H^B| dfjJ^.t'i},^ bH«§§eS 3$ □BiilllaBF^T^MJMr-i.'aaJl. HE VOYAGEUR LILYA.LONQ JB B1H M8H HGWC3SSE3p|fiap* iHIiMtBi BB BBMEffMlffiagEi 1^ ■ ills $ ■■■■■■ ■■■■■ Class Book Gop>iightN?_ - U COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/radissonvoyageurOOIong RADISSON The Voyageur A VERSE DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS BY LILY A. LONG NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1914 Copyright, 1914, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY Published November, 1914 NO!/ 23 1914 THE QUINN A 800EN CO. PRESS RAHWAY, N. J. h 0& CI.A388516 'Ho* I PREFATORY NOTE For over two hundred years the two white men who first pierced the wilderness beyond Lake Supe- rior were overlooked by historians, — their names for- gotten, their exploit unknown. Manuscript records of unquestionable authenticity now give the honor to Pierre Esprit Radisson and his brother-in-law, the Sieur des Groseilliers. They were trappers and traders, not scientific explorers, and they were ap- parently quite careless of fame. Such discoveries as were incidental to their avocation were all in the day's work. But their adventures were many and dramatic, and Radisson's journal shows that he, at least, was keenly sensitive to the romantic aspects of their work and to the wonder element of the wilderness. There is no historical record of any love adven- ture, such as is included in the play, but — Radisson was twenty, and a Frenchman. The other incidents in the drama follow his story closely, and many of the speeches are merely paraphrased from his journal. The play as presented is arranged for reading, but the notes at the back make it available for amateur out-of-door performance, or for use as the basis of an Indian Pageant. The opening poem, " The Voy- ageurs," could be made to serve as a prologue, spoken iii iv PREFATORY NOTE by a voyageur; and after the last curtain has fallen it might be raised for a moment on the solitary figure of a woman, looking toward the sunset, who recites the closing poem, " The Passing of the Indian." " The Feast of Friendship," which is introduced as a Pageant following Act III, gives an opportunity for the presentation of Indian dances and games, to any extent desired. CONTENTS Prefatory Note .... Prolog — "The Voyageurs" The Play — " Radisson : The Voyageur " L'Envoi — "The Passing of the Indian" Historical Note .... Directions for Costuming and Mounting Directions for Pageant . PAGE V ix i 105 107 1 1 1 "5 THE VOYAGEURS They were a gallant band, the Voyageurs, — Adventurous spirits, tossing life and death, Like chance-flung dice, with an unfaltering hand, To find the western sea that led to Ind, To thread the rivers, flowing from the north, To pierce the mystery of unknown lands, To find the fabled gold of buried kings, To track the bear and bison in the wild, To trade for silky pelts a queen might wear, To hold dumb converse with the woodland men And learn the master-craft of how to wrest Full life, bare-handed, from the barren wilds, — All these were lures to lead the adventurer on. Yet more than all, perhaps, 'twas but to feel The wildness close about him, shutting out The petty strife of towns, the labor dull Of day by weary day while time shall run That marks the somber safety of the towns. Here there was danger, meet to match his might; Here there was vastness, equal to desire. The night sky spread a tent above the world, Murmurous with winds that blew from sea to sea. The forests held the memories of a past Older than cities, and than empires more. Foremost of all, the gallant Radisson, vii viii THE VOYAGEURS That youth adventurous of Gallic blood, Who knew the seven oceans of the world Before the beard had darkened on his chin. And with him, bound in brotherhood of love And of adventure, came Groseilliers, Sedate and prudent, wise to trade and buy. For them the mighty Mississippi made A level highway to the wilderness, — And to the temple of undying fame. Youth calls to youth. The land and they were young, And every morning was a challenge flung. RADISSON CHARACTERS Pierre Esprit Radisson, a young Frenchman of twenty, gay, debonair, and courageous. Medard Chouart, Sieur des Groseilliers. Ra- disson 's brother-in-law. A trapper and Indian trader, thirty-five years old. Son'daqua, the old blind chief of a band of Hurons (W endats) , who have been driven westward by the Iroquois, and have found a temporary asylum on an island in the Mississippi River. Anaho'taha, his son, and later the chief. Ihee, a medicine-man. Onda'ta, an old herb woman. O'wera, a young girl of the Wendats, Ihee's daughter. Other Indian braves and squaws of the Wendat tribe. Runners. A group of Ottawas. A group of Sioux. A group of Crees. ACT I In the cool morning hour of a June day, a group of Indian women have come down to the river s edge to wash their garments, while others, nearby, are grinding corn in stone mortars. The place is Isle Pelee (now known to geographers as Prairie Island) in the Upper Mississippi River. The year is 1656. The day when Father Hennepin shall look over this region with the eager eyes of a discoverer and claim it for French Louis and for God is still, therefore, a quar- ter of a century in the future; and even the explora- tions of Joliet and Marquette, somewhat farther down the river, are but seven years nearer. Yet now, at this moment, two Frenchmen are the guests of these island Indians, and have been such for a year past, — adven- turers too careless of fame to publish the fact that they have found the hidden headwaters of the greatest river of this New World. Where every day brims with dis- coveries, what is one river more or less? Besides, they are trappers, and this year in the wilderness beyond the farthest reach of their rivals in the trade has given them a store of beaver-skin and fox that will be worth a fortune in Montreal, — if only their too loving hosts of the winter can be persuaded to let them go, and to provide the necessary escort through the hostile lands. 4 RADISSON For these island Indians cling to their chance-sent friends with the dependence of lost children. They are themselves strangers in a land which offers little hospitality. Of the Wendat (Huron) tribe, they long lived at peace in a land far to the eastward, near the Georgian Bay; and many of them have come sufficiently into contact with the trappers, and the black-robed priests of the French people dwelling near the Bitter Water, to learn to venerate the white mans religion and to use his guns and his woven cloth. But the Iroquois, ambitious and conquering, fell upon their quiet villages and drove them out toward the Western wilderness, which was peopled with primitive tribes who had never even heard that the world held men whose skin was white, and who at first looked upon the homeless Wendats as supernaturaily gifted because they brought thunder-sticks which could kill at a dis- tance. Yet only at first! But in spite of these miraculous weapons, the for- lorn Wendats nearly died of cold and hunger during the first winter on that Bald Island whereon they had found asylum. Then wonderfully, miraculously, help came. As the snow was melting in the spring, two Frenchmen, with an escort of a hundred friendly Ot- tawas, came to the Island from that far, forsaken East. One, the older, grave and wise, put the mark of the white mens god upon the children, and, though forty of them died thereafter, their parents could at least cherish the assurance that the mark would send them by a straight path through the Ghost Shadows to the Happy Land. Also the wise man had set them to RADISSON 5 planting corn against the needs of another winter, while the younger one went out into the forest with their own young men all through the long summer, hunting and trapping with the boldest and wildest, — he the boldest and wildest of all. Therefore, the second win- ter brought no terror, for there was good shelter from the wind, and meat and corn enough to make all the women once more fat and handsome. So, now that the Moon of Strawberries has come again, the women often come chattering and laughing down to the river s edge to wash their garments and grind the corn in their stone mortars; and in the comfort and good cheer of the present they almost forget to mourn for the old home from which they fled. From a little distance an Indian girl, about four- teen years old, watches the women while she swings idly in a grapevine swing. This is Owera, the daugh- ter of Ihee, the medicine-man, who is nicknamed The Owl for his mysterious wisdom. From observation of her father s craft, Owera has imbibed a certain shrewd wisdom of her own. She is of the New Generation, and the youthful arrogance which comes of superior understanding sometimes breaks out in mocking and sometimes melts into bewildered yearning Yet out- wardly she is merely the demure Indian girl, somewhat prettier, somewhat keener, than the average. Her black hair, parted and held in place by a beaded band, hangs in two braids over her breast. Her dress of soft, white deerskin is richly embroidered and beaded, for her fa- ther is a man of importance. His tepee is just beyond 6 RADISSON Owera, at the extreme right of a semicircle formed by the ranged tepees of the leading men of the tribe. The Chiefs tepee is in the center; and at the extreme left, nearest the water, is the tepee belonging to the two Frenchmen. The thick-growing willows which mask the river s brink are parted by the nose of a canoe, thrust silently between the drooping branches, and Ondata, the old herb woman, who has spent two days and nights on the mainland hunting medicinal plants, steps upon the Island. She carries a bundle of her trophies upon her shoulders. She is old and wrinkled, and she has long since given over the vanity of adding adornment to her dress, which consists of the ordinary coat, skirt, leg- gings, and moccasins of deerskin; but her face is marked with the dignity that comes in the end to all who have lived long and patiently, and with the strength of good will that belongs to the healer, whatever his race. She pauses to look at the women. Ondata Ye grind as for a feast. Women A feast indeed. A great feast, and a council. Ondata What the cause? RADISSON 7 Women We know not. We are women. We but know A feast is ordered. We must grind the corn. Ondata There was no talk of feasting two days back When I went forth to gather herbs that grow Within the forest. Have the Iroquoits Pursued us hither? Is there talk of war? Women We know not. We are women. Ask the girl. Her father talks to her as though she were A warrior born. — Unseemly! — She may know. Ondata Come hither, Owera. - (Owera springs from her swing and comes down to the group of women. A gleam of demure mischief under her modest eyelids be- trays her understanding of the summons.) Ondata Thy father is Ihee, the Owl, the listener in the night, Whose wisdom sways the council. Thou must know The purpose of this summons. Do the chiefs Call the Young Men to take the Road of War? Must we so soon again prepare to mourn? 8 RADISSON OWERA The war drum hath not sounded, yet the Owl That sees at night hath seen the bird of war. I, Owera, his daughter, speak the truth. Ondata Who sends the war belt? Owera Nay, I named no belt. The pale-faced strangers who have dwelt with us While ten and two times hath the moon grown thin, Would take the backward trail unto the French Yet would not go alone. They ask our braves, The Wendat warriors and the Ottawas, To bear them company upon the way Lest they encounter bands of Iroquoits, The Long House Dwellers, enemies alike Of pale-face, Erie, Wendat, Ottawa. The council is to say if they shall go. Women She talks too much. Unseemly! Can she know The secret talk of warriors? — Ask again! Ondata What is thy father's counsel? For I know His words are winged with wisdom, and they go Like truly feathered arrows to the mark. RADISSON OWERA My father hath great wisdom from the gods And learns their will in dreams. He tells me so, And I, that am his daughter, tell it you. And yet it is no easy thing to know The secret meaning of a medicine dream When chiefs with gifts and honors to bestow Would twist it this and that way, to their will, And glower like wolves at night-time if gainsaid. A medicine-man might well then wish to be The humblest weakling in the camp; but, no, He must make medicine, to please the chiefs! Women {Scandalized) She mocks the wisdom of her father. — Shame! He should have set her grinding corn like us. Ondata Thou speakest somewhat freely, child; yet say Who is it that would choose to stay or go ? OWERA The old would stay; they fear the Iroquoits. The weak would stay; they fear the Iroquoits. The cowards, and the men who have the hearts Of women in their bosoms, they would stay, In fear some wandering band of Iroquoits io RADISSON May hang their scalplocks at the wigwam door. But I, if that I were a warrior born, Or had a warrior's form to match my heart, That beats as boldly as a warrior's should, I'd go with Gooseberry and Radisson And see the land of marvels where they dwell. I would not live a coward for my scalp. Women Shame, shame!