The speckled cones of the scarlet berries[58]
Lie red and ripe in the prairie grass. 
The Si-yo[59] clucks on the emerald prairies
To her infant brood.  From the wild morass,
On the sapphire lakelet set within it,
Maga sails forth with her wee ones daily. 
They ride on the dimpling waters gaily,
Like a fleet of yachts and a man-of-war. 
The piping plover, the light-winged linnet,
And the swallow sail in the sunset skies. 
The whippowil from her cover hies,
And trills her song on the amber air. 
Anon to her loitering mate she cries: 
“Flip, O Will!—­trip, O Will!—­skip, O Will!”
And her merry mate from afar replies: 
“Flip I will—­skip I will—­trip I will;”
And away on the wings of the wind he flies. 
And bright from her lodge in the skies afar
Peeps the glowing face of the Virgin Star. 
The fox-pups[60] creep from their mother’s lair,
And leap in the light of the rising moon;
And loud on the luminous, moonlit lake
Shrill the bugle-notes of the lover loon;
And woods and waters and welkin break
Into jubilant song—­it is joyful June.

But where is Wiwaste?  O where is she—­
The virgin avenged—­the queenly queen—­
The womanly woman—­the heroine? 
Has she gone to the spirits? and can it be
That her beautiful face is the Virgin Star
Peeping out from the door of her lodge afar,
Or upward sailing the silver sea,
Star-beaconed and lit like an avenue,
In the shining stern of her gold canoe? 
No tidings came—­nor the brave Chaske: 
O why did the lover so long delay? 
He promised to come with the robins in May
With the bridal gifts for the bridal day;
But the fair May-mornings have slipped away,
And where is the lover—­the brave Chaske?

But what of the venomous Harpstina—­
The serpent that tempted the proud Red Cloud,
And kindled revenge in his savage soul? 
He paid for his crime with his own heart’s blood,
But his angry spirit has brought her dole;[61]
It has entered her breast and her burning head,
And she raves and burns on her fevered bed. 
“He is dead!  He is dead!” is her wailing cry,
“And the blame is mine—­it was I—­it was I! 
I hated Wiwaste, for she was fair,
And my brave was caught in her net of hair. 
I turned his love to a bitter hate;
I nourished revenge, and I pricked his pride;
Till the Feast of the Virgins I bade him wait. 
He had his revenge, but he died—­he died! 
And the blame is mine—­it was I—­it was I! 
And his spirit burns me; I die—­I die!”
Thus, alone in her lodge and her agonies,
She wails to the winds of the night, and dies.

But where is Wiwaste?  Her swift feet flew
To the somber shades of the tangled thicket. 
She hid in the copse like a wary cricket,
And the fleetest hunters in vain pursue. 
Seeing unseen from her hiding place,
She sees them fly on the hurried chase;
She sees their dark eyes glance and dart,
As they pass and peer for a track or trace,
And she trembles with fear in the copse apart,
Lest her nest be betrayed by her throbbing heart.