al sea.
Time does not count backward beyond
That struggle, but the water's voice
Has ever since been dumb where it
Took place; his arms have there refused
The birch canoe to cradle, or
The fish to succor. There, also
He called the Matchie Manitou,
The evil ones, to do his will.
They slew the buffalo, until
The rocks turned red with blood. They stole
The souls of them who sought to pass
The water grave; and man grew sad
And heavy-hearted. Then the voice
Of Gezha Manitou again
Was heard in words of speech to say:
'When winter snows, and springtime showers,
And summer suns have rounded out
The moon of ripened grain, light fires
To mark the places where your dead
Await my messengers to guide
Them home. Of meat to eat provide
Them none; but shape their arrows strong
And true. My buffalo will herd
Upon the water, and, along
The shores, thy garnered stores of grass
And grain must yield them food. Their horns
Will golden glimmer on the night
To make them easy prey for home
Bound souls, and they shall not be harmed
By Matchie Manitou. All clothed
In serpent skin and sharpened tooth
And poisoned tongue, my guides will come.
Then, let the living wary be
And go not near the tombs after
The haze of dusk turns dark of night;
For swift my heralds will approach
Those ghostly haunts with sure demand
For every soul that's found therein,
Be it in body dead or quick.'

"The month, the day, the hour is here,
My children, when the dead may cross
To Ke-wa-ku-na less the fear
Of harm, and we have come to say
The last farewell. Wacumic's tomb,
Among the rest, awaits the torch.
In council, he was the Wise Man;
In war, the Brave Chief, and at home
The Best Loved,--his forefathers famed
For deeds of valor, virtue, and
Wisdom far back as memory takes
The trail. His name, interpreted
'The waters ceased and earth began,'
Denotes the time to which his line
Of lineage runs. His spirit craves
The promised land of happy hunt,
And chase, and sweetly flowing streams.
Our numbers are few, but our hearts
Are strong. We are weak from the loss
Of many battles, far from home;
Our horizon is shadowed by the Sioux;
Their echoing songs ring the woodlands
Through. Is it wise for us to light
The zenith of our skies, e'en tho'
It be with flame of sacred fire?
Wacumic was my father; you
My children are. I have finished."
Against the circle's center stake
The chieftain placed his wing-trimmed stick--
Most curious crozier, which gave
Un