And sprang like hounds to the eager race. 
But the brawny bulls in the swarthy van
Turned their polished horns on the charging foes
And reckless rider and fleet footman
Were held at bay in the drifted snows,
While the bellowing herd o’er the hilltops ran,
Like the frightened beasts of a caravan
On Sahara’s sands when the simoon blows. 
Sharp were the twangs of the hunters’ bows,
And swift and humming the arrows sped,
Till ten huge bulls on the bloody snows
Lay pierced with arrows and dumb and dead. 
But the chief with the flankers had gained the rear,
And flew on the trail of the flying herd. 
The shouts of the riders rang loud and clear,
As their foaming steeds to the chase they spurred. 
And now like the roar of an avalanche
Rolls the bellowing wrath of the maddened bulls
They charge on the riders and runners stanch,
And a dying steed in the snow drift rolls,
While the rider, flung to the frozen ground,
Escapes the horns by a panther’s bound. 
But the raging monsters are held at bay,
While the flankers dash on the swarthy rout: 
With lance and arrow they slay and slay;
And the welkin rings to the gladsome shout——­
To the loud Ina’s and the wild Iho’s, [34]
And dark and dead, on the bloody snows,
Lie the swarthy heaps of the buffaloes. 
All snug in the teepee Wiwaste lay,
All wrapped in her robe, at the dawn of day,
All snug and warm from the wind and snow,
While the hunters followed the buffalo. 
Her dreams and her slumber their wild shouts broke;
The chase was afoot when the maid awoke;
She heard the twangs of the hunters’ bows,
And the bellowing bulls and the loud Iho’s,
And she murmured—­“My hunter is far away
In the happy land of the tall Hohe——­
My handsome hunter, my brave Chaske;
But the robins will come and my warrior too,
And Wiwaste will find her a way to woo.”

And long she lay in a reverie,
And dreamed, wide-awake, of the brave Chaske,
Till a trampling of feet on the crispy snow
She heard, and the murmur of voices low:——­
Then the warriors’ greeting—­Iho!  Iho!
And behold, in the blaze of the risen day,
With the hunters that followed the buffalo——­
Came her tall, young hunter—­her brave Chaske. 
Far south has he followed the bison-trail
With his band of warriors so brave and true. 
Right glad is Wakawa his friend to hail,
And Wiwaste will find her a way to woo.

Tall and straight as the larch-tree stood
The manly form of the brave young chief,
And fair as the larch in its vernal leaf,
When the red fawn bleats in the feathering wood. 
Mild was his face as the morning skies,
And friendship shone in his laughing eyes;
But swift were his feet o’er the drifted snow
On the trail of the elk or the buffalo,
And his heart was stouter than lance or bow,