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WINNOWAIA 
 
 BY 
 
 M. H. BOWEN 
 
WINNOWAIA 
 
WINNOWAIA 
 
 a tale of 
 
 Vision and Sacrifice, 
 is dedicated to 
 
 EVA MATHESON WHITE 
 my friend and close colleague 
 
 in patriotic work during the Great War; who understood 
 the Spirit of the Eastern Townships 
 and the Ideals by which its 
 people live. 
 
 M.H.B. 
 
 j 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 Through the early history of Canada runs a strong vein of 
 tradition. Indeed, the boundaries of both tradition and history 
 often cross each other and are merged together, until it is 
 difficult to see where the point of demarcation lies. In fact, 
 what was once considered as tradition is, often, upon proper 
 investigation, found to be reality, while those stories which had 
 long been regarded as actual facts are relegated to the misty 
 regions of tradition. But both history and tradition afford a rich 
 mine of material for the fiction-writer and the poet, and the 
 reader of these works thus inspired, comes to believe with 
 Rostand that “Meme quand il a tort, le poete a raison”, and 
 that the imaginative writer and the poet are the only ones who 
 pierce to the real heart of the matter, and extract the subtle 
 essence for the reader. The writers of French Canada have long 
 sought their inspiration in their own folklore, history and 
 tradition, but English-speaking Canadians, having a smaller 
 body of traditional stories and folk-lore, have not often availed 
 themselves of the interesting material that exists. English- 
 speaking Canadians are, therefore, indebted to the author of 
 “Winnowaia” for preserving for them a beautiful and romantic 
 story of their own Eastern Townships, the basic facts of which 
 are well authenticated in history, and around which the poet’s 
 imagination has been allowed to play with delicate illumination 
 until an engrossing tale, part history and part tradition, becomes 
 reality itself. 
 
 Bishop's College , 
 
 Lennoxville , Que. 
 
 FRANK OLIVER CALL. 
 

AUTHOR’S NOTE 
 
 The Abenakis, or St. Francis Indians, though nominally 
 Christians for three generations, were thorough savages. In 
 their fierce raids upon the New England settlements prior to 
 1759, they perpetrated horrible atrocities, torturing, scalping 
 men, women and children and carrying away captives after 
 burning the settlers’ homes. It was decided to send a force to 
 end this state of things. 
 
 It is of interest to know that some years previous to this, 
 history records that a boy and girl from different families had 
 been captured by the Indians in one of their raids. These 
 children were brought up by the Abenakis who became attach' 
 ed to them and had them carefully educated in the French 
 language and Roman Catholic faith. When grown up they were 
 united in marriage and their descendants became prosperous, 
 inheriting much of the Indians’ property. 
 
 An expedition was sent under Major Rodgers, the cek' 
 brated ranger, to punish these invaders and destroy their village 
 at the mouth of the St. Francis. In this attack about 200 Indians 
 of all ages were killed, prisoners taken, captives freed and the 
 village burned. The sight of hundreds of English scalps, waving 
 in the wind on poles, added to the fierceness of the attackers. 
 Treasure was carried off, probably from the church, where gifts 
 of value from the devout in France were often placed. 
 
 Later at Big Forks, Rodgers sent a small party in advance to 
 carry the booty to New England, but they, finding its weight 
 impeded them, buried it “in a safe place”, legend says in “the 
 gorge of the Magog.” It has never been discovered. 
 
Rodgers retreated up the St. Francis followed by the Indians. 
 Reaching Big Forks (now Sherbrooke) he sent men to Little 
 Forks (Lennoxville) to light fires to deceive the enemy and dis- 
 posed his rangers on the height looking down the river, hidden 
 in the thick trees. 
 
 Expecting the English to be at Little Forks as the scouts re- 
 ported, the Abenakis came on boldly by canoe, part of their 
 force remaining on the north bank and following up the river 
 to Big Forks. 
 
