nona, how my heart and lips
Cling to that name (my mother's was the same
Ere her form faded into death's eclipse),
Cling lovingly, and loth to let it go.
All arts that unto savage life belong
She knew, made moccasins, and dressed the game.
From crippling fashions free, her well-knit frame
At fifteen summers was mature and strong.
She pitched the tipi,[2] dug the tipsin[3] roots,
Gathered wild rice and store of savage fruits.
Fearless and self-reliant, she could go
Across the prairie on a starless night;
She speared the fish while in his wildest flight,
And almost like a warrior drew the bow.
Yet she was not all hardness: the keen glance,
Lighting the darkness of her eyes, perchance
Betrayed no softness, but her voice, that rose
O'er the weird circle of the midnight dance,
Through all the gamut ran of human woes,

[Illustration: MAIDEN ROCK, LAKE PEPIN.]

Passion, and joy. A woman's love she had
For ornament; on gala days was clad
In garments of the softest doeskin fine,
With shells about her neck; moccasins neat
Were drawn, like gloves, upon her little feet,
Adorned with scarlet quills of porcupine.
Innocent of the niceties refined
That to the toilet her pale sisters bind,
Yet much the same beneath the outer rind,
She was, though all unskilled in bookish lore,
A sound, sweet woman to the very core.

Winona's uncle, and step-father too,
Was all the father that she ever knew;
By the Absarakas[4] her own was slain
Before her memory could his face retain.
Two bitter years his widow mourned him dead,
And then his elder brother she had wed.
None loved Winona's uncle; he was stern
And harsh in manner, cold and taciturn,
And none might see, without a secret fear,
Those thin lips ever curling to a sneer.
And yet he was of note and influence
Among the chieftains; true he rarely lent
More than his presence in the council tent,
And when he rose to speak disdained pretence
Of arts rhetoric, but his few words went
Straight and incisive to the question's core,
And rarely was his counsel overborne.
The Raven was the fitting name he bore;
And though his winters well-nigh reached three-score,
Few of his tribe excelled him in the chase.
A warrior of renown, but never wore
The dancing eagle plumes, and seemed to scorn
The vanities and follies of his race.

I said the Raven was beloved by none;
But no, among the elders there was one
Who often sought him, and the two would walk
Apart for hours, and converse alone.
Th