many inquiries about his own fate; he heard them say that he had fought, conquered, and fallen, pierced through his breast with an arrow, and that his body had been left among the slain.

"It is not true," replied the indignant chief, with a loud voice, "that I was killed and left upon the field—I am here. I live! I move!—See me! Touch me! I shall again raise my lance, and bend my bow in battle; I shall again sound my drum at the feast. My voice will again be tuned to sing my exploits in the ears of listening youth, and my arm raised to strike the painted post preparatory to the hostile incursion." But nobody seemed conscious of his presence, and they mistook the loudest tones of his voice for the mildest whispering of the winds. He now walked to his own lodge; he saw his wife within, tearing her hair, and raising her lamentations over his fate: he endeavoured to undeceive her, but she also seemed equally insensible to his presence or his voice: she sat in a despairing manner, with her head reclining upon her hands: he asked her to bind up his wounds, but she made no reply: he then placed his mouth close to her ear, and vociferated, "I am hungry, give me some food." The wife thought she heard a buzzing in her ear, and remarked it to one who sat near her. The enraged husband, now summoning all his strength, struck her a blow upon the forehead. She only complained of feeling a shooting pain there, such as is not unfrequent, and, raising her hand to her head, remarked, "I feel a slight head-ache."

Foiled thus in every attempt to make himself known, the warrior chief began to reflect upon what he had heard the priests and wise men say, that the spirit was sometimes permitted to leave the body, and wander about. He reflected that possibly his body had remained upon the field of battle, while his spirit only accompanied his returning companions. The part he had presented before the eyes of his apparently neglectful friends might have been that which mere human eyes see not. He determined to return upon their track, although it was four days' journey to the place. He accordingly began his immediately. For three days he pursued his way without meeting with any thing uncommon, but, on the fourth, towards evening, as he came to the skirts of the battle-field, he saw a fire in the path before him. He walked to one side of the path to avoid stepping into it, but the fire also changed its position, and was still before him. He then went in another direction, but the mysterious fire still crossed his path, and seemed to bar his entrance to the scene of conflict. In short, whichever way he took, the fire was still before him: no expedient seemed capable of eluding it. "Thou demon," he exclaimed at length, "why dost thou bar my approach to the field of battle, to the spot which contains my own inanimate body? Knowest thou not that I am a spirit also, and that I seek again to enter that body from which I have so lately been driven?—Or dost thou presume that I shall return without effecting my object because of thy opposition?—Know that I am a chief and a warrior, tried in many a hard battle, and never known to flinch. I have never been defeated by the enemies of my nation, and I will not be defeated by thee." So saying, he made a vigorous effort, and succeeded in forcing a passage through the flame. In this exertion he awoke from his trance, having lain eight days on the field of battle. He found himself sitting on the ground, with his back supported by a tree, and his bow leaning against his shoulder, having all his warlike dress and implements upon his body, the same as they had been left by his friends on the day of battle. Looking up, he beheld a large canieu, or war-eagle, sitting upon the tree above his head. He immediately recognised this bird to be the same he had dreamt of in his youth, and whom he had selected as his guardian spirit or personal Manitou. While his body had lain in its breathless and soulless state, this friendly bird had watched it, and prevented other ravenous birds from devouring it. He got up, and stood some time upon his feet, but he was weak and exhausted, and it was a long time before respiration became full and perfect, and the blood coursed in his veins as it was wont to do before its transient suspension. The blood upon his wound had stanched itself, and he now bound it up. Possessing, as every Indian does, the knowledge of such roots as were efficacious for its cure, he sought diligently in the woods for them, and obtained sufficient for his purpose. Some of them he pounded between stones and applied externally; others he chewed and swallowed. In a short time he found himself so much recovered as to be able to commence his journey, but he suffered greatly from hunger, not being able to see any large animals. With his bow and arrows, however, he killed small birds during the day, which he roasted before the fire at night. In this way he sustained himself, until he came to a water that separated his wife and friends from him. He then gave that peculiar whoop which indicates the safe return of an absent friend. The signal was instantly known, and a canoe dispatched to bring him across. But, while this canoe was absent, conjecture was exhausting itself in designating the unknown person who had given this friendly intimation of his approach. All who had been of the war-party had returned, except those who were killed on the field. There was no hunter absent. It might be a hunter of some neighbouring nation. It might be some deep deception or stratagem of their enemies. It was rash to send a canoe without knowing whether it was a friend or foe. In the height of these conjectures, the warrior chief was landed amidst the shouts of his friends and relations, who thronged from every lodge to welcome their faithful leader. When the first wild burst of joy and wonder had subsided, and some degree of quiet was restored in the village, he related to his people the account of his adventures which has been given. He then concluded his narration by telling them that it is pleasing to the spirit of a deceased person to have a fire built upon his grave for four nights after his interment; that it is four days' journey to the land appointed for the residence of the spirit; that, in its journey thither, the spirit stood in need of a fire every night at the place of its encampment; that, if the friends kindled this funeral fire upon the place where the body was deposited, the spirit had the benefit of its light and warmth in its sojourning; but, if they neglected this rite, the spirit would itself be subjected to the irksome task of building its own fire at night.