 A stretch of two miles enabled Rodgers to see the approach¬ 
 ing canoes, and count the paddles, thus obtaining the number of 
 savages. A ranger was assigned to each and when the signal to 
 fire was given after one half of the canoes had turned the point, 
 the shots took deadly effect, almost every occupant of the canoes 
 being killed or wounded. The Indians on the north shore forded 
 the river and attacked from the intervale below the mouth of 
 the Magog while the English replied from the wooded heights. 
 The Indians, defeated, with many killed or wounded, withdrew 
 and Rodgers proceeding to Little Forks, broke up his force into 
 parties to seek New England by different routes. 
 
 The historical background for the poem “Winnowaia’’ may 
 be found in Parkman Vol. XIII, Thompson’s History of Ver¬ 
 mont and Mrs. Day’s History of the Eastern Townships which 
 includes the account of the ambush and fight given to Jesse 
 Pennoyer, Esq., Government Land Surveyor, by the Abenakis 
 Indian, Captain St. Francis, then Chief of the tribe. He, as a 
 lad of about sixteen, was present at the fight at Big Forks 
 (Sherbrooke) accompanying his father who was in command of 
 the body of Indians and was killed. Captain St. Francis’ son 
 (grandson of the Chief, who was in command of the pursuing 
 force of Indians) was well known to John Hallowell, Esq., of 
 Sherbrooke, the father of the author, and related to him the 
 
story of the ambush and fight as he had received it from his 
 father. The fact that Indian arrowheads were picked up in 
 numbers in the early days where Sheriff Bowen's house stands 
 and on the heights in its vicinity, also in the intervale to the 
 Magog River and along its shore where tradition places the 
 fight, and not elsewhere , corroborates the story which was never 
 doubted by the first settlers in Sherbrooke. 
 
 The arrowheads obtained in this manner that were in the 
 possession of the author were loaned to the Sherbrooke Art and 
 Library Association. 
 
 In early days the Indians camped here yearly and were said 
 to have a burying ground near the jail. Several skeletons dug 
 up when the road from Brompton was lately improved, may 
 have been those of Indians killed in the ambush. 
 
 The cliff on the Magog near the residence of Mr. H. 
 Hargreave was called “The Lovers' Leap" and a whirlpool in 
 the canon “The Witches’ Cauldron". 
 
 It should be remembered in visualizing the scene of the poem 
 that the country was densely wooded, pines of ancient growth 
 numerous and the river unchecked by dams in a deep and swift 
 current between high cliffs. 
 
 The “Lone Pine" was for centuries a landmark standing on a 
 high rock in the middle of the St. Francis River. It fell in a 
 tempest in November, 1913. 
 
 
V* 
 
 WINNOWAIA 
 
 (Vision) 
 
 (Expanse) 
 
 (A legend of the St. Francis and Magog Rivers 
 and The Lovers’ Leap) 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 Born with the soul of a star, thought wings like a bird 
 Fearlessly rising and homing through unknown space,— 
 Music of nature unfettered her childhood had heard,— 
 Exquisite vistas of spirit had given her grace. 
 
 Lake unto forest and forest to river proclaim,— 
 
 Loud the reverberant canon flings up to the hill 
 Hers,—the beloved,—the one immemorial name;— 
 
 Hers,—who was part of the wild and is one with it still— 
 
 Winnowaia ! 
 
 15 
 
 A 
 
THE AMBUSH 
 
 Silence, asleep in the hills ! The resilient hush 
 Thrilled to the drifting red leaves and the breath of the wood 
 Pungent with fern and dank weed. In the stream the thin rush 
 Sliding dry whisperings up from the shade where it stood. 
 
 All the rich gold of the year poured in heaps on the ground. 
 Festooned from desolate branches, defying green pines 
 With furious flaming of colour,—as vital as sound 
 Struck from deep heavens. The shores’ curving lines, 
 
 Where the St. Francis flowed down between forests, went out 
 Sinuous, dim in the distance,—a serpent tide, scaled 
 With pitiless orange from sunset and blood from the rout 
 Of the Indians caught in the ambush. Attack that had failed, 
 Lapsed, and the war-whoop was silent. The White men 
 withdrew, 
 
 Only the embers of vengeance, adrift, dimly red, 
 
 Died, where canoes going downward, whose freight the stream 
 knew, 
 
 Floated like broken winged birds in a tryst with the dead. 
 