— She talks too bold. Unseemly sound For maidens to uplift a chiding voice. Ondata {Speaking with the compassionate wisdom of the old.) There is a wisdom of the warrior, child, — To track the foe, to make no cry of pain ; There is a wisdom of the medicine-man — To know by dreams and prayers the Spirit's will; And women have a wisdom of their own, Unlike the warrior's and the medicine-man's, But binding none the less on every maid Who would uphold the honor of the tribe. Her wisdom is to plant and grind the corn, To raise the tepee and to build the fire, To cook the food that gives her husband strength, And, most of all, to bear with fortitude The lot of woman. That, above all else. RADISSON ii OWERA I would I were a warrior, for my strength Is not enough to meet the harder task Of being woman. Women Oh, unseemly words! OWERA In other lands the women are as queens, And men do serve them on the bended knee. Women The girl is surely mad. The white men's talk Hath turned her head. She takes their jest for truth* It always is the woman's lot to serve. OWERA {Eagerly) Yet hear ye what he says. . . . (She sees Radisson leave his tepee and glance toward her, and she breaks off hastily, in shy embarrassment. ) Another time! (Ondata passes on with her bundle of herbs and disappears behind the tepees. The other women gather up their mortars and clothes and follow her.) 12 RADISSON (Radisson, baptized Pierre Esprit, is a gay, ardent, impetuous youth, whose high spirits have not yet been tamed by any of the experi- ences he has known. A rover from boyhood, he looks upon this Western expedition with his brother-in-law, the Sieur des Groseilliers, as merely an extension of the adventures which have already made him acquainted with half the ports of Europe, and have carried him, in the New World, through a years captivity among the Iroquois. He has the French voy- ageurs ease in establishing human relations with native tribes, and more than ordinary au- dacity and savoir-faire. He is at this time twenty years old, wild with enthusiasm for the wilderness, for which he has the appreciation of a poet joined with the possessive pride of the discoverer. His dress combines the practical features of the woodsman's garb and the In- dian s — buckskin leggings reaching to the hip, belted blouse, a gay sash and pouch, and moccasins.) Radisson {Approaching gayly) Ah, little wild rose of the wilderness, Hast thou a smile to-day to give Pierre? Thine eyes are veiled. I see their lashes so, — Long silken lashes on a golden cheek! There are fine ladies in the land I know RADISSON 13 Beyond the Bitter Water, who would give Their chance of heaven (though that's not much, i' faith,) To have such lashes veil such lustrous eyes. OWERA "Ladees?" Are they the maidens of thy tribe? Do they embroider moccasins for thee? Radisson Nay, in the foolish fashion of the French, It is the men who spend their time and skill To plan the trappings that the women wear. How wouldst thou like that fashion, little drudge? OWERA I like it not. Wouldst thou return to them, When here thou art the lord of all of us? Radisson I must return if I would sell my fui To prove my sanity, I must return, Though, by my faith, my inclination jumps Rather with thy suggestion, and to stay. But if I go, I will again return. I will return to this fair wilderness That draws me as a mistress with her wiles, Her cruel gifts, her thorny tenderness, — Which is beyond thy knowledge, little rose! Wilt thou forget me when I am away? i 4 RADISSON OWERA Women remember. Only men forget. Radisson Thou art no woman, but a child; and yet See thou remember. If I come again And find thou hast forgotten Radisson, I'll pluck the little stars from out the sky And turn the moon to water in my wrath, The which will make a rain of forty days And drown the tribe, — because one careless maid Forgot her friend! Behold, this string of beads Shall help thee keep a memory of me. (He gives her a string of beads, which she ac- cepts eagerly. The young chief of the Wen- dats, Anahotaha, passes near. He sees the gift and scowls darkly, — a pantomime not lost upon Owera.) OWERA (With shy mischief in her explanatory glance) It vexeth him that thou shouldst give me beads. 'Tis not the custom of our people. Radisson True, But I am of another race, and so I give thee beads as gods bestow the rain RADISSON 15 Upon the woodland flowers. They, for thanks, Do kiss the breeze, — and faith, I like the word, — {He attempts to kiss her. Ihee and Groseil- liers come out from the Frenchman s tepee, and approach.) (Ihee, — the Owl, — is Owera's father, — a politic old Indian, whose reputation for wis- dom is not entirely dissociated from his ability to discern which way the wind of counsel is going to blow. If he had been born under other conditions, he would have been another Polonius. Medard Chouart, the Frenchman, known from his little estate at Three Rivers, near Montreal, as Sieur des Groseilliers, is fif- teen years older than the young brother-in-law who is his chosen companion, and who is to be such through many years of good and bad for- tune. Lacking Radisson's imagination and vision, he yet has the practical good sense re- garding the needs of the day and the knowledge of woodcraft and of Indian nature that insure success for their expedition. Just now he is more than annoyed at Radisson's unpolitic gallantry.) Ihee (Politically ignoring Radisson's attitude, he addresses Owera sternly.) Get thee to thine own tepee, forward girl. The council gathers. Maids may not be seen. 16 RADISSON (He stalks off to his own tepee, and OwERA follows him in silence.) Groseilliers Mad fellow, wouldst thou wreck us for a kiss? That maid is pledged to Anahotaha, The son of Sondaqua, the old blind chief. Our friend Ihee, who makes the medicine, Is Owera's father, and he knows her worth To raise himself to power. So take thy beads, Thy smiles and kisses, to another mart, Or thou wilt burn our tent about our ears. Radisson (Airily) Pooh, pooh, a trifle! Do not speak of it. Groseilliers God's faith, and who will speak if I do not? Radisson Why, none at all, and that would please me well. Groseilliers Thy wisdom is worn thin. It needs a patch. Radisson She is a child, an infant. Have I leave To kiss a brown pappoose, if I so will? RADISSON 17 Groseilliers Thou'lt lack the will, if I have leave to judge, Until the brown pappoose hath taken on The grace of maidenhood. But be on guard. Wild seedlings ripen early. Furthermore, The word may rest with Anahotaha If we get escort to Quebec or no. We're prisoners, though our warders know it not. I pray they may not guess too near the truth. Radisson Good brother, I was once a prisoner, No rhetoric, but fact, as well thou know'st, Among the Iroquoits. I made escape. Groseilliers And so thou may'st again, if thou but use Discretion where to scatter burning looks, Nor willful fire our bridges of retreat. (During the above colloquy the Wendat braves have been gathering in the background and have gradually formed in a semicircle, leaving an open space toward the front. They take their places, reclining on the ground, in silence, and are pointedly unobservant of the two white men.) The chiefs have gathered for the council talk. Now we, with fitting state and dignity, Must take the central place and play at pomp, 18 RADISSON For they are children in their love of show And dote on tinsel as a courtier doth. And see thou second me, or Marguerite, Thy sister and my wife, may languish long For tidings of her brother and her lord. Radisson I'll back thee up, good Medard, never fear. Thou'rt spokesman, as the elder, but I stand Beside thee, be the need for word or blow. I'll swear that black is white and night is day, That we are little gods, and have a horde Of waiting devil-slaves to do our will And wreak our anger on our enemies. Give me a chance and prove what I can do. Groseilliers But keep thy madcap jests for other times. A spark to powder, and our cause is lost. Remember, if the council should decree Their young men may not go to see the French, We and our hopes alike will find an end, Since we alone cannot essay the wilds. Radisson We cannot ? That's a word that likes me not ! Groseilliers Oh, we can go and die beside the way, If bleaching bones will satisfy thy pride. I choose to keep my flesh, and Marguerite. RADISSON 19 Radisson The wilderness is bride enough for me, — The virgin wilderness no man hath known. Groseilliers A cruel mistress. She would see thee die Without compassion. Come, put on thy gauds. We must impress the council with our state. ( They enter their tent. As they withdraw, tht women curiously draw near from their conceal- ment behind the tepees. Whispering together, they peer cautiously after the Frenchmen.) Women They go unto their tepee. Is it truth That they have little devils in the tent To guard their guns and beads and tinkling bells? OWERA Aye, true enough, as any thief may learn. Women And is it true they talk by painted signs, One to the other, when they are apart? OWERA Aye, true enough. The black robes have the skill. 'Tis white man's medicine. That way they sena 20 RADISSON Warnings of treachery, and secret talk That one may carry in the open hand Yet hear no whisper. But the white men hear. Women (With jealous skepticism') How dost thou know? Canst thou hear paper talk? OWERA I am baptized. The black robes made a mark That none can see, with water, on my brow. That, too, is magic. That is how I know So many things that hidden are from you. Women It is not fit that women know these things. (Last to enter the council ring are Sondaqua, the chief, who is blind, and Anahotaha, his son, who supports him, and guides him to the central place. Anahotaha takes his place at his father s right, with Ihee next to him. Ihee, as medicine-man, carries a gourd filled with pebbles, which he rattles occasionally, to fill a pause or point applause. He wears an owVs head and wings as a crest. Space is re- served at Sondaqua's left for the two French- men. The women have disappeared in or be- hind the tepees, though their presence may be guessed from the occasional flutter of a fringed RADISSON 21 garment. Only Owera is in full sight. She sits on the ground at the door of her father s tepee, stringing rose-hips for beads, but shyly watchful of the council. Sondaqua is old and feeble, with the de- tached point of view of a man whom life has forcibly disengaged from personal ambitions and hopes. He wears with dignity the chiefs robe, made of brilliant, fluttering feathers, and reach- ing from his neck to his heels. Anahotaha, who knows that the responsi- bilities of leadership will fall upon him on his father s death, carries in his heart a smoldering anger at the disasters that have befallen his people, and a resentment, which is ready to burst into flame, that they should have become beholden to the white strangers. Added to this is a more personal bitterness toward Radisson, whose playful gallantry toward Owera has aroused his anger.) (Radisson and Groseilliers come out from their tent dressed for the council. Groseil- liers has assumed an old doublet of purple vel- vet with slashed sleeves showing white satin beneath. Over this he wears a necklace of small mirrors. He carries a valuable belt of wam- pum in his hand. Radisson wears a richly embroidered cloak over his other garments and has bound a bright cockade against his head.) 22 RADISSON Groseilliers Delay a little. Let the council wait Our due appearance. We must wait for none. Radisson Medard, this is a game that kings might play. My veins run fire, a flame is in my brain. To look abroad on this fair wilderness Where never white man's eye hath fallen yet, To hold a secret in thy heart and mine, This mighty river with its yellow flood, These forests with their beauty and their wealth, These lakes and hills and prairies, — ours, all ours, — To turn these wildmen by our single will, We two against a thousand, — this is life! In truth, I half accept the wildmen's faith. I feel I am a god, as they believe. A little god, no doubt, but still a god! Groseilliers A godship that may soon be put to proof. Our wares, as well thou know'st, have all been swapped For beavers — which are worth their weight in gold, But like the gold of Midas, may be yet Our heavy death, since we are poor indeed, For all our beavers, if we have no iron To pay for service. We have scarce a knife Between us. RADISSON 23 Radisson But we have a better ware, — Fine, dazzling, gorgeously bepainted words! A ware to buy our freedom! For they love, These hungry savages, a glowing speech Better than food. Good brother, make thy talk Sound like a war-drum, flash like broken glass. Thou'lt carry all before thee. Groseilliers Aye, I go To shoot the only arrow may avail. Our quiver's empty, if this last do fail. (They take their places with impressive dig- nity in the circle at the left of Chief Son- daqua. The pipe of ceremony is passed around and all smoke in silence. At length Groseilliers rises.) Groseilliers My Brothers, Elders of the Tribe, and Chiefs, We come together here that each may lift His voice in counsel. First by right of age And wisdom is Old Sondaqua, the chief. His eyes are closed to outward things, yet see The secret trails that run in each man's heart Beneath the leafy cover of his words. The chain of friendship that the white men brought Is in his hand. He will not let it fall. 24 RADISSON His tongue is straight. It cannot speak a lie. His wisdom is renowned to all the tribes To east and west, and even to the French. We wait for Sondaqua, the chief, to speak. Radisson (Aside to Groseilliers) Well said. They'll swallow flattery so thick 'Twould choke a poet or a mandarin. Sondaqua (Rising with difficulty) Old Sondaqua was like the mighty oak That spreads its branches for a pleasant shade And grips the hillside with its sinewy roots. He was a shelter to his friends. But now The storm hath stripped his branches. They are bare. The worm is at his heart and he must die. His ancient home is lost by chance of war, His young men have been slain, his warriors ta'en. He fled by night through unknown forest ways To this far land for shelter. Now, oho! He sees the shade of change on all he knows. The ancient ways are dead, the new unlearned. The pale-faced stranger, coming from afar, Hath brought us gifts of iron, thunder-sticks, And burning water that doth make us mad. He cast these at our feet. We took them up, And by our ancient custom we are bound RADISSON 25 To do his will whose gifts we have received. The white man's path will lead to change and death. I that am blind see far along the way, And it is black with sorrow, red with war, — Yet must we follow. Let the white man speak. Groseilliers My brothers, I have dwelt with you in peace. Ye know me for a friend. A year ago We came among you ere the snow was gone, To trade for beavers, and we found you here, New set on this fair island, without corn. Did I desert you? Did I go alone Back to the French, who waited my return? Ye know I stayed a twelvemonth, helping you To raise a harvest, while my brother here Went with your hunters, finding out new trails. Now all have maize in plenty, and your wives Are joyful, laying by a winter's store. This I, your friend, have done for you, my friends. But now the time hath come when I must go Back to my people. I will bear them word Of you, the brothers that I found afar, With whom I dwelt in love a winter through. Who of my brothers w T ill go down with me And see the wonders of the Frenchmen's town, Eat full, drink plenty, carry iron home ? I lay this belt of wampum at your feet, Who takes it up ? Who hath the heart to go With me and with my brother to the French? 