to his heart is the dark-eyed Winona.” 
The aged Chief opened his ears;
          in his heart he already consented: 
But the moans of his child and her tears
          touched the age-softened heart of the father,
And he said, “I am burdened with years,—­
          I am bent by the snows of my winters;
Ta-te-psin will die in his tee;
          let him pass to the Land of the Spirits;
But Winona is young; she is free
          and her own heart shall choose her a husband.” 
The dark warrior strode from the tee;
          low-muttering and grim he departed;
“Let him die in his lodge,” muttered he,
          “but Winona shall kindle my lodge-fire.”

Then forth went Winona.  The bow
          of Ta-te-psin she took and his arrows,
And afar o’er the deep, drifted snow
          through the forest she sped on her snow shoes. 
Over meadow and ice-covered mere,
          through the thickets of red-oak and hazel,
She followed the tracks of the deer,
          but like phantoms they fled from her vision. 
From sunrise to sunset she sped;
          half famished she camped in the thicket;
In the cold snow she made her lone bed;
          on the buds of the birch[BN] made her supper. 
To the dim moon the gray owl preferred,
          from the tree-top, his shrill lamentation,
And around her at midnight she heard
          the dread famine-cries of the gray wolves. 
In the gloam of the morning again
          on the trail of the red-deer she followed—­
All day long through the thickets in vain,
          for the gray wolves were chasing the roebucks;
And the cold, hungry winds from the plain
          chased the wolves and the deer and Winona.

[BJ] Wild-goose

[BK] Medicine-men.

[BL] January.

[BM] February.

[BN] The pheasant feeds on birch-buds in winter.  Indians eat them when very hungry.

In the twilight of sundown she sat
          in the forest, all weak and despairing;
Ta-te-psin’s bow lay at her feet,
          and his otter-skin quiver of arrows
“He promised,—­he promised,” she said,—­
          half-dreamily uttered and mournful,—­
“And why comes he not?  Is he dead? 
          Was he slain by the crafty Tamdoka? 
Must Winona, alas, make her choice—­
          make her choice between death and Tamdoka? 
She will die, but her soul will rejoice
          in the far Summer-land of the spirits. 
Hark!  I hear his low, musical voice!
          he is coming!  My White Chief is coming! 
Ah, no, I am half in a dream!—­
          ’twas the memory of days long departed;
But the birds of the green Summer seem
          to be singing above in the branches.” 
Then forth from her bosom she drew
          the crucified Jesus in silver. 
In her dark hair the cold north-wind blew,