 Wept the Lone Pine to the Rock, at the sight of the blood ! 
 “Something is gone and must go in the days that shall be ! ” 
 Answered the Rock to the Pine from its place in the flood, 
 “Woe, for the life that is dear to the Rock and the Tree ! ” 
 

 SONG OF THE ROCK AND THE LONE FINE 
 
 Cometh the night li\e wings on hill and stream ! 
 
 A far, behold sweet loveliness a'gleam ! 
 
 Where are the things that wearied with the light ?— 
 
 Gone in soft darkness from the gladdened sight 
 Into the presence of a silver dream. 
 
 Li\e a veiled star, too perfect to be bright — 
 
 Now, in the purple shadow, cometh night. 
 
 Hush !—for the dus\ is giving rest to pain. 
 
 Hush !—for sweet silence cometh once again. 
 
 Shall we repine when evening shadows creep. 
 
 Or in remembrance faithful vigil \eep ? 
 
 Love is eternal! — Loving ,— not in vain ! 
 
 Night bringeth stars in heaven and in the deep. 
 
 Lighting the way when Love shall fall asleep. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Hushed were the voices—the valley lay silent and still; 
 Shadow swept over the red, where the sunset had been, 
 Scent laden breeds crept down from the sheltering hill 
 Weaving grey mists of forgetfulness over the scene. 
 
Withdrawn, the white men passed the Magog, struck 
 Into the forest, bearing wounded men; 
 
 Hiding in some deep cranny, treasure reft 
 From Indian church and village—not again 
 To see the Forks. The dead, from glassy eyes, 
 
 Gaz^d skyward from the wood, or helpless tossed 
 Down in the current. 
 
 Left amid the slain 
 John Stirling woke to agony and thirst, 
 
 His side pierced by an arrow and his strength 
 Drained with the blood, remembering the fight 
 That surged along the heights to Magog’s stream; 
 How he had torn the arrow out and rolled 
 Into a small ravine, where bushy growth 
 Concealed him and the fight passed on. 
 
 He knew 
 
 Morning had dawned and all the air was sweet 
 With bird songs, dew and woodland scents. No sign 
 Remained of that fierce passiondust to kill 
 That stained fair nature ! Only arrow heads 
 In years to come, along those stately heights 
 Would show where this had been. 
 
 Could he escape ? 
 
 Would some dark warrior, creeping through the wood 
 Come on his trail,—the scalping knife the end,— 
 
 Or torture and the stake ? 
 
As he thus thought 
 Into the living silence of the wood 
 Stole a pure voice, so liquid soft, it seemed 
 Part of the silence and not breaking it;— 
 
 For Winnowaia,—singing as she moved. 
 
 Came to her wounded people of the wood. 
 
 WIHNQWAIA'S SOHG TO THE WILD 
 
 “Lift up your head sweet fern, nor be afraid! 
 
 Gone dreadful rain. 
 
 Heal each bruised leaf and every branch low laid, 
 
 Dear sun, again. 
 
 O, fire of Love, give these the power to live 
 Within your rays. 
 
 And let poor silent hearts a warm pulse give 
 To all these ways." 
 
 She ceased and suddenly came on the place 
 Where hid the wounded man:—parting the boughs 
 Looked on his face. 
 
 Lost in amaze he lay:— 
 
 The words were English, but, an Indian maid 
 Framed in the verdure stood in sunlit space. 
 
 He saw a slender girl, white robed,—the skins 
 Beaded and wrought in colour; on her feet 
 Were moccasins whose quill embroidery showed 
 In rich design, the daughter of a Chief. 
 