26 RADISSON Radisson (Aside to Groseilliers) Well done. Thou hast the glories of that round ! A Chief Who will baptize our children, if ye go, Or show the Spirit trail that leads to heaven? Another Chief Delay a season yet, for love of us. We are your brothers. We would have you stay. Ihee (Catching the sentiment of the meeting) The gods have shown me in a medicine-dream It is their will the white men should remain. Anahotaha (Rising with a commanding gesture) My brother hides his heart beneath his words As turbid waters hide a treacherous ford. He asks that we go down unto the French To feast and gather gifts. He doth not say Our path must lie where bands of Iroquoits Are watching for us in the forest shade, And we must run the gauntlet of our foes As prisoners run between two hostile lines That strike them as they run, and strike, and strike. RADISSON 27 The Iroquoits that drove us from our land Are waiting for us in the hidden ways, And if our brother asks that we return He is no Wendat, but an Iroquoit, A foe at heart, with words that cover death. Let him take back his greeting, and his belt. {He kicks the belt across the field. Other chiefs, influenced by his eloquence, spring up and kick Groseilliers' belt back and forth in scorn.) Chiefs {In a tumult) He is an Iroquoit at heart! — He seeks To trap us like a castor in a trap! — The Iroquoits will fall on us, and slay All those who journey down unto the French. Ihee {Veering with the tide of feeling) We who have fled may nevermore return. The gods have shown me in a medicine-dream It is their will that we should not return. Anahotaha It is my will. Ho, ho ! It is my will. Groseilliers {Aside to Radisson) Chief Anahotaha would thwart our plan Because of anger. Thank thyself for that. 28 RADISSON Radisson He would be wiser, since he likes me not, To send me hence, and let the Iroquoits Do what he dare not. But these wildmen have No logic as to cause and consequence! They only see the thing before their eyes. Groseilliers (Rising) My brothers, ye have shown indignity To me, my gift, and message; and the gods That guard the French will have offense at you And send a pestilence to kill your corn. SONDAQUA Sooner or late, it comes; the end is sure. The white man will possess our land, and we Will be as dogs that slink behind the lodge And gnaw a bone in silence, while the meat Is his, the conqueror's. We must do his will. Anahotaha That is not good talk for the tribe to hear. This land is ours and no one here may come But by our leave, and no one may go hence Save by our letting. We are Wendats! Ho! We are the People of the Bear. Shall we Follow like women when a stranger calls? Who lifts that belt of wampum is a foe! RADISSON 29 Groseilliers (Aside to Radisson) Speak to them, thou, if thou canst turn the tide. Radisson (Springing up and throwing off his gay cloak.) There is no man among you. Cast away Those feathers ye are wearing. They belong To warriors who can do courageous deeds, And not to women, weaklings, such as you. Ye men? Ye have the timid hearts of squaws. Ye hide within the lodge, ye run away, When war-whoops in the forest sound the cry That turneth men to warriors unafraid. Ye have no right to weapons. Ye are tame. The skin of castor is a war-club fit To beat you with, O cowards that ye are! (He snatches the beaver robe from a brave and beats him about the shoulders with it, and then flings it down.) Stay if ye will. Like women dig the roots, And make the fire to keep you snug and warm, And hide yourselves when Iroquoits appear To mock you and to carry off your wives. For me, I go alone. I do not fear A shadow on the trail, a wild bird's cry; Aye, and I do not fear the Iroquoits. I am a man. I face the wilds alone. 30 RADISSON (He flings a pack upon his shoulder and makes as though he would go off alone.) Indians (In a tumult) He shames us with his words. — My heart is hot. — I, too, will call myself a man! — And I! — And I! — We are not cowards. We will lift the belt And take the message that our brother gives! (They pick up the belt and crowd about it, each trying now to touch it.) Ihee (Bustling to the front and waving his arms to the wigwams.) Ho, women, pack the bundles for your men! They join Groseilliers and Radisson To make the journey to the Bitter Sea. The Wendat men are braves, as all may know. Radisson (Laughing excitedly, challenging in his triumph) Then come with Radisson! The bundles, ho! (The council breaks up in confusion and the women come hurriedly out with their arms filled with the mens belongings, which they proceed to bundle up. Owera alone stands motionless, her eyes fixed on Radisson, who has thrown RADISSON 31 his arm over Groseilliers' shoulder and gives no thought to her. The sun, which has been shining radiantly, passes behind a cloud, and a slow-moving shadow sweeps over the camp.) [curtain] ACT II Three years have passed since Radisson and Gro- SEILLIERS, with their escort of young braves, left the Wendat Camp on Isle Pelee. In the meantime the camp has shifted, the hostility of the neighboring Sioux driving the Wendats northward. It is now October of i6$g, and the tribe under Anahotaha, the new chief, has pitched temporary camp on the shores of a lake, to be known in subsequent history as the Lac Courte Oreille. The wild geese are flying southward over the lake, and though the mid-day sun is warm upon the October land, little gusts of wind come now and again to flat- ten the long yellow grass upon the shore and to shake down the red and yellow leaves from the clump of trees in the low land to the left, which shelter the ill- prepared wigwams of the Wendats. There is a haze in the air which dims the sunlight and hangs like a portent on the far horizon. OwERA, who is now seventeen, sits solitary on a high bank overlooking the lake. Though she is, ac- cording to the standard of her people, a woman grown, the waywardness which has marked her from child- hood has saved her from the crushing burdens that In- dian custom lays upon women. She is still unmated, still the privileged daughter of the medicine-man, of 32 RADISSON 33 whom no tasks may be exacted, and who may indulge to the full her taste for rich garments. She sits idle, looking northward over the wind- fretted water, and sings. OWERA (Sings) Long is the trail My beloved must follow. The lone moon that watcheth Is weary with waiting. Long is the trail. It leadeth him far Past suntime and moontime, Past springtime and summer, To the region of winter, It leadeth him far. (While she sings, Anahotaha, who has suc- ceeded to the chieftainship, has entered noise- lessly behind her. He has assumed the more ceremonial dress that goes with his new rank, and whatever emotions of doubt, anxiety, sor- row, or love may rack his heart, he masks them with the impassive dignity which befits a chief. As Owera finishes her song, he comes forward and announces himself impersonally, without a direct look at her.) 34 RADISSON Anahotaha I, Anahotaha the chief, am here. I, chief of Wendats, Anahotaha. My wigwam is the largest and the best. My furs are many, and my wealth is great. I have a spirit-stick, a medicine-gun; It kills by magic and it kills afar. Behold how great is Anahotaha. OWERA (With carefully hidden amusement) No one may doubt, since he hath said the word! Anahotaha My beaver-skins are soft, to make a couch. I bring much venison to fill the pot The Frenchmen left me. — Come thou to my lodge! OWERA (Startled, and suddenly cautious) I? Nay, I have a task! My father waits Till I return with gatherings of roots. Anahotaha A father may not hold a maid for aye. Come to my tepee. Owera Nay, my mother waits For me to build the fire and cook the food. RADISSON 35 Anahotaha Come to my tepee! I have waited long For wife to make my lodge-fire burn, and hang A beaded deerskin up against the wind. It is not fitting that the chief should dwell Alone, with none to cook his food for him, Or bear his pack on trail. OWERA The Chief can find A score of maidens who will not delay To seek his tepee. Let him speak to them. Anahotaha I will not have another maid to wife, For I have chosen Owera from all The laughing maidens at the virgin-dance. My tepee shall be empty till she come. Owera She doth not choose to wed. Anahotaha I heard her sing Her love was following a distant trail. Is there another who hath sought her eyes? Owera No, no. No other. 'Twas an idle song, — A dream of childhood melting into song. 36 RADISSON Anahotaha No more than that? OWERA No more. Indeed, no more. Anahotaha A dream should fly away when morning comes. Owera It rises every morning in the mists That melt before the sunshine, but it comes Back in the night-time by a trail of stars To Owera's pillow, till it grows to song! Anahotaha There is no song for Anahotaha. The heart of Anahotaha is weighed To heaviness with care. He is a chief, He walketh proudly when the people see, And yet his heart is heavy, and his feet Are set in ways of loneliness. He longs To rest his sorrow on a woman's breast, For only to a woman may a brave Confess his fears. She only may uphold His drooping spirit with her tender hands. And therefore Anahotaha hath longed To draw the maiden Owera to him, To bare his heart to her in wigwam talk. RADISSON 37 This land is new to us, and hostile bands Do hedge us on the north and on the south. Last night strange signals burned across the lake, — No one can say what foes surround the camp. Come to my tepee ere the battle fall. OWERA {Excited and eager) Our runners — hast thou sent them in the night To spy on those who come? They may be friends, — Our young men who went down unto the French With Radisson, three summers in the past. — Nay, it may be he comes again himself! {An Indian runner, dressed in the trim, light costume of the speed-maker, comes in at the opposite side and races across toward the shel- tered camp. As he passes he waves his hand to Anahotaha, and without pausing shouts his message.) Runner Groseilliers comes again and Radisson! Across the lake their little boats are come! Our Radisson returns! He comes again! {Goes out running.) OWERA He comes again! I thought he would forget! A dream hath shown to him the trail of stars! 38 RADISSON Anahotaha What is their coming or their stay to us? They are another people, and they have Another totem. They will come and go Like white bears from the north that lose their way And wander hither, and again return. Come to my tepee ere the white men come. OWERA Nay, I must see them. Do not hold me back. (Ihee, the medicine-man, anxious for his pro- fessional credit and quick to take what advan- tage may be open to him, enters hastily from the direction of the camp, where he has en- countered the Runner and learned his tidings.) Ihee I saw it in a dream. They come again. The white chiefs come again with many gifts! (Radisson and Groseilliers, with an escort of Indians, some of whom are carrying loaded canoes on their shoulders, enter from the direc- tion of the lake landing. A crowd of men and women from the camp straggle in after Ihee, and the two parties meet. The two Frenchmen are three years older than when we saw them last, and Radisson has perhaps a trifle more of leadership and self- RADISSON 39 command, but otherwise they are little changed. They, as well as their entire party, carry the travel signs of the two-month journey by lake and land which has brought them here from Montreal.) Radisson (Eagerly, and in advance of his party) Ihee, old fellow! 'Tis thy very self, Still prophesying after the event! The safest sort of prophecy, my sage! Is Owera here? My faith! My dazzled eyes! And is this Owera, my little girl Of. three years back ? Who gave thee leave to grow To such a beauty, once my back was turned ? Owera (Shyly) 'Tis Owera, in truth. Behold thy beads. (She draws his beads from her bosom.) Radisson Thou shalt be decked with beads, the best I have, Because thou'st kept the old ones in thy breast And me in memory. Who else is here? What, all our ancient friends of Isle Pelee? We had not thought to come upon you here. Where are your wigwams, lodges? Where the camp? 40 RADISSON Ihee {Putting himself forward) Within the shelter of the fringe of trees Between the hills, hath Anahotaha, Who now is chief, set up our winter camp. But I, I have no kettle in my lodge, And I have ever been the white man's friend. Groseilliers (Advancing with formality to greet the chief) Chief Anahotaha, how doth it come We find thee and thy tribe in this the north? Have ye forsook Isle Pelee, where the stream Held fish in plenty, and the maize grew high? Anahotaha (Sullenly) We came away. This is a better place. Groseilliers This is a barren place. The winter comes. Where are your heaps of corn for winter food? Anahotaha Each season's food the Manitou bestows. Ihee will make a fast and win his ear. Groseilliers Can Ihee's fasting fill an empty pot? RADISSON 41 Ihee Unless the Manitou be roused to wrath By sin within the tribe, most sure it can. If answer be withheld, it is no fault Of prayer and fasting, but a certain sign That there is disobedience in the tribe, And secret sin is hiding in some heart. Groseilliers Why have ye left Isle Pelee, where I set The corn that ye should reap, and there was peace? Anahotaha The tribes to west, beyond the Neutral Ground, Like Iroquoits, are very fierce in fight. At first they called us gods, because we had Iron, and waukon-sticks that kill far off. We thought them weaklings, since they had no guns. Their knives were stone, sharp-splintered. So we slew Their hunters in the forest. We were braves. But they, they followed us, and fell on us, And in the fight the Spirit hid his face From us, his children. Why, we cannot know. So ^ed we from the island, to the north. Groseilliers Where is old Sondaqua, our friend the chief? He fathered not such folly. Is he dead? 42 RADISSON Anahotaha The breath departed from him, so we laid His body in a cave beneath the bluff Near where the Sky-stream joins the Mighty-stream. There is a fountain far within the cave, And Manitou, the Spirit, there is heard In endless murmured speech, by night and day. We left him there. And I am now the chief. Radisson (Breaking in to relieve the situation, which he sees is becoming strained.) Our greetings to thee, Chief! We bring thee gifts. We are thy uncles, — thy great-uncles, even! Send runners through the camp to call a feast. I and my brother bid you all to come And smoke the new tobacco that we bring, And feast on venison and salted fish. This is a day to be remembered long, For we have come from far to find our friends And buy your skins of beaver and of fox. Is old Ondata here? (The ancient herb woman is pushed forward.) Bid her prepare A mighty feast for all, and we will give To all the Wendat braves a worthy gift, Another to the women, that they may Rejoice in our return. The children, too. Bid all to gather here before the feast, RADISSON 43 And let us show our friendship by our gifts. Go, you, and you, and bring our sledges up. Indians {Laughing) Ho, ho! Our uncles have returned! Ho! Ho! (They scatter, some to the camp, and some to the landing. The sky, which has been somber, glows with a threatening red as the sun sinks into the October haze, and a sighing wind shakes the trees.) Groseilliers Here is a state of things to cool the blood. The sting of snow already in the air, And here no harvest, nothing garnered up. We'll face a famine when the ground is white. Radisson They're children, heedless children, first and last. Thy lore of husbandry is all forgot. But we can live as wildmen, snaring beasts, And digging roots, and sharing forest fare. Groseilliers The signs portend a winter of the worst. I tell thee, 'tis a famine that we face. 44 RADISSON Radisson And welcome, Famine! Welcome, come what will That cometh from the honest wilderness. Its worst is better than the city's best, For here at worst there is no governor, — No Argenson, to thwart us, tie our hands. I'm back where I belong, amid mine own. I stretch mine arms and cry aloud, " I'm free! " Groseilliers Famine may prove a jailer with the best, And lacks not skill as executioner. Radisson But Famine hath no knavish itching palm. I'd starve with joy to cozen Argenson, — God's curses on the thief, the miscreant, The coward, traitor, liar, double thief, — Groseilliers Hold, hold ! Why waste good breath in cursing him ? He could not keep us back, for all his laws. Keep us, free trappers? Dost thou not recall How, when we slipped away with muffled oars Between the dusk and daylight, that the guard Who should have given alarm did call to us " Good speed, and quick return ! " And all the way The people from Three Rivers and Quebec Came to the water's edge to see us pass And cheer us with " The saints have charge of you! " RADISSON 45 Radisson They are good people. I do not forget. Why, all Quebec came out three years ago When we returned alive from Isle Pelee, And towed our laden boats with shout and cheer, The while the guns flung out a boomed salute As we were kings or conquerors, — as we were. We came with wealth un guessed that we had won From hostile winter at our mortal risk. Never before had castor-skins been seen So fine and soft, so fit for royalty. We poured a stream of wealth upon the town. Was that a deed of felony, that we Should pay a fine, or languish in a jail? Groseilliers Why cherish memories that rouse thine ire? Radisson Let Argenson forget to plunder us, And then perchance my memory may cool. Here we, each moment of the chanceful day, Do place our lives upon a lucky throw And count it triumph if, when evening fall, We still have kept this coat of living flesh. We bear a peasant's burden on our back. We stay the stomach's craving with dry fish, And think we feast if berries from the bush, A meager handful, crown our lean repast. 