Traditions of the North American Indians (Vol. 1-3). James Athearn Jones

The boy and the girl were lovers,

       And the dog loved both,

       They loved each other more

       Than the soul of an Indian loves his home;

       The lodge of his wife and babes,

       Or the graves,

       The mossy graves,

       The green and grass-covered graves,

       Of his fathers mouldered and gone;

       They loved each other more

       Than the warrior loves the shout of his foe,

       Or the festival of scalps,

       Or the hunter to see the wing,

       Of a plover beating the air.

      Their fathers were friends;

       They dwelt together in one cabin;

       They hunted the woods together;

       They warred together,

       Raising the self-same shout of onset,

       Waking the self-same song of triumph:

       Their mothers were sisters;

       They dwelt together in one cabin;

       Together they wrought in the field of maize;

       Each bent her back to the bison's flesh,

       Load and load alike;

       And they went to the wild wood together,

       To bring home the food for the fire;

       Kind were these sisters to each other;

       There was always a clear sky⁴² in their cabins:— My brother hears.

      One Ricara father said to his friend,

       While these babes yet swung

       In their baskets of bark

       From the bough of the oak,

       Listen!

       I have a young eagle in my eyrie,

       Thou hast a young dove in thy nest,

       Let us mate them.

       Though now they be but squabs,

       There will be but twice eight chills of the lake;

       And twice eight fails of the maple leaf;

       And twice eight bursts of the earth from frosts;

       The corn will ripen bat twice eight times,

       Tall, sweet corn;

       The rose will bloom but twice eight times,

       Beautiful rose!

       The vine will give but twice eight times

       Its rich black clusters,

       Sweet ripe clusters,

       Grapes of the land of the Ricaras,

       Ere thy squab shall be an eagle,

       Ere my little dove shall wear

       The feathers and plumes of a full-grown bird.

       Let us pledge them now

       To each other,

       That when thy son has become a man,

       And painted his face as a brave man paints,

       Red on the cheek,

       Red on the brow,

       And wears but the single lock⁴³, That is graced with the plumes of the Warrior-bird, And has stolen thy bow for the field of strife, And run away with thy spear, And thou findest thy sheaf of arrows gone, And nearest his shout as he follows the steps Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge, And my little dove, My beautiful dove, Sings in the grove, in the hour of eve, All alone, soft songs. Maiden's songs of the restless hour, When the full heart sings, it knows not why: My son shall build himself a lodge, And thy daughter shall light his fires.

      Then said his friend,

       'Tis well;

       Nor hast thou a forked tongue:

       My son is pledged to thee,

       And to thy little daughter.

       When he has become a warrior-man,

       And painted his face with the ochre of wrath,

       Red on the cheek,

       Red on the brow,

       And wears but a scalp-lock,

       Decked with the plumes of the warrior-bird,

       And has stolen my bow for the field of strife,

       And run away with my spear,

       And I find my sheaf of arrows gone,

       And hear his shout as he follows the step

       Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge,

       And thy dove

       Sings in the grove in the hour of eve,

       All alone, soft songs,

       Maiden songs, songs of the unquiet hour,

       Songs that gush out of the swelling soul,

       As the river breaks over its banks:

       My son shall build himself a cabin,

       And thy daughter shall light his fires.

      When these two Ricara babes were grown,

       To know the meaning of words,

       And to read the language of eyes,

       And to guess by the throbs of the heart,

       It was said to them,

       To the girl, he will build thee a lodge,

       And bring thee a good fat deer of the glade;

       To the boy, she will light thy fires, and be

       The partner of thy lot.

       And knowing this they loved:

       No more were they seen apart,

       They went together to pluck the grape,

       To look for the berry which grew on the moor,

       To fright the birds from the maize;

       They hunted together the lonely copse,

       To search for the bittern's eggs,

       And they wandered together to pluck from the waste

       The first blue flower of the budding moon;

       And, when the village children were come,

       Where the rope of grass,

       Or the twisted thong of bison-hide,

       Hung from the bough,

       To swing in childish sport,

       These two did always swing each other,

       And if by chance they found themselves apart,

       Then tears bedew'd their little cheeks,

       And the gobs of grief came thick and fast,

       Till they found each other's arms again,

       And so they grew:—

       My brother hears.

      The maiden grew up beautiful,

       Tall as the chin of a lofty man,

       Bright as the star that shines,

       To guide the Indian hunter through

       The pathless wilds to his home.

       Her hair was like the grape-clustered vine;

       Her neck was the neck of the swan;

       Her eyes were the eyes of the dove;

       Her hand was as small as the red oak's leaf;

       Her foot was the length of the lark's spread wing;

       Her step was the step