 19 
 
Long braids of gold-brown hair, an oval face 
 Held,—as a ring, a jewel of great worth. 
 
 Her sweetness filled his eyes, that dwelt on hers, 
 
 Lost in soft depths, deep fringed by lashes dark. 
 
 Her small brown hands held back the crowding boughs 
 Eager to clasp her; her red lips apart 
 Breathed pity’s fragrant comfort and she seemed 
 The vital spirit of the forest, clothed 
 In perfect flesh to help his utter need. 
 
 He could not move and seeing his distress 
 She spoke. 
 
 “O do not be afraid, for I 
 Am Winnowaia.—I have found you here 
 And you are mine. No man will dare to take 
 Your life from me, for I am Queen of Life 
 In all this land ! The living things are mine 
 And understand that I can see their souls. 
 
 I see beyond all things, and therefore, I 
 Am Winnowaia ! 
 
 What my father says 
 
 The Chief, Black Hawk, the warriors will obey, 
 
 But, when I speak—even my father hears ! 
 
 See, I will bind your wounds.” 
 
 She stooped and raised 
 
 His fainting head, brought water from the brook. 
 
 Bathed the stark wound and bound it with a strip 
 Torn from his clothing. He, this moment passed, 
 
 Thirst quenched—found strength for thanks then lapsed again 
 Unconscious;—fever touched his lips and set 
 Him babbling of his mother and his home. 
 
 20 
 
She, listening, rose and seeking other help, 
 
 Returned with braves, who, sullen, lifted up 
 The man and bore him to the wigwam raised 
 Deep in the forest. Dark their eyes with hate; 
 
 Low mutterings came of torture, but a word 
 From Winnowaia stayed them, as a dog 
 Turns at his master's voice from eager chase. 
 
 She was to them a life apart. Her mind— 
 
 He, the Great Spirit, touched before her birth. 
 
 They heard her talk with Him—with beast and bird, 
 
 For all the wild things knew and feared her not. 
 
 She could foresee the storm,—feel every change 
 Of nature ere the event—knew every path. 
 
 In skill of track and wood excelled the best. 
 
 Her touch had nature's healing and they sensed 
 If she were angered that her will had power 
 To blast them where they stood. The Great War Chief, 
 Black Hawk, was powerful and strong to lead. 
 
 But greater force came to him from the girl 
 His daughter, only child of that white maid, 
 
 Torn from her far New England home and brought 
 Here to his tribe. The Black Coat married them; 
 
 The girl was born and when her mother died. 
 
 In care of the Good Sisters in Quebec 
 Spent time and learned their gentle lore to blend 
 With Indian ways and all her mother's strength 
 Of English faith and knowledge. So she grew 
 White'souled—far-visioned.—One in some strange way 
 With nature. 
 
 21 
 

 u 
 
 Now they reached the camp and passed 
 In peace within the lodge where stood the squaw, 
 
 Her nurse Natuakami, and to her hands 
 She gave the wounded man. 
 
 “Still Water ! See 
 
 He wants for nothing, safe within thy care ! 
 
 I go to listen to the Magog's Song.” 
 
 “I like it not, my child !—I like it not! '' 
 
 Cried old Natuakami. “The songs are sad, 
 
 There is not one that does not speak of death, 
 
 In all of those, you say are sung to you. 
 
 I pray you, listen not! '' 
 
 The answer came, 
 
 “I go to wrap the Magog's silver mists 
 About my soul. Still Water, stay me not!" 
 
 She reached the rugged cliff beside the bend; 
 
 Beneath the tall pine growing on its crest 
 She rested listening as the River sang. 
 
 22 
 
THE MAGOG 
 
 “This is eternal,”—she thought, “this tumultuous stream. 
 Sharp as a warrior’s weapon,—a white, twisting blade 
 Cutting thick forest and rock, in a channel, to gleam 
 Like deadly steel in the gash its strong onset has made.” 
 