46 RADISSON In place of perfumed baths, we break our way Through leagues of snowdrifts; sleep upon our arms Lest covetous wildmen brain us for our goods Or, in pursuit of knowledge, cut our throats To see if pale-face blood be white or red. Is ours the pain, the labor ? Aye or no ? Groseilliers (Seating himself wearily on a pack) My muscles answer for me that it is. Radisson Yet Argenson would have a quarter part Of all our furs, to give us leave to go And make our battle with the wilderness! 'Twould joy my heart to give with those same furs Their proper share of aches. One day in four Let Argenson be sweated, frozen, starved, Hemmed in by loneliness and hope deferred, Hunted and driven. Ha, the governor Would have some right in that case to exact His due proportion of the castor-skins. Groseilliers Our Argenson is but a braided thief, Using his office here fn far Quebec To set up carriages in Paris soon, And squeezing us until we spit out gold Because he hath the power. I grant thee that. Yet, Pierre, the government RADISSON 47 Radisson The government! What hath the government to do with this, — This waste of loneliness? Here are no roads, No bridges, armies, cities, churches, schools, No camps or barracks, property or deeds, Or other instruments of government. Why taxes, then? Why licenses to trap, More than to breathe the air, or eat the roots? Groseilliers Thou art a Frenchman. Thou wouldst fight for France Against the English, bitter as thou art, If they should claim this land, or seek thy skill As trapper, for some British company. Radisson {Speaking, perhaps, with some prevision of that future in which he was to shift his impatient allegiance from France to England, then back to France, then again to England, dying at last a pensioner of the Hudson Bay Company.) A thousand devils, but I would not so. Why should the chance that I was born in France Hold me for life a slave to — Argenson? I sailed the seas beneath a dozen flags Ere I was twenty, and I speak the tongues 48 RADISSON Of English, Turkish, Greek, the Spanish Coast, As readily as French or Ottawa. All are my brothers if they treat me well, But none my master. As for government, — I snap my fingers at its thievish claims. Groseilliers The which is treason, as thou knowest well, And thou wouldst e'en be quartered, like thy furs, If it were heard. But if it irks thee so To pay the license, let us quit the trade Of trapper, and go dwell at ease at home. Three Rivers will support a pedagogue To teach the languages, and scorn of kings, While I — raise gooseberries on my estate! Radisson Have thou thy jest. A life of deadly ease Would be a living tomb. Forbid it, Heaven! This is the land I love, — this wilderness, White, cold, mysterious, ever beckoning on, Ever withholding still the final gift, Groseilliers Thy mistress' eyebrow, — fringed with icicles! The kiss of death upon her frozen lips! — I know thy theme, thou rhapsodizing swain. A living bride would more deserve thy breath. RADISSON 49 Radisson (Who has been brought down to earth, and promptly finds there an opportunity for mis- chief.) But Owera is pledged, thou'st cautioned me! Groseilliers That maggot in thy brain? God give thee sense! For what was folly once were madness now. We need the help of Anahotaha. We need a winter's lodging in his camp, (He breaks off abruptly as his keen eye catches signs of unusual disturbance in the camp.) There's tumult yonder. What hath now betid ? Radisson They gather for the gifts. Groseilliers Nay, somewhat more, For strangers are in parley with our friends, And Anahotaha doth stalk before, With all the native chieftain's dignity. Radisson Their steps are hereward bent. We have usurped The audience chamber of our woodland king. 50 RADISSON Groseilliers We will maintain our place. It well may be That Anahotaha conducts them here To have us see and hear the argument. (Anahotaha enters ', followed by a party of miserable, half -starved strangers, Ottawas, and also by Wendats from the camp,) Anahotaha White chief, these Ottawas have come to us To offer us their wares and merchandise. I bade them speak again their message here, That ye may hear, and all may share alike. (The Ottawas, a poverty-stricken band, show the desperate straits into which the wandering tribes may fall. They are ragged, haggard, and gaunt, though they still maintain the dig- nity that is conferred by self-possession. As their chief advances to speak, a member of the band throws down a pack which opens and dis- plays the trumpery " merchandise ** which was the chief material of barter between the whites and Indians. A keen autumnal wind shakes down the leaves of the trees and seems to fleer mock- ingly the state of the forlorn Indians.) Ottawa Chief O brothers, it is Hunger that doth speak, Using our breath to fashion forth our words. RADISSON 51 Cur band is hungry. Winter presseth close. We bring our knives of iron that we bought With many castor-skins, from those who trade Among the white men, down beside the sea. And here are rings and awls and iron pots, — Great wealth, a heap, and much to be desired. Yet more to be desired is life. We give All that we have, save life, to keep that life. Take what ye will, and give us of your corn. Wendats (Examining the things with childish greed) These wares are good. — I have no knife like this, — For this I offer half my bag of maize. — Tobacco for a month I give for these! Groseilliers (Starting up) 'Tis madness! All will starve, if they divide Their scanty store of food. Radisson (Checking him) Thou canst not teach Our anxious cares to them. Eat full to-day, To-morrow tighten belts, and so, in time, Die uncomplainingly, — that is their way. We vex ourselves with much philosophy, Yet die we, none the less. I doubt we gain. 52 RADISSON Groseilliers {With a gesture of helplessness) The prospect holds disaster. Now at last The wilderness hath caught us in its snare. (RadisSOn's Indians enter from lake landing, bringing in his loaded sleds.) Runners Come all, come all, come all! Groseilliers And Radisson do call you to a feast And offer many gifts. Come all ! Come all ! Ottawas (In high content) Ugh! It is well that we have come to-day. Now will we dwell with you and share your gifts. (Indians gather from all sides, men, women, and children, and range themselves in an eager, laughing crowd before the Frenchmen. Radisson opens the pack, and Groseil- liers, with ceremony, begins the distribution.) Groseilliers First gift be to the men, old men and young. Tobacco for your pipes, that ye may blow A pleasant smoke to Gitche Manitou. (He distributes gifts of tobacco.) RADISSON 53 Men (In high good humor) Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho! Radisson Next gift be to the women ; ribands bright, To deck yourselves withal, and needles fine, Better than thorns to draw a sinew-thread. (He gives gifts to the women.) The Women (With shrill manifestations of delight) Ki-yi — Ki-yi — Ki-yi ! Ki-yi — Ki-yi ! One Woman The most and best he gave to Owera. Radisson Where are the children? Here, together here! Shy little squirrels, come and try my nuts! ( Throws gifts of bells and sugar plums among the children to see them scramble.) Where's Owera? Come, help me, Owera. Help me to make these droll, small children laugh. 54 RADISSON Woman Ever his eyes are seeking Owera. (Anahotaha has been standing to one side with folded arms, watching the scene with im- passive countenance. Now he turns gravely to Ihee.) Anahotaha He calls on Owera. I like it not. Is it forbidden that we slay the man, Or send him forth to wander otherwhere? Ihee He hath great wealth. 'Twere best to keep him here. Anahotaha To keep him here how long? Ihee (Significantly) Until he die. Anahotaha (After a considering pause) That may not be so long. Ihee (Conciliating) 'Twill not be long. RADISSON 55 Radisson Are they not like to small brown cubs at play? Here, dance for me, O children! Beat the drum, And dance a dance for Pierre, and he will give This gay rosette to him who danceth best! Indians (Shouting with laughter over the antics of the children.) Ho, ho, ho, ho! Ki-yi! (Anahotaha moves to Owera's side and places a hand on her arm, as if to draw her apart.) Anahotaha Come to my tepee. OWERA Nay, not now, not now. Anahotaha I do not choose to wait. OWERA (Petulantly) I will not go. Take thou another maiden to thy lodge. 56 RADISSON Indians (Gathering about RADISSON with ingenuous enthusiasm) Thou art our brother, for thine eye is keen As any Wendat's in the forest ways, Thy heart is open like the tepee door Where all may come and sit beside the fire. Be thou a brother by the ancient bond Of full adoption in the Wendat Tribe. Groseilliers (Aside) Be guarded. This may prove an irking bond. Radisson (Aside) Trust me to hold the bond or tight or loose As best may serve us. (To Indians.) Wendats of the band Of Anahotaha, the valorous chief, — (Aside) Who sulks like old Achilles in his tent,—?* I take the hand ye offer. I will be A Wendat of the Wendats, bound to you, As ye to me, in ties of brotherhood. Indians (Acclaiming him) Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! RADISSON 57 Radisson I will bestow good fortune on the tribe. When ye go forth to hunt with me, the wolves Will fawn upon you, like your flea-bit dogs. The fish will come to you withouten nets. The lightning will not strike you. It will know Ye are my brothers. Indians Ho! Ho! Ho! Groseilliers Doth trouble fatten thee, that thou must go Aside to seek it, madcap? Have a care. Radisson The little devils that I keep in leash To do my will shall serve my brothers now, And put our secret enemies to shame. Indians Ho, ho, ho! Choose thou of us One who shall be thy father in the tribe, And in whose wigwam thou wilt eat and sleep. Radisson A father, too? A matter asking thought! By Zeus and Thor and all the heathen gods, I choose Ihee, the man of magic craft! 58 RADISSON Ihee shall be my father, and his wife My venerable mother; and perforce It follows I have gained a sister so. Am I a brother, Owera, to thy taste? Owera My brother is most welcome to the lodge, And Owera will cook his venison. (Anahotaha, who has listened to the unau- thorized overtures of his people with a dark- ening face, now throws off Ihee's restraining hand and steps forward.) Anahotaha I am the chief, the son of Sondaqua. The Wendats wait for me to speak the word, And Owera Radisson My sister! Anahotaha Knows my will. 'Tis Anahotaha, the chief, that speaks. {The tension of the situation is broken by the opportune appearance on the height above the camp of old Ondata, the herb woman, who was sent to prepare the feast.) RADISSON 59 Ondata The feast is ready. Groseilliers Serve it to the camp. (This announcement wipes out all other inter- est, and the Indians rush for the camp, even Anahotaha following with dignified delib- eration. The two Frenchmen are left alone, looking after them. All at once the sky dark- ens, heralding an approaching storm, and a sud- den, keen wind sweeps in from the lake.) Groseilliers A feast and then the famine. Sauve qui peutl I would the spring were here, the winter past. Radisson (With a gayety which recognizes the hazard and goes to meet it.) Oh, spring will keep the rendezvous, no fear. The future hath a place reserved for us. Shall paltry Famine check our destined course, Or winter hinder us, whom Fate attends? The stars fight for us. Winter, get thee gone! Have at thee, Famine! Ha, a Radisson! 