The Autumn was past and the snow
          lay drifted and deep on the prairies;
From his teepee of ice came the foe—­
          came the storm-breathing god of the winter. 
Then roared in the groves, on the plains,
          on the ice-covered lakes and the river,
The blasts of the fierce hurricanes
          blown abroad from the breast of Waziya. [3]
The bear cuddled down in his den,
          and the elk fled away to the forest;
The pheasant and gray prairie-hen
          made their beds in the heart of the snow-drift;
The bison herds huddled and stood
          in the hollows and under the hill-sides,
Or rooted the snow for their food
          in the lee of the bluffs and the timber;
And the mad winds that howled from the north,
          from the ice-covered seas of Waziya,
Chased the gray wolf and silver-fox forth
          to their dens in the hills of the forest.

Poor Father Menard—­he was ill;
          in his breast burned the fire of a fever;
All in vain was the magical skill
          of Wicasta Wakan [61] with his rattle;
Into soft, child-like slumber he fell,
          and awoke in the land of the blessed—­
To the holy applause of “Well-done!”
          and the harps in the hands of the angels. 
Long he carried the cross and he won
          the coveted crown of a martyr.

In the land of the heathen he died,
          meekly following the voice of his Master,
One mourner alone by his side—­
          Ta-te-psin’s compassionate daughter. 
She wailed the dead father with tears,
          and his bones by her kindred she buried. 
Then winter followed winter.  The years
          sprinkled frost on the head of her father;
And three weary winters she dreamed
          of the fearless and fair, bearded Frenchmen;
At midnight their swift paddles gleamed
          on the breast of the broad Mississippi,
And the eyes of the brave strangers beamed
          on the maid in the midst of her slumber.

She lacked not admirers;
          the light of the lover oft burned in her teepee—­
At her couch in the midst of the night,—­
          but she never extinguished the flambeau. 
The son of Chief Wazi-kute—­
          a fearless and eagle-plumed warrior—­
Long sighed for Winona,
          and he was the pride of the band of Isantees. 
Three times, in the night at her bed,
          had the brave held the torch of the lover, [75]
And thrice had she covered her head
          and rejected the handsome Tamdoka. [T]

[T] Tah-mdo-kah, literally, the buck-deer.