 Rising, she clasped the great tree and swung out to look down 
 Where the white waste of swift water rushed into the cleft;— 
 What was the force that impelled it beneath the rock’s frown, 
 Dashing the calm into fragments, the placid lakes left ? 
 
 “Listen ! It calls me,” she said, “to its flood in the dark, 
 Woos my smooth body to float in the long wave that curves 
 At the cliff’s base, to the rocks that lie hidden and stark, 
 Wrapped in foam veils, like a cover that glimmers and swerves. 
 Swift as a storm from the mountains the torrent’s wild flow 
 Calls me forever.—There comes a chill shiver of fear, 
 
 Showing the way soul and body are some day to go, 
 Answering then the cold death that is beckoning here. 
 Something awakes with the life I have saved and I cry 
 Must it take wings and be gone like the birds that depart ? 
 
 Is it a treasure to keep though my body may die ?— 
 
 What of my heart in that hour ? O, what of my heart ? ” 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Loosing the rough bark of the friendly pine 
 She left the high tree^covered cliff—returned 
 To find the wigwam where the Englishman 
 Lay in the rising fever of his wounds, 
 
 Watched by Still Water. Quiet held the camp,— 
 
 Black Hawk, the Chief, a war path followed far 
 Upon the greater river and the lakes. 
 
 23 
 
TWO LIVES 
 
 Through many moons they nursed the wounded man. 
 His strength returned—and with the Indian maid 
 He followed winter paths and searched the wild 
 For food, learned all the tribe’s keen arts of war, 
 
 Of chase and trap;—endured the silent hate 
 Felt by the red men, Winnowaia held 
 In check by taking all his services, 
 
 His presence hers by right—her prisoner. 
 
 So the long months passed by;—the intimate talk 
 Deepened to many thoughts that moved the soul. 
 Books of the settlements—the white man’s ways, 
 God and the Manitou. They touched beliefs— 
 And ever young emotion fed its springs 
 To deeper force as mind spoke unto mind. 
 
 She brought to him the graceful wit of France, 
 Learned in Quebec, the tales of blessed saints. 
 
 The ways of Holy Church,—all, in her mind, 
 Mingled with Indian spirits of the wild. 
 
 With all great nature and her mother’s faith 
 In duty, honour and in prayer to God. 
 
 He told her of his English heritage, 
 
 Its laws—its freedom and its King. His eyes 
 Shone with the love he bore these things, and she 
 Felt that a part of her that understood 
 Thrilled as he spoke. 
 
The spring at last awoke, 
 Life and its glory moved—Black Hawk, the Chief, 
 Returned and coldly met the stranger, found 
 There in his wigwam, feeling in his heart 
 Deep anger surge against this enemy, 
 
 One of the band that sacked the little town 
 Where the Abenakis had made their homes. 
 
 That massacre was ever in his mind 
 
 And in the tribe’s.—The memory of his wife 
 
 Kept back his vengeance and restrained the braves. 
 
 The leafy tunnels of the Magog’s stream 
 About the narrows,—the high banks where trees, 
 Bearing the weight of centuries, stood out 
 Leading the sturdy forest ranks—saw pass 
 The birch canoes that sought the upper lakes. 
 
 John Stirling, with the tribe in careful watch 
 Waited for chance of safe escape. None came, 
 And still the Indian mood to deeper gloom 
 Grew rapidly, as lightning in the clouds 
 Is felt before the storm breaks furiously. 
 
 The two that floated in the light canoe 
 Where Winnowaia’s paddle kissed the lake 
 Sensed this and were afraid. 
 
/ 
 
 They drifted long 
 
 Beneath the mountains on the surface clear 
 And she, close bending to the water, sighed, 
 
 “I hear Lake Spirits talking in the depths. 
 
 I hear the spirits always, as I go 
 About this world; they speak of many things. 
 Lovely and sad,—of things so far away 
 My people do not see them, nor can you.— 
 
 I hear a song ! ” 
 
 ‘'What is it ? ” questioned he, 
 
 “I sing it as I hear,” she said and sang. 
 