60 RADISSON (As he gayly strikes the attitude of a fencer, the long, wailing cry of the loon comes shiv- eringly over the water.) [curtain] ACT III It is the middle of March, in the following year. A terrible famine, foreseen by Groseilliers, has car- ried off half of the tribe, as well as the starveling Ottawas who came to beg succor. The camp of the remainder is now located at a small lake, — henceforth to be known as Knife Lake, from Radisson's gift of knives to the visiting Sioux, who likewise commemo- rate the event by taking the name of Isanti (i.e., Knife) Sioux. It is the chill hour of dawn. The stars are paling in the cold sky, but though light is dawning it is with- out warmth. A group of Indian women, the entire figure shrouded in a blanket or robe, are crouched on the ground under the trees, wailing aloud for those who have died, and whose decorations and personal belongings are hung upon the trees in sacrifice and for memory. Among the women is Owera. The bare trees of the mourning grove close about the scene, but in the foreground is an open space. Radisson, haggard and gaunt, but retaining his old dauntlessness of bearing, enters and stands unnoticed while the women sing their Song of Wailing. Women Ai, ai, ai! To the land of shadows have they fled away, 61 62 RADISSON Those we loved, our brothers, Those who gave us counsel, Those who hunted for us, Ai, ai, ai! Af, ai, ai! To the land of shadows have they fled away, They, the little children, Tender little weaklings. All our joy hath followed. Ai, ai, ai! Ai, ai, ai! From the cold winter have they fled away, From the pain of hunger, From the woe of weeping To the land of shadows. Ai, ai, ai! Radisson (Coming forward and speaking with grave authority) Let cease your wailing. Those who fled away Have found the end of sorrow. Peace to them. But we who still remain upon the earth Have tasks to do, and so we may not weep. The sap that shrank away to hide in roots Is surging upward. Soon the trees will leaf, And berries grow, and fish begin to leap. The famine-time hath passed ; the mourning time For those that died hath likewise passed ; and now RADISSON 63 The nations gather for a Friendship Feast. Go to your tasks, O Women ! Hide your grief. {With the meek submissiveness of the Indian women, they muffle their heads in their blan- kets and slip noiselessly away among the trees, — all but Owera, who remains crouching on the ground.) Radisson Come, Owera, the time for grief is past. Lift up thy head, and smile. Owera Can Owera lift Ever again her head, or ever smile, She who hath brought a curse upon her tribe? Radisson {Smiling) And hast thou brought a curse ? Here's mighty news ! This maiden Owera, whom I can raise Thus, with a touch, she is so very thin From lack of food, is strong to bring a curse Upon her tribe! Then tell me, wicked one, What is it thou hast done, to now repent? Owera {With drooping head) I brought the famine. Thence came many deaths. 64 RADISSON Radisson Methought the famine came from lack of food, Because the snow was deeper on the earth Than to mine eyebrows, and it filled the air Until the sun was darkened with the fog; Because the wind had driven off the beasts; And there had been no harvest. Was't not so? OWERA (Accepting and echoing Ihee's explanation of the failure of his medicine-making) Ah, no, the famine was a punishment Because of sin. I brought it on the tribe Because of willfulness. The Manitou, Who looked within my heart, was much displeased. Radisson Thy tender little heart! I've seen thee give Thy meager share of food to ease the cry Of dying children, till I wept to see. What is the hidden evil in thy heart? OWERA I would not wed with Anahotaha. Radisson Oh, ho! I see. Was that a grievous sin? RADISSON 65 OWERA It is a sin a maid should not obey Her father's wishes and the chief's command. So long ago I have forgot the time, It was agreed between the Owl, Ihee, And Sondaqua, the chief, that we must wed When Sondaqua should die, and that his son Receive the Sachem's robe and lead the band. I knew it was decreed. And yet — and yet I held myself apart. In willfulness. Radisson {Watching her under his eyelids) Was Anahotaha unpleasing, then? OWERA {In simple honesty) Nay, he is brave. And once he slew a bear That sought to drag me from the lodge at night. Radisson Would I had been there! That I envy him. Why, then, so cold? Wouldst thou remain unwed? OWERA I dreamed of other ways. The black robes came When I was small, and talked of wondrous things, — Of prayers and dress and modesty, and rings 66 RADISSON To wear upon the finger, and of heaven. Their talk was wonderful as any tale My Grandam told. But this, they said was true. I know not. But they marked me on the brow With holy water. Then my people fled Before the Iroquoits, and hid themselves In this far land, where black robes never come. And then — and then — thou cam'st. Radisson I came. — And then? Owera Thy tales were like the tales the black robes told For wonder, but more beautiful and strange. The marvel hurt me, here. I longed to go To see thy world, — to be a part of it. My heart was full of dreams, as evening sky Is full of rosy light. But it is naught. The sunset fades, for it is made of dreams, And leaves an empty sky to watch our sleep. Radisson Even here, thou child of nature! Even here! The longing of the earth-bound for the sky! {The Eastern sky, which has been growing faintly bright, now breaks into white light as the sun rises behind the trees.) RADISSON 67 OWERA And so, when Anahotaha would woo, I thought of thee, and held myself apart. Radisson My Owera! For me? Was it for me? OWERA The others thought thou wert a god, but I Who shared my father's counsels as a child, I knew thee for a man of other race. I hid from Anahotaha. A sin! Radisson No sin, but love! Sweet child, thy heart is clear As mountain streamlet, showing sand of gold Beneath the ripples. Thou hast shown me love! And I will claim thee — take thee — hold thee! Come to me! Owera (Drawing back) But — Anahotaha? It were a sin! Radisson He? Nay, he will forget. 68 RADISSON OWERA And thou wilt not? I saw, in other days, how white men came And took them wives, and dwelt a little time, And then departed gayly. But the wives Were never gay again. The black robes said It was a sin to wed without a ring. Their children were burnt sticks, the people said, — Burnt in the fire, and quenched. They were not gay. Radisson My Owera, if thou wilt be my wife I will not leave thee ever, nor forget. Owera But will our children be burnt sticks no less? Radisson Why, that will be — of that I cannot say! The gods must ever meddle in affairs! It is a mystery, my Owera. A Runner (Entering hastily in search of Radisson) The envoys from the nation to the west Have come with gifts to join the Friendship Feast, And even now their women raise their tents In the allotted portion of the field. RADISSON 69 Radisson Go tell my brother. (Exit Runner to the left.) There will be a feast Of many nations when they all arrive, With games of skill and strength to fill the days, And dancing of the strangers in the night. Shall it not be our wedding feast, as well? OWERA (Drawing back) My father saith my sin hath brought the woe Of famine on the nation. I must wait And seek a guiding answer in my dreams. Radisson But soon, my rose? The answer will be soon? My brother purposes that we should go On other trails for furs. He would return To far Quebec beside the Bitter Sea. But I This winter laid an iron hand Upon my heart. We two have looked on death. It is a bond we may not break at will. Bid me to stay, and he shall go alone Back to the French, while I remain — with thee. OWERA (Still holding aloof) Not yet. I cannot feel the answer here. Go thou apart a little. Then return 70 RADISSON After the moon hath wakened from her sleep, And Owera will know the trail to take. Radisson Yet thou wilt be my handmaid at the feast, As we have talked, and bear my redstone pipe, And walk in the procession just before, That other chiefs may see and envy me? Thou wilt not hide within thy tent to-day ? Another Runner (Entering from the other side) The envoys from the nation to the south, The Nadouesioux, the Nation of the Beef, Are drawing near, and ask an audience. Their young men, naked, run across the snow To prove their hardihood, for they are fierce, The Buffalo people, and have never heard Of white men's fashions, iron, and black-robe talk. Radisson Go seek my brother. (Runner exit to the left.) Thou wilt not refuse To bear my pipe before me when we go To meet the strangers and to smoke with them? OWERA To-day I am thy maiden. I obey. What comes to-morrow, that my dreams will say. RADISSON 71 (She muffles her head and slips away like a dark shadow.) Groseilliers (Entering from the left in gay spirits) The envoys come from north and south and west To join the games and share our scanty feast. After the famine, feasts are easy made! Mon Dieuj another week, and I had lost The art of eating, for this world, at least. Radisson (Somberly) Five hundred lost it, 'ere the sun broke through The cloud of snow, and raised the heavy pall. The winter camp hath left a mound of graves, Yet now — they feast! Groseilliers They do. And me to thank! Our business needs we put them in good cheer. Radisson Business and barter somehow seem less great. Dost thou recall the dog I stole from those Who came to traffic, holding close his throat To keep him silent, lest his owner guess? And when I plunged my dagger in his heart The Wendats gathered up the spattered snow 72 RADISSON To make the soup and let no drop be lost! Yet Argenson would have a quarter part! Groseilliers What, hath the famine left a mark on thee That food will not displace? Forget thy cares. Thy thin and beardless cheeks have won thee friends. Thou'st suffered with them, so I hear them say; But I, because a black beard hid my jowl, Do get no credit for my skin and bones. I am a god and live by secret food, Whilst thou'rt a man and brother, whom they love! Radisson (Speaking with some embarrassment) 'Tis true I am a man. That minds me say Groseilliers Say what? Thy voice is tangled in thy words Like stammering schoolboy's. Is there evil news? Radisson Nay, nothing new. That is, Nay, nothing new. And yet, I'd have thee know my mind is bent Groseilliers Is bent on getting home! I know it well! I share thy longing. Now the snow is gone RADISSON 73 It doth behoove us that we make all haste To gather furs from bands on every side. To that end have I bidden to the feast The ancient enemies from north and south, The Crees and the Ojibways and the Sioux, To bind them unto peace, that they may spend Rather their strength in hunting than in war, — By which we thrive. And when the feast is done, With seven days of games and tournament, Then thou and I will journey with the Sioux, The people of the Buffalo, who return Down to their country, which, I gather, lies Beyond our former camp on Isle Pelee. For they have ancient claim upon the land Where meet the Sky-Stream and the Father-Stream, And there is easy portage by small lakes Where rapids in the river bar the way. There we will barter for the silver fox And beaver, and what else may serve our turn, And so go northward by the river trail Back to our cache beside the Upper Lake And find the goods we left our devils to watch — Ha, ha! — that w T as a happy thought of thine! Then home, by lake and sault, — to Marguerite. Radisson (Dismayed at this rapid programme) But we return again to these our friends Ere we depart? 74 RADISSON Groseilliers Not so. The trail lies east, — A well-marked river trail, to reach the lake Where first we came ashore and hid our goods. Radisson But I — but Owera Groseilliers {Startled and suddenly attentive) But who? But what? Art thou a trapper? We are here for furs. Radisson But I — but I would wed with Owera. Groseilliers Now Heaven preserve thy wits. Thy brain is weak From famine. Thou, a Radisson, wouldst wed — Thy word! — a beaded savage from the wilds? Radisson She is no savage. She hath been baptized! Groseilliers Has't changed her blood? What serves for Saint Pierre Will scarce suffice his namesake here on earth. RADISSON 75 Oh, I can see excuse in time and place For youth's delirium, — that's another tale. But wed! And now, when we must pack and tramp, And travel fast and far, and travel light! Thou'rt mad, my word for it, so say no more, But play thy part in this last fantasy Of savage grandeur. Mark, the envoys come. Radisson Medard, I am no boy. My word to thine, — I will return, and speak with Owera Before we take the trail for old Quebec. I will, I say, — I will! — The envoys, mark! (Anahotaha, Ihee, and other Wendats en- ter, conducting five Sioux envoys who have come to announce the approach of their people for the Friendship Feasi prepared by GROSEIL- liers. The Sioux, " the Iroquois of the West'' have never before this moment beheld white men, or known their many inventions, and their curiosity is mingled with awe. Their dress is entirely of skins of animals, their weapons are bows and arrows and stone hatchets. Each envoy carries a belt of wam- pum to offer as the "gift" which must accom- pany a prayer or petition. The Sioux, " the People of the Beef," are hereditary enemies of the Crees and Ojibways, and have had trouble with the Wendats at Isle Pelee; but Groseilliers' policy is to reconcile 76 RADISSON all these differences, in order to turn the tribal energies into hunting furs for him instead of fighting. Hence this " Friendship Feast," at which the Wendats are guests instead of hosts. While Groseilliers is welcoming the Sioux envoys, some of the young Wendats build a small fire with twigs and sticks in the center, in order that the pipes may be lit from it.) Anahotaha These strangers come from tribes unknown to us. Groseilliers My runners carried gifts to all the tribes. I bid them hearty welcome. Let them speak. First Envoy White Chiefs, the rumor of your presence here Hath spread abroad, and some there be that doubt, And some believe. But now our eyes have seen. And if ye be the gods, as many say, And have the power to lay waste the world, And bring or stay the famine, send the game Or cover it with shadows, at a word, We ask you read our hearts, and of your grace Withhold your anger and extend your love. (Offers his belt by laying it at GROSEILLIERS' feet.) RADISSON 77 Second Envoy (Offering belt) The oldest women of the tribe have sent This belt of wampum, and their prayer is this: That water may not fail, nor they become Too weak to carry wood upon the back. Third Envoy (Offering belt) Our children, born, and yet to see the light, Ask, by this belt, that theirs be room to play And sport unchecked by any fear of harm. Fourth Envoy (Offering belt) The fourth belt from our young men fit to hunt, Who beg, if ye be gods, that they may go Freely throughout the forest, hunting food To feed their aged, without let or fear. Fifth Envoy (Offering belt) The men of age, the warriors, send by this A prayer that lightning may not strike, nor rain Destroy the lodges, neither may the wind Uproot the forests or obscure the trails. Yet if ye be not gods, but hostile chiefs That come to spy our land, they ask by this 78 RADISSON That ye lay bare your hearts, and let your words, Like runners bearing gifts, declare your will. Groseilliers {Accepting the offering) Our will is peace to you and all the tribes That ask for our protection. We are come Across the Salted Lake to make to cease The wars between the People of the Beef And other tribes ye hold in enmity. All are our brothers. Be at peace henceforth. (Aside to Radisson) Bring out the gifts and sweeten them with talk. Radisson (Opening a pack ready prepared) And for a token, hatchets made of iron, Sharper than flint, we give to each of you. Big medicine are they. Your enemies Will fall before them as a riven tree Before a flash of lightning. To your wives We give these magic mirrors made of tin. Who looks therein at once grows beautiful. Her cheeks grow fat as bears in summer time. This is our gift, in answer to your gifts. Anahotaha (To the Sioux) Do ye take gifts from those that love your foes? Even so unto the Cristinos they spake, RADISSON 79 Your ancient enemies who dwell above The Upper Lake. To them