 THE LAKES SOHG 
 
 “Water that is pure—water that is still 
 Mirrors the far s\y and the steadfast hill. 
 
 Water that is deep sees the world go by. 
 
 But hides away the blue of the great s\y. 
 
 Once, in my heart,—down deep and far, 
 
 I held the burning soul of a bright star." 
 
 “Know you the meaning ? ” wistfully he said, 
 
 “O Winnowaia ! ” bending, touched her hand. 
 
 “I know my soul perceives a shining star.” 
 
 “The lake holds hers forever,” she replied, 
 
 And sent the paddle deeper in the lake. 
 
 “You must escape ! ” she told him, “For the braves 
 Are ripe with lust to kill. It must be soon. 
 
 26 
 
I left, some moons ago, an old canoe 
 Well hid within that tree^hung cove. I will 
 You leave the lodge and travelling up the stream 
 Take it and seek your home. I will provide 
 Weapons and food—your swiftly moving feet 
 The water will not show.” 
 
 “The braves will track 
 Me, as the wolf the doe, before I reach 
 The cache of food within the cedar grove,” 
 
 He answered gloomily. 
 
 “They will not start 
 Upon your trail ! I promise,” and she gaz^d 
 With steady eyes into his own, as if 
 She saw the danger met and thrust aside. 
 
 “They shall not follow you !—My spirit says, 
 
 But seek another and a darker path, 
 
 From which they will not swerve. Who turns aside 
 From it leaves his beloved.” 
 
 He answered her 
 
 “In doing this, I shall leave one I love.” 
 
 “Yet not most cherished—for your English race 
 Holds that for you I feel,—” her voice was sad. 
 
 Soon the canoes surrounded them and on 
 They glided by the river’s devious ways 
 To run the Magog and attain the camp 
 Again and take once more the daily round 
 Beneath increasing strain. 
 
 27 
 
THE PARTING 
 
 One night the Chief 
 In great uneasiness had called the girl 
 Apart and spoken with deep gravity; 
 
 ‘This is your tribe, my daughter ! This your place ! 
 No enemy should link his life with yours. 
 
 Blood is between you—all the helpless slain 
 Cry out for vengeance. Stand aside, I pray: 
 
 We deal as ancient custom bids us deal.'’ 
 
 “Not so ! ” she said, “My father, he is mine ! ” 
 
 “I do not answer you with words—but deeds,—" 
 
 He spoke with anger. “Your keen sight is blind,— 
 
 If he escape—a thing which cannot be 
 
 But through sky people—you will give your word, 
 
 That English word your mother never broke. 
 
 You will not go with him ! ” 
 
 She lifted up 
 
 Her hand to heaven, stood facing him, her eyes 
 Stars in their light— 
 
 “I promise ! I remain 
 Here in this place, my home for evermore ! ” 
 
 “Good ! ” said the Chief, “I hear ! ” 
 
 And threw his robe 
 
 About him as he went within the lodge. 
 
 But her good nurse, Still Water, lingering near, 
 
 Drew close and laid her old and wrinkled hand 
 Upon her chin,—upturned the oval face, 
 
 Looked in her eyes and said, 
 
 28 
 
KJ 
 
 
 "Behind those words 
 There is not honey—but a thing I fear 
 And know not what it is. I fear for you ! " 
 
 "Fear not," said Winnowaia, "You have nursed 
 The daughter of a Chief who knows no fear ! 
 Remember this, if ever your good heart 
 Should turn to water. I shall know no fear." 
 
 She left and seeking her companion, took 
 The path where on the Magog’s bank the pine 
 Surveyed the upper and the lower stream. 
 
 They sat upon the moss, well hid by boughs 
 
 Green leafed and sweet. About them springing plants. 
 
 The roaring water sounding in their ears; 
 
 The fresh and pungent scent of dampened herbs 
 Crushed into perfume, rising in the air; 
 
 The lonely, silver stars adight in heaven— 
 
 She said, 
 
 "I sing to you a parting song— 
 One that my mother taught me long ago,— 
 
 Before you leave me, going on that trail 
 That leads towards the south to find the sun 
 That rises and is strong. I say farewell ! " 
 
 Her thrilling voice seemed blended with the stream 
 In one pure harmony. With awe, he knew 
 That somehow it would sing forevermore 
 In that great sound that from the canon came 
 Resonant, vibrant, with a meaning held 
 From ears unworthy. 
 
 Winnowaia sang 
 
 29 
 
WINNOWAIA'S SONG 
 
 A thousand stars are in the s\y , 
 
 A thousand in the sea; 
 
 Their glory folds the quivering earth 
 In shining ecstasy. 
 
 There is no answer in my soul 
 To radiant sea and s\y — 
 
 Because for me all light has set — 
 
 Good Night! Good Bye ! 
 
 My Heart flings wide the Gates of Death — 
 
 It dies to-night for me, 
 
 Although earth-bound it cannot slip 
 Into Eternity — 
 
 Yet if your Heart to mine shall call — 
 
 Death's agony gone by — 
 
 It yet shall wa\e—until that hour — 
 
 Good Night! Good Bye ! 
 
 "You break my heart,” he said, "and must I go ? ” 
 
 "Indeed you must,” her soft voice answered him. 
 "The Spirits tell me and I think the Saints, 
 
 That thus it has been willed. You leave this place 
 In early morn. I shall be waiting here 
 And watch you take the trail to reach the lakes: 
 They shall not follow,—no—nor think of it! ” 
 
 "I do not understand,” he said, "but what 
 You wish, I do. If God wills, I return. 
 
 30 
 
I cannot thank you—would my mother could; 
 
 She will, with prayer, if I return to her. 
 
 I kiss your hand in homage for I think 
 You are the purest and the sweetest soul 
 On this side heaven. I bid you then good-bye ! 
 Good-bye, gold hair,” he touched the shining braids, 
 “Deep eyes of truth and heart of tenderness— 
 
 I kneel and touch the hem of your white robe.”— 
 
 “Good-bye,” she said, and gave him both her hands, 
 “We shall not meet at dawn for I must take 
 The steps I planned to keep wolves from your track. 
 Life is a little thing—remember that; 
 
 But Love and Life can conquer even Death ! ” 
 
 She stood and gazed at him, with such a strength 
 Of purpose in her bearing, that she seemed 
 Indeed a princess in her royal place; 
 
 A white and slender figure, lifted up 
 Against the darkened verdure of the trees. 
 
 The night drew down and he, alight with hope 
 Of home and friends—prepared—and took his path 
 Along the river bank, while she remained 
 To greet the sunrise on the lonely cliff. 
 
 In years to come, when he had reached his home, 
 That picture often sprang to vivid life 
 Within his consciousness and sent his heart 
 In longing memory back across the miles. 
 
 31 
 
WINNOWAIA'S VISION 
 
 She sang a hymn of greeting as the light 
 Flung its gold promise to the waiting clouds. 
 
 "Come from thy throne, O sun, and give solace to me, 
 
 Who art thy child and the child of this wonderful earth. 
 
 Show me the gold of that path that the sky children see 
 Shining and certain, where roses of morning have birth. 
 
 I, who am one with pure water—to freshness akin. 
 
 Sister to all the swift life moving now in its deep. 
 
 Must give the strength of a woman, my being within, 
 
 Into those depths where there lingers the silence of sleep.— 
 
 Mother of Christ—in this moment, I will not to take 
 Life, to throw madly away in its freshness and bloom 
 In wanton haste—but to venture for love’s holy sake— 
 
 All, in this hazard, that brings either safety or doom. 
 
 Shine glowing purpose in glory ! There can be no star 
 Other than this for my guiding—the soul of all things 
 Must be life offered for others—a-near and affar;— 
 
 Vision and joy of fulfilment supremely it brings. 
 
 Now to my father, the River, I consecrate life ! 
 