they offered gifts. Radisson {Interfering) Thou speakest truth, O Anahotaha! Think'st thou, perchance, that we should ask thy leave ? Full eighteen tribes will come to eat with us The feast of friendship, smoke the calumet, The pipe of peace and counsel. They will come Guests of my brother, mark you, and myself. Have we your leave to entertain our friends? Groseilliers {Aside to Radisson) 'Twere well if thou wouldst take a whiff or two Of that same pipe of counsel and of peace. Radisson More, I myself have gone among the Crees To bid them come and feast, and bring their pelts. And if I find an evil spirit here To whisper treachery and turn our feast Into a slaughter, I will deal with him So it is talked of for a hundred years, 80 RADISSON Groseilliers (Aside to Radisson) Thou art as easy ruffled as a cock In mating season. Come and play thy part. (To envoys) Before we go to watch the warriors dance And see the young men at their games of skill Enact the chase, and show in pantomime How they pursue the foe, and drive the herd, Here will we pass the sacred calumet Among our friends, the envoys, drinking smoke As those who make a peace between their tribes. And first, before we draw the smoke ourselves, We all will throw tobacco on the coals To win the favor of the Manitou. The Chiefs Tobacco for the Manitou! Ho! Ho! Groseilliers (Aside to Radisson) Hast thou prepared the powder for our turn? Radisson A little, wetted. Much we may not spare. Groseilliers Our greeting to the Mighty Spirit! Ho! ( The Indians circle about the fire, each throw- ing a pinch of tobacco on the coals. When the RADISSON 81 turn comes of GROSEILLIERS and RADISSON, they throw tobacco mixed with gunpowder, and an explosion follows.) The Chiefs {Tumbling backward) The white men must be devils! Let us flee. Radisson {Smoking with great composure) Return, and put away your childish fear. Why do ye tremble at a puff of fire Blown by our little devils in the flame? They only tried to steal a breath of smoke, Knowing the good tobacco that we drink. The Chiefs {Returning cautiously) Doth it not burn within? Radisson We mind it not. Such the tobacco that we always use. We are big chiefs, whom all the devils obey. Groseilliers {Aside to Radisson) Yet thou wouldst have me think that thou wouldst wed Among these childish people. Pooh, a dream ! 82 RADISSON Now let us make us ready for the feast. (To chiefs) We join you shortly, where the field is bare Between the new-set tepees, for the games. (Radisson and Groseilliers go out to the left.) Sioux Chiefs (Among themselves) Yet surely they are devils, breathing fire. It will be well that we enrage them not. (They go out to the right,) Anahotaha (Who has watched the proceedings with marked lack of sympathy) If they be gods or devils or but men, I will not stand aside. I am the chief! Why do the nations offer gifts to them, And none at all to me, who am the chief? Ihee The feast is of their giving. It is good. Anahotaha I grudge it not to Gooseberry, for he Is wise, a chief at heart. But Radisson, — He talks too much aside with Owera. I will not have it so. Am I the chief? RADISSON 83 Ihee Nay, very soon they leave us for the south, Departing with the Sioux on their return. A chief can hide his heart and bide his time. Anahotaha My heart is tugging hard upon its bonds. (There enters an elaborate procession, moving across the field on the way to the place set for the games. First come the young men of the WendatSy their warriors, carrying bows and arrows, and wearing the gayest headdresses of feathers and furs and porcupine quills; then the young men of the Sioux, with painted faces and bodies, feathers in their hair, and trailing tails at the moccasin heel; then the young men of the Crees, wearing furs, and carrying snow- shoes. All the young men carry weapons. Then the old men and chiefs of the several tribes follow, wearing ceremonial dress, and each carrying a pipe. Then the personal escort of the Frenchmen, — first four men carrying their guns; then four men carrying kettles and bowls heaped up with trinkets for " gifts " ; then Owera, carrying RadiSSOn's redstone pipe uplifted in both hands, while another maiden bears Groseil- liers'. The girls wear their gayest dress, with many adornments of beads and trinkets. 84 RADISSON Radisson and Groseilliers follow in state. To satisfy the Indians* idea of grandeur, they have assumed all the adornments possible, — embroidered cloaks, necklaces, rolls of fur trimmed with porcupine quills upon their heads, like crowns. Knives and pistols are at the belt. Following them comes the undistinguished huddle of an Indian camp, men, women, and children, gay with incongruous adornment, all pressing forward, yet masking their curiosity and eagerness with an air of self-possessed dignity.) Anahotaha (To Ihee) Hast thou ordained that Owera should bear His pipe before the nations gathered here? Ihee He hath great wealth of knives and bells and awls, And he will soon depart and take it hence. (As Radisson passes he notices Anahotaha and Ihee standing apart, and calls to them.) Radisson Ihee, my father, — Anahotaha, My brother-chief, why stand ye thus apart? Come, join my retinue, and give me aid RADISSON 85 In welcoming the chiefs of other tribes. For ye are of my household, I of yours. When I return from traffic with the Sioux, This speech recall. I'll make it clear to you. (He goes on with procession,) Anahotaha My heart will know no peace till he is dead. If he return, I slay him. It is said. [curtain] "THE FEAST OF FRIENDSHIP" A Wordless Pageant (Interlude between Acts III and IV) An open, clear space in the forest, inclosed by close- set bushes not yet in leaf, has been prepared for the celebration of the " Feast of Friendship." A " medi- cine-pole " has been erected, — a tall pole decorated with feathers and fluttering streamers. At its foot is the large drum of ceremony, made of untanned hide stretched upon a frame, and supported by four curved stakes driven into the ground. Four or five drum- mers squat about it, each with his drumstick and his pipe of ceremony upon a buffalo-robe at his side. The Indians, men, women, and children, gather si- lently from all sides. Those who are about to take part in the dance squat in a circle about the medicine- pole, while the others dispose themselves as observers about the sides of the field. The visiting Sioux wear robes of buffalo-skin, breast-plates of porcupine quills, and necklaces of bear-claws. At each moccasin heel is fastened the tail of a fox, or other animal, which trails on the ground. Their headdresses are fantastic beyond imagination, — made of buffalo horns, turkey feathers, rolls of beaver-skin, and porcupine quills. As 86 RADISSON 87 they have never come into contact with the whites be- fore, they have no woven cloth in their garments, which are composed entirely of skins. Their young men, and those taking part in the dances and games, are naked except for moccasins, loin cloth, headdress, and occasionally a decorative tail of feathers fastened to a belt. Their weapons are hammers and hatchets made of sharp stones tied to a stick, and bows and arrows. Some carry shields of buffalo-skin stretched upon a round frame, and decorated with feathers. Their faces and bodies are painted. The visiting Crees, who come from the northern shore of Lake Superior, are characteristically dressed in furs. Their hair is flowing, whereas the Sioux and Wendats wear theirs braided; and their caps of fur are ornamented with the tails of animals. Their armlets and other ornaments are of copper and of shells. The Wendats wear their customary dress of deer- skin leggings and shirts, together with traders' blan- kets and broadcloth, with the addition of ceremonial robes, feather decorations, and ornaments. When the crowds have gathered, the procession which passed at the close of Act III enters in the same order. After crossing the field, Groseilliers and Radisson seat themselves on an elevated place which has been erected at one side. Their immediate attendants close up about them, the other Indians range themselves lower down and in the background, most of them reclining upon the ground. A Sioux warrior, wearing a war-bonnet of black 88 RADISSON eagle feathers which reaches to the ground behind him, approaches the Frenchmen, and offers a redstone pipe, with stem five feet long, decorated with feathers. Groseilliers fills it with tobacco, and signs to Owera, who lights it with a live coal. Groseilliers and Radisson each draw a puff, and return the pipe to the Sioux, who lifts it to the four corners of heaven and then draws a puff and passes it back to the other Sioux, who hand it about among themselves, each drawing a puff. The Sioux then throws his painted cloak at the feet of Groseilliers and sings a song to the accompaniment of the drum, expressing his thank- fulness that he has seen " these terrible men, whose words make the earth to quake." Radisson answers with a gay French spng, which is listened to with grave attention. Groseilliers gives out his " gifts " of trinkets to the various tribes. The drummers resume the rhythmic beat which ac- companies their dancing, and as it gets into the blood of the performers they spring up and begin to dance, one here, another there, until finally the whole circle is moving. The savage dance has a hypnotic effect upon the performers themselves and works them up into a frenzy. It begins with a rhythmic shifting of the weight from one foot to the other, accompanied by a bending of the knees, and a slapping of the sole on the ground, always in time with the drum, but on this foundation each dancer develops his own fan- tasies. Some circle stolidly about in time with the drum-beat, some double the time, some bend the knees and swoop along the ground, or shake the limbs to RADISSON 89 show agility. Some enact with dramatic pantomime following the trail of the enemy, lying in ambush, com- ing upon him, fighting and overcoming him, tying him to a stake, — all to the measured beat of the drums. Others enact the sentry, listening with ear to the ground, giving an alarm, retreating under cover. A buffalo-dance follows, in which the chase and cap- ture of a herd of buffaloes are enacted. The sentry brings word of the herd, the warriors throw aside all superfluous clothing and snatch up spears and clubs; some assume a mask of a buffalo head and cover their arms and back with buffalo-skin, while others, as stalk- ers, creep ahead under covering of a whole white wolf- skin. They creep stealthily upon an imagined herd, surround it with wild shouts and leapings, throw spears, force the herd over a precipice, and the women gather to skin the animals, while the braves dance in victory. The Crees give a dance on snowshoes, showing their skill in using these clumsy implements. Also a bear- dance, each dancer wearing a bear's head, and flopping his arms from the elbow in the fashion of a bear walk- ing upright. The women do not join in the dances with the men, but occasionally they form a circle of their own at one side, moving always in a slow circling sweep to the right, bending the knees at each step, but other- wise keeping the body rigid. Occasionally they punc- tuate their own dance or accent the dance of the men with a shrill falsetto cry — "Ki-yi!" — which cuts weirdly across the heavier " Ho, ho!" of the men. 90 RADISSON Sometimes one and sometimes all of them at once will break into a song. Formal games and contests in skill follow. A pole is set up, a scalp hung upon it, and one warrior after another shoots an arrow into the pole. When he suc- ceeds he sings a short song, boastfully recounting some great exploit; when he fails he is hooted by the watchers. A netted hoop is set rolling, and the archers run alongside and shoot through the open places in the net. This is a game, in which the space pierced and the way the arrows fall are counted as " points." The game of " snow snakes " consists of throwing curved sticks, or spears, on a cleared space of ice. A game of la crosse is played, with different tribes on opposing sides. Contests in racing, stilt contests, and climbing a pole for a prize placed by Radisson at the top, fill out the programme. The Indians laugh easily and explosively at any mishaps to the contestants. At the sides, here and there, little groups are play- ing gambling games, like the moccasin game, the hand game, the game of the dish, and the game of sticks. Here and there a woman juggles balls in the air. Groups of beggars go about, dancing the Begging Dance and singing the Begging Song — which may not be denied! The ceremonies are concluded when Groseilliers' Indians bring in great kettles of cooked meat, from which all eat, while Radisson sings French songs. [curtain] ACT IV A vast snow-covered plain. Fringing it in the dis- tance are dark borders of pine and spruce, from which comes now and again the questing bark of the wolf, ending in an ominous howl. The sun is setting in an angry glare, throwing a blood-red glow upon the wind-blown hillocks of snow. As it sinks below the horizon the glow fades, and snow begins to fall, hard and sharp as frozen sand. The wolf howls again, and Radisson, who has been lying in a huddled heap upon the ground, pulls himself to his feet. He looks toward the wood, toward the sunset, and staggers forward a few paces. Then he sinks beside a bare bush. The wolf howls again. Radisson pulls himself up by the aid of the bush, and speaks, Radisson Is this the end, Pierre? — The end? — The end? An end must come in time. Is this the place? — 'Tis now five days that I have forced my limbs Beyond the torture point to bear me on Across the solitary, endless waste, And they have shrieked with pain till they are dead. Good legs, they're dead, I tell thee. They no more Can move than dead men, stretched upon the snow, 9i 92 RADISSON Flapping a scarf-end for a show of life. O treacherous Ottawas! A thieving set! Medard will wait to keep the rendezvous, And wonder. Good Medard! He'll blame himself Because I took the heavier sled from him To ease him, I, the younger. Could I know The ice was rotten with the mounting sun? The freezing water clutched me to the thigh With devil fingers. But I saved the sled. It bore the merchandise that held our life. His life, at least. He'll miss me, poor Medard, — A cruel mistress, that is what he said, — This wilderness I loved. And so it is, And when did lover love the less for that? — fair and cold, I die upon thy breast, And thou wilt hold me as no woman hath, My restless heart at peace within thine arms, Forever and forever. Thee I sought, Thee have I thought to conquer to my will. 1 die, instead, but die upon thy breast. And so I triumph! Thou shalt ne'er be free From me, my name and memory, O beloved! Thou'rt mine at last. Now — kiss me on the lips! (He sinks down again and lies in a stupor.) Anahotaha, wearing a cloak of white beaver- skins over the light equipment of a scout, comes upon the scene at the back. He pauses to look abroad, and then comes swiftly down on Radisson's trail. Leaning over the fallen man, he speaks and puts out his hand to shake him.) RADISSON 93 Anahotaha Ugh, dead? I come too late. White chief, awake! — Awake, and die again, for I would see. Radisson ousing himself} What, Anahotaha? Art thou a dream, Or flesh ? — My brother sent to seek me here ? Anahotaha Thy brother sent me not. I came in hate. I am no friend. I come to see thee die. Radisson (Lifting himself up) Thou giv'st me life, nathless. My thanks! But why Should Anahotaha become my foe? Anahotaha Because the white chief came across my path When I was — hunting deer. Dost lack for food? Radisson (Carrying his role to the end) I? Lack for food? 'Tis true my fast is now Near five days old, my friend; but that is naught. My devil feedeth me when I command With broth that lifts my heart and keeps me strong! 94 RADISSON Anahotaha {Taking food from his own pouch to test him) Thine eyes are hollow as a starving man's. Yet clear enough they see to note the food I take from out my pouch — and eat alone. Thou wilt not beg a crumb? Thou art a brave! Yet none the less shalt die. And here I stay To watch thine eyeballs glaze, thy lips to crack, Thy limbs to twist in torture. I will bend To drink the rattle in thy dying throat As lover bends to hear his mistress breathe. Radisson We have been friends. Why turn against me now? Anahotaha We never have been friends. My father knew. He saw ye were the stronger in your hearts, And in the silent words ye do not speak, And in the thoughts that hide behind the eyes. The gods have given you the lead. The race Is yours before we start. Can we be friends? Radisson Yet need'st thou slay me? Anahotaha I have longed at times To break and trample in the dust your guns, RADISSON 95 Your shining things, your wonder-cutting knives. Why was it given to you and not to us To know the secret? Radisson {Suddenly) Hark! Be still, and hark! Runners {Heard calling in the distance, but out of sight) Oho! Oho! Oho! Pierre! Oho! Radisson They come! They search for me! (Anahotaha throws himself upon Radisson, bearing him to the ground, and covers their bodies with his white beaver-robe, indistin- guishable against the snow.) Anahotaha Lie still, white chief. Runners {Departing) Oho, Pierre! Pierre! {Faint in the distance.) Oho! O-ho! 96 RADISSON Radisson (Struggling free and speaking with deadly calm) Thou art a devil, Anahotaha. Anahotaha I am a brave, and I will wear thy scalp Adangle at my belt to show to all I overcame the white chief in the end. Which is the better now, or thou, or I? For all thy guns which is the better now? (Realizing at last the sinister significance of Anahotaha's hostility and the hopelessness of his situation, Radisson takes swift command of his soul. Turning carelessly from Ana- hotaha he folds his arms and sings a lilting song.) Radisson Die we may and die we must. Dust will crumble unto dust. Soon or late will come a day Earth we love will slip away. Anahotaha Thou art a brave, yet I shall see thee die Little by little, fighting still for hope. Radisson (Singing) If then the happy chance befall To die with back against the wall RADISSON 97 Why, take it as a crowning grace That death should choose no meaner place. Anahotaha A strong-heart song. And since there is no fear Within thine eye, nor tremor in thy voice, I will forego thy torture. Even more, — I'll give thee back thy life and bear thee home If thou in turn wilt give thy word to me — The word of truth that thou art wont to use With other white men, not the easy lie Ye give, like toys, to redmen, — give thy truth That thou wilt leave the Wendat land, and go Back to thine own, and trouble us no more. What else? If I refuse? Radisson Anahotaha And that thou leav'st me Owera. Radisson Anahotaha Thou'lt take the Road of Death, And that will lead thee far from Owera. (From the shadowy forest the wolfs howl is repeated, and answered.) 98 RADISSON Radisson I've seen the deer I shot, upon its knees, Look at my dagger with a tranquil eye. Think'st thou a deer can better Radisson? Thou canst not touch me, Anahotaha. My limbs are locked as in a trap that's sprung, And bound in chains of fire. But I, within, Can look thee in the eye and laugh at thee. The moment that thy dagger spills my blood I shall escape thee. Shall I bargain, then, For life, as for a peltry, giving up My will to thee, to win a little breath, And thy contempt, and mine? I will not! Strike! Anahotaha A panther, and no deer, it is I slay, (He grasps Radisson's throat and lifts his dag- ger. There is a short struggle, and then a cry comes across the snow. Startled, Anahotaha drops his hold on Radisson, who gets to his feet. Both stare toward the back, where Owera appears, approaching rapidly on snow- shoes. She cries again.) Owera O Anahotaha! (She comes up swiftly and looks from one to another.) I came in time! RADISSON 99 Radisson {Laughing in sudden revulsion to hope) And naught to spare! Yet time is time enough. My brother and the others, — are they near? OWERA (Breathless) I came alone. I saw the Ottawas Come into camp. Their tongues were ever false Because their hearts are covetous. I saw That Anahotaha had slipped away. I knew he took the trail. I followed him, For there is none so sure to find the trail As Anahotaha. Anahotaha (In a sort of bewildered rage) And none so strong. A bison in a rage is not so strong, And I could slay you both. What holds my hand? OWERA (With the serene dignity of one who sees be- yond the moment) Then thou wilt slay thy wife, for I am come To say to Anahotaha, the chief, That I am ready. ioo RADISSON Radisson Not to save my life! Nay, Owera, I would not take my life At cost of love and liberty to thee. Anahotaha To buy his life, — is that why thou hast come? Owera (With grave dignity) His life shall be the gift my husband brings To me, his bride, in place of beaver-robes, And I do give it now to Radisson, — A gift at parting, as our custom is. I was bewildered for a time. I lost Our ancient skill to read the secret signs That guide my people over trackless wastes. I dreamed of other customs, smoother trails. And felt myself the wiser for the sign The black robes set upon my childish brow, And so I scorned my people, and withheld My heart from Anahotaha, who sued. And then the famine came, in punishment, And understanding fell upon my heart. My place is here and not beyond the sea. The gods have set me here, not otherwhere. If I have wisdom, they have greater need, — My people. Anahotaha and I Must lead them on the weary trail they go. My head is bowed to take the burden-band. RADISSON 101 Runners (Faint in the distance) Oho, oho! Pierre! Oho! Oho! Anahotaha (Curtly) Thy brother's runners. Answer to the call. Radisson Oho! Oho! — They hear! I see them turn. Anahotaha (Waves signal) Oho! Oho! Runners (Nearer) Pierre ! Oho ! Pierre ! Anahotaha They come for thee, and here our trails divide. Farewell, white chief. My woman, follow me! (He turns and without looking backward makes off on a new trail.) 102 RADISSON OWERA (Briefly) The eagle to the mountain! But the owl With weighted eyelid, hides him from the light. The gods have willed it so. And so farewell. (With unfaltering, rhythmic step, she follows Anahotaha off.) Radisson My Owera, my wonder-child! — Farewell! — We bind our shoes with heart-strings, place of thongs, And never guess the marvel, as we use The light of day for common offices Nor count its origin among the spheres! The stream of life hath caught us; we are swept By powers we know not, upon unsought shores, For purposes we cannot even guess. But by the will of me that dares to live, I will return no more to Wendat land. I will go northward on another trail, And trouble them no more by my return. Runners (In sight, signaling to him) Oho! Pierre! Radisson Oho! I wait you here! — Since else to do is yet beyond my power! RADISSON 103 (He removes his cap and sweeps the landscape with a long look.) My wilderness! Thy pardon! I depart, But here I leave my dream — my name — my heart! [final curtain] THE PASSING OF THE INDIAN A mist that shifts and changes with the wind, A dream the dreamer tries in vain to hold, — Such is the mastery on the earth of man. Where once the unfettered Redman roamed at will, The white man claims the land by metes and bounds. The clang of mill and factory breaks the hush That brooded on the prairie and the stream, And where the moccasin flower, shy and wild, Danced with the wind and sheltered in the shade, The prim, trim fields march straitly, row by row. What has been, shall be; change shall follow change. For the dominion that man claims is vain, His lordship of the earth a passing dream, — A dream the dreamer tries in vain to clasp, A mist that melts within his futile grasp. HISTORICAL NOTE The detailed account, in manuscript, of the four " voyages " of Pierre Esprit Radisson was, it is con- jectured, written out by the adventurer from his rough notes about 1665, some ten years after that first visit to the Upper Mississippi which he chronicles. The account was prepared for Sir George Carteret, Vice- Chamberlain of Charles II, at a time when Radisson and Groseilliers, bitter at what they considered the extortionate demands of their own government, were engaged in enlisting English influence for the founding of a company to exploit the great Northwest of the New World. Their representations led, as a matter of fact, to the establishment of the Hudson Bay Com- pany, which was chartered in 1670, and the two ad- venturers were engaged under that company for ten years. Then they both returned to the service of France, and for the next ten years used their intimate knowledge of the country to outwit and out-trade the English trappers. In 1684 Radisson again entered the service of the Hudson Bay Company, this time with- out Groseilliers, who, it is conjectured, probably died soon afterward in Canada. Radisson at once voy- aged to Hudson Bay and took forcible possession of the chief French trading post; but after only four years of active service he seems to have been placed 107 io8 RADISSON on the pension list of the company. As he was then only fifty-three years old, one quickly guesses that his daring had finally led him into some hazard which ended his adventures forever. Twenty-one years later the pension ceased, indicating that Radisson died in England in 1710. Radisson's manuscripts came into the possession of Samuel Pepys when Secretary of the Admiralty, — a part of that remarkable collection which went, in large part, after the death of the diarist, to wrap the par- cels of London tradesmen. Later, Richard Rawlinson, the collector, rescued many of Pepys's most valuable papers; and two Radisson manuscripts came into the possession of the Bodleian Library and the British Museum, where they remained practically unknown to the world until 1885. In that year a transcript was made from the original manuscripts, and this was published in a limited edition of two hundred and fifty copies by the Prince Society, of Boston, a society devoted to the publication of rare documents relating to early American history. Radisson's narrative, written in the colloquial Eng- lish which he used familiarly, is the composition of a fur trader and adventurer, not of a scientific explorer or a professional discoverer. It is, therefore, lacking in certain of the qualities of exactness which the his- torian values; yet its main points are sufficiently cor- roborated by contemporary records to establish their verity. The incidents which have been used in the drama belong to the years 1655-56 and 1659-60. In August, HISTORICAL NOTE 109 1654, Groseilliers, an experienced Indian trader, thirty-four years old, and his young brother-in-law, Radisson, who, though only nineteen, already had seven years of adventure on both continents behind him, set out from Three Rivers to open new trails into the Far West. With an escort of Hurons and Ottawas, they followed the customary route to Lake Huron, and spent the autumn and winter in the region of Mackinac and Green Bay. Early the next spring, before the snow was gone, the little party traveled on snowshoes southwestward to a great river, striking the Mississippi probably near the mouth of the Fox River. Building boats, they ascended the stream to Isle Pelee, where they were surprised and relieved to find a newly settled band of Hurons, driven from their home near the Georgian Bay by the warlike Iroquois. They stayed with these friendly Indians for over a year, and while Radisson went about with the young men, exploring and hunting, Groseilliers devoted him- self to raising a harvest on the island to equip them for their return journey. The pacific Hurons, fearing to encounter their old enemies, the Iroquois, tried to detain them, and were only shamed into providing an escort for the journey by Radisson's fiery denuncia- tions, after Groseilliers' persuasive arguments had failed. Three years later they returned to the West, coast- ing along the southern shore of Lake Superior to Chequamegon Bay. Four days' march south, near a lake (identified as probably Lac Courte Oreille), they found a band of their Isle Pelee Indians, who had no RADISSON been driven northward by the Sioux. That winter was marked by a terrible famine, in which over five hundred of the Hurons and Ottawas perished. With the opening of spring, the two Frenchmen called all the neighboring tribes to a great feast in the region of Knife Lake, — which probably takes its name from that event, as the fact that the Sioux Indians then first came into contact with the whites and received knives from them is preserved in the traditions of the tribe, and in the name by which they were later known to Du Luth and Hennepin, of Isanti or Knife Sioux. After the feast the two trappers traveled south with the returning Sioux to their own land in the region of the Minnesota, Mississippi, and Rum rivers, and then returned, with their laden sleds, to Chequamegon Bay. On this return trip Radisson met with the mis- adventures which have been used to give the setting for the fourth act. For a popular account of Radisson's narrative, the reader is referred to the essay, " Groseilliers and Radis- son," by Mr. Warren Upham, Secretary of the Min- nesota State Historical Society, published in Volume X, Part II, of the " Collections " of that society. DIRECTIONS FOR COSTUMING AND MOUNTING IF THE PLAY IS TO BE GIVEN BY AMATEURS As all the scenes are out of doors, the play is easily adapted for out-of-door presentation by amateurs. The same setting, an open space inclosed by trees, could be used throughout, leaving the speeches of the char- acters to indicate the season. In the first scene, tents in the background should give a suggestion of a set- tled camp. For the other scenes, nothing is really necessary but an open place in the woodland. As the third and fourth acts call for winter scenes, the in- closing background should either be of bare branches or of such winter trees as spruce, fir, tamarack. COSTUMES Radisson and Groseilliers. Their ordinary dress is that of the scout or voyageur, consisting of buckskin leggings reaching to the hip, moccasins, a belted blouse, a fur cap with flaps that can be drawn down over the ears. Their dress of ceremony is made by adding a gay sash and an embroidered cloak; and at the Friend- ship Feast they add beads, embroideries, and trinkets ad lib. They wear habitually a knife in a sheath and a gay pouch, both attached to the belt. in ii2 RADISSON The Wendats. Their dress includes long leggings, reaching to the hip, and fringed on the outer seam; deerskin shirts or coats; moccasins. Their hair is parted and braided in two braids, falling on either side of the face. As they have long been more or less in contact with white traders, they may wear blankets or other woven material, made up after their own old fashion. The men may wear feathers, and on cere- monial occasions would certainly do so. Also em- broidered garments, beads, and other decorations. Sondaqua as chief, and afterward Anahotaha, wears a cloak made of brilliant feathers sewed lightly by the stem upon a piece of cloth reaching from the neck to the ground. Their other garments, fashioned like those of the other members of the tribe, are more elaborately embroidered with dyed grasses, beads, por- cupine quills, etc., and they wear necklaces of bears' claws. Ihee, as medicine-man, carries a rattle made of a gourd filled with small stones, and a headdress made of an owl's head and wings. Owera. A broadcloth or deerskin dress, fastened at the shoulders and embroidered only on the upper part, which is folded back, and on the sleeves, which are separate from the dress; deerskin leggings gartered below the knee; moccasins; an outer coat coming to the middle of the leg, fringed at the bottom; a gay sash, with fringed ends, fastened behind; a beaded headband crossing her forehead and fastened behind. Her hair is parted and braided in two braids which fall over her breast and are tied at the ends with gay ribbons — except in the mourning scene. Her leggings HISTORICAL NOTE 113 are fringed at the bottom where they meet the moc- casin, not at the seam. She may wear a fringed kirtle and short coat in place of the one-piece dress, to vary the costume. Other Wendat Women, Like Owera, but less gay. Weapons of the Wendats. Knives, guns, bows, and arrows. They carry the arrows in quivers worn on the back. The Sioux. The Envoys wear ceremonial dress, — long leggings, belted shirts, robes or cloaks of buffalo- skin, porcupine-quill breastplate, necklaces of bear claws or of bright stones. Their hair is parted, cut short across the forehead, the rest braided on each side the face. Their headdress may be as elaborate as imagination can suggest, — buffalo horns, turkey feath- ers forming a crown, beaver-skin rolls, feathers of all colors. The leader wears a black war-bonnet of feathers. The tail of fox or other animal is fastened at heel of moccasin and flaps on the ground. The young men of the Sioux and those who take part in the games are naked except for a loin cloth, moccasins, and headdress. Their weapons are hammers and hatchets made of sharp stones tied to a stick, and bows and arrows. The quiver is made of bark, and hangs from the shoulders. Some carry shields of buffalo-skin stretched upon a round frame, and deco- rated with feathers. The faces and bodies of the Sioux are painted. The Crees. Tight leggings reaching to the hip; close vest or shirt fastened with thongs; cap of fur, ii 4 RADISSON with tail of animal for ornament. A robe or mantle of moose-skin or beaver covers the whole. Their hair is flowing, not braided. They wear armlets and other ornaments of copper, and of shells. DIRECTIONS FOR PAGEANT The dances and games which mark the ceremonies of " The Feast of Friendship " can be extended or curtailed as may be desired. The peculiar and mo- notonous " one-two, one-two," of the Indian drum- beat should be studied at native sources to insure ac- curacy ; and so, too, the dancing step, the peculiar bend- ing and swaying of which are difficult to describe. The pictures of the " Buffalo Dance " and the " Bear Dance " in Catlin's North American Indian Portfolio give a good idea of the postures assumed by the dancers. For music, consult Bulletin 45 and 53 of the Bureau of American Ethnology, published for the Smithsonian Institution by the Government Printing Office. A concise description of numerous Indian games is given in Bulletin 30, Part 1, of the Bureau of Ameri- can Ethnology, under the head of " Games." THE END Lily A. Long's RADISSON : The Voyageur 12mo. $1.00 net. A highly picturesque play in four acts and in verse. The central figures are Radisson the redoubtable voyageur who explored the Upper Mississippi, his brother-in-law Groseil- liers, Owera the daughter of an Indian chief and various other Indians. The daring resource of the two white men in the fact of imminent peril, the pathetic love of Owera, and above all, the vivid pictures of Indian life, the women grind- ing corn, the council, dances, feasting and famine are notable features, and over it all is a somewhat unusual feeling for the moods of nature which closely follow those of the people involved. THREE MODERN PLAYS FROM THE FRENCH Lemaitre's The Pardon, and Lavedan's Prince D'Aurec, translated by Barrett H. Clark, with Donnay's The Other Danger, translated by Charlotte Tenney David, with an intro- duction to each author by Barrett H. Clark and a Preface by Clayton Hamilton. One volume. $1.50 net. "The Pardon" is a brilliant three-act love comedy, with but three characters. "Prince D'Aurec" is a drama with an impoverished Prince, his wife, and a Jew money-lender as protagonists. It is full of telling satire on a decadent nobility. "The Other Danger" is a tensely emotional play, centering around a situation similar to Paula Tanqueray's, but the out- come is different. Alice Johnstone Walker's LITTLE PLAYS FROM AMERICAN HISTORY FOR YOUNG FOLK $1.00 net. In Hiding the Regicides there are a number of brief and stirring episodes, concerning the pursuit of Colonels Whalley and Goff by the officers of Charles II at New Haven in old colony days. Mrs. Murray's Dinner Party, in three acts, is a lively comedy about a Patriot hostess and British Officers in Revolutionary Days. In the four Scenes from Lincoln's Time, the martyred President does not himself appear. They cover Lincoln's helping a little girl with her trunk, women preparing lint for the wounded, a visit to the White House of an important delegation from New York, and of the mother of a soldier boy sentenced to death — and the coming of the army of liberation to the darkeys. Tho big events are touched upon, the mounting of all these little plays is simplicity itself, and they have stood the test of frequent school performance. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK BOOKS ON AND OF SCHOOL PLAYS By Constance D'Arcy Mackay HOW TO PRODUCE CHILDREN'S PLAYS The author is a recognized authority on the production of plays and pageants in the public schools, and combines en- thusiastic sympathy with sound, practical instructions. She tells both how to inspire and care for the young actor, how to make costumes, properties, scenery, where to find de- signs for them, what music to use, etc., etc. She prefaces it all with an interesting historical sketch of the plays-for-chil- dren movement, includes elaborate detailed analyses of per- formances of Browning's Pied Piper and Rosetti's Pageant of the Months, and concludes with numerous valuable an- alytical lists of plays for various grades and occasions. 16mo, probable price $1.20 net (Feb., 1914). PATRIOTIC PLAYS AND PAGEANTS Pageant of Patriotism (Outdoor and Indoor Versions) : — *Princess Pocahontas, Pilgrim Interlude, Ferry Farm Epi- sode, *George Washington's Fortune, *Daniel Boone : Patriot, Benjamin Franklin Episode, Lincoln Episode, Final Tableau. Hawthorne Pageant (for Outdoor or Indoor Produc- tion) : — Chorus of Spirits of the Old Manse, Prologue by the Muse of Hawthorne, In Witchcraft Days, Dance Interlude, Merrymount, etc. The portions marked with a star (*) are one-act plays suitable for separate performance. There are full directions for simple costumes, scenes, and staging. 12mo. $1.35 net. THE HOUSE OF THE HEART Short plays in verse for children of fourteen or younger : — "The House of the Heart (Morality Play)— "The Enchanted Garden" (Flower Play)— "A Little Pilgrim's Progress" (Mor- ality Play) — "A Pageant of Hours" (To be given Out of Doors) — "On Christmas Eve." "The Princess and the Pix- ies." "The Christmas Guest" (Miracle Play.), etc. $1.10 net. "An addition to child drama which has been sorely needed." — Boston Transcript. THE SILVER THREAD And Other Folk Plays. "The Silver Thread" (Cornish) ; "The Forest Spring" (Italian) ; "The Foam Maiden" (Celtic) ; "Troll Magic" (Norwegian) ; "The Three Wishes" (French) ; "A Brewing of Brains" (English) ; "Siegfried" (German) ; "The Snow Witch" (Russian). $1.10 net. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK By GEORGE MIDDLETON NOWADAYS A Play in Three Acts. 2nd printing. $1.00 net. A comedy-drama of present-day conditions. It deals specifically with the conflicting demands made upon a mother by her conservative hus- band and her radical daughter which lead to a series of situations revealing the deep comedy of modern life as it affects "the family feeling." It is a quiet play with an unusual love story and is prob- ably the first by an American dramatist which attempts to portray, in a sympathetic fashion, the real meaning of the so-called woman move- ment. New York Evening Post: " . . . notable not only as a sane and veracious study of contemporary life, but for the dramatic quali- ties which ought to make it valuable in the theatre. . . . A strong and effective plea for a more equal partnership for women in the oppor- tunities and responsibilities of life. . . . The story, free from all sensationalism or extravagance, is strong in the naturalness of its sit- uations and the vitality of its contrasted personages. . . ." EMBERS With The Failures, The Gargoyle, In His House, Ma- donna and The Man Masterful. 2nd printing. $1.35 net. These one-act plays of American Life To-day are perfectly practical for clever amateurs and especially available for club discussion and reading. Embers shows the influence of an ideal on a life; The Failures portrays what love may become in weak characters. The Gargoyle shows the pathos and insincerity of the literary temperament. _ In His House and The Man Masterful are intimate studies of marriage. Madonna is a delicate picture of a girl's psychology on her wedding eve. Prof. William Lyon Phelps of Yale: "The plays are admirable; the conversations have the true style of human speech, and show first-rate economy of words, every syllable advancing the plot. The little dramas are full of cerebration, and I shall recommend them in my public lectures." TRADITION With On Bail, Mothers, Waiting, Their Wife and The Cheat of Pity. 2nd printing. $1.35 net. A companion volume to the above. Tradition^ deals with the attempt of the dominant though kindly man of the family to crush the artistic ambitionsof his wife and daughter through their economic dependence. On Bail is a remorseless picture of a social parasite. Mothers shows the demands of society upon motherliness, while Waiting is a tender portrayal of a long delayed marriage due to traditional feelings. Their Wife is an ironical comedy in the miasma of intrigue; The Cheat of Pity gives an intimate study of marriage and the relative claims of passion with pity and the habit of life. Clayton Hamilton, in an extended notice in The Bookman: "All of these little pieces are admirable in technique: they are soundly con- structed and written in natural and lucid dialogue. . . . He has sounded to the depths the souls of those eccentric and extraordinary women whom he has chosen to depict." HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK CLARK'S CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY— Outline, for Its Study By Barrett H. Clark, Editor of and Translator of two of the plays in "Three Modern French Plays." 12mo. $1.35 net. Suggestions, questions, biographies, and bibliographies for use in connection with the study of some of the more import- ant plays of Ibsen, Bjornsen, Strindberg, Tolstoy, Gorky, Tchekoff, Andreyeff, Hauptmann, Sudermann, Wedekind, Schnitzler, Von Hoffmansthal, Becque, Le Maitre, Lave- DAN, DONNAY, MAETERLINCK, ROSTAND, BrIEUX, HERVIEU, Giacosa, D'Annunzio, Echegaray, and Galdos. In half a dozen or less pages for each play, Mr. Clark tries to indicate, in a way suggestive to playwriters and students, how the skilled dramatists write their plays. It is intended that the volume shall be used in connection with the reading of the plays themselves, but it also has an inde- pendent interest in itself. Prof. William Lyon Phelps of Yale: ". . . One of the most useful works on the contemporary drama. . . . Extremely practical, full of valuable hints and suggestions. . . ." Providence Journal: "Of undoubted value. ... At the com- pletion of a study of the plays in connection with the 'Outline' one should have a definite knowledge of the essentials of dramatic tech- nique in general, and of the modern movement in particular." Sixth Edition, Enlarged and with Portraits HALE'S DRAMATIST'S OF TO-DAY By Prof. Edward Everett Hale, Jr., of Union College. Rostand, Hauptmann, Sudermann, Pinero, Shaw, Phillips, Maeterlinck "A Note on Standards of Criticism," "Our Idea of Tragedy," and an appendix of all the plays of each author, with dates of their first performance or publication, complete the volume. $1.50 net. New York Evening Post: "It is not often nowadays that a theatrical book can be met with so free from gush and mere eulogy, or so weighted by common sense ... an excellent chronological appendix and full index . . . uncommonly useful for reference." Brooklyn Eagle: "A dramatic critic who is not just 'busting 1 himself with Titanic intellectualities, but who is a readable dramatic critic. . . . % § Mr. Hale is a modest and sensible, as well as an acute and sound critic. . . . Most people will be surprised and delighted with Mr. Hale's simplicity, perspicuity and ingenuousness.'* HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 (724)779-2111 H wsbbe Hi i ass -.•^•:". k'B^R" 39£si lH H : ^^1 usGEs §38! Hi w H 93 HBlH ■ ■ ^M m ail H HI LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 939 995 3 IS &&£&&&&■ HM1MSE ■•"-'¥ i tfc ! |HK ■_ BS HI I IHUHHfiHI