 Now to my mother, the Forest, I offer my breath ! 
 
 Red men and white are my brothers in pitiful strife; 
 
 Willing their good, I shall win it by life or by death. 
 Woodland, who nurtured me—springs I caressed. 
 
 Mountains and all little hills my companions—deep lake, 
 Showing white thoughts in the lilies that rock on your breast, 
 Give me your counsel to show me the path I must take.— 
 
 32 
 
I, who have climbed the long trail, find the stars at the end. 
 Only their glory, in all this cold vastness of night. 
 
 Would I could pluck them to guide where my feet must descend 
 Into the desolate dark where there glimmers no light. 
 
 Strong is my soul in this hour ! For this I was born,— 
 
 Now shall the spirit see far that is set on the hills !— 
 
 Fade and dissolve in the distance the grey mists forlorn; 
 Wonders of power and beauty the future fulfills. 
 
 Comes to my land and my people a glorious day; 
 
 Vision and promise I follow—my heart is a-flame ! 
 
 Life—it is nothing to offer—it passes away— 
 
 But the great soul of the future is one with my name 
 Winnowaia ! ” 
 
 33 
 
. 
 
 SACRIFICE 
 
 “Now he is gone afar ! ” she said, “No more 
 My eyes behold that face which gave me light; 
 Only my heart remembers—and I pray 
 Great Spirit guide him—Memphremagog waits, 
 
 A shining pathway to his people. Now 
 My father and the braves, my plan must hold 
 From following his trail, until too late 
 For capture and sure death. Long moons ago. 
 
 In youthful play, at sport with fish and bird, 
 
 I dived and floated on this river’s breast 
 In joy and safety. Now, I will to leap 
 Into its darkest chasm, where my cry, 
 
 (As one who goes to save a threatened life,) 
 
 Shall fill their ears and weave a cloud before 
 Their minds, that would be quick upon his trail 
 Unless the love they bear me, calls to them 
 And blinds their eyes. If the sky people aid, 
 
 I shall swim through the channel and escape. 
 
 They will not know he lives, for I shall mourn 
 And pass my time in peace, here—always here.— 
 But something beautiful has gone from life— 
 Perhaps I find it, in this way I take ! ”— 
 
 She whispered to the thunder of the flood— 
 
 “The daughter of a Chief can know no fear.” 
 
 She ceased and the dark canon echoed back 
 Her voice and with the sound came rustling feet 
 Along the height. 
 
 34 
 
She said, “The time has come ! 
 
 Now will I act the play that is the truth; 
 
 For his life is in danger, mine the strength 
 
 That springs to save.-—How near the warriors are !— 
 
 I pray, I may win through the rapid’s knives— 
 
 The cauldron’s choking grip,—and keep my life— 
 
 But his, I know, is given into my hands. 
 
 This is the only way—to-day I stand 
 Between his heart and death.” 
 
 The cedars moved 
 
 Behind her as she spoke—she listened, tense; 
 
 The bushes parted and Black Hawk moved out 
 Upon the cliff—she did not seem to hear, 
 
 But, bending to look down, gave such a cry 
 Of terror and dismay—that he stood, held 
 A moment in ama2£. Her voice rang out 
 Insistent, clear in warning— 
 
 “Do not climb ! 
 
 Take care ! You are too near the edge—wait—wait ! 
 I come to you.—Hold fast,—that tree is strong ! ” 
 
 Her voice rose to a shriek.—She sprang and held 
 The old tree trunk and bent above the edge 
 Grasping to smaller growths—and swinging out, 
 Crying as one in anguish who beholds 
 All that she loves hang in deep jeopardy. 
 
 Downward she crept—the trembling mosses slipt, 
 
 The little bushes crushed beneath her feet, 
 
 So certain elsewhere in their gentle tread,— 
 
 Crying again— 
 
 35 
 
“O wait ! I come ! I come ! 
 
 Hold for a moment, I will help you hold ! ’’ 
 ******* 
 
 She sprang from the safe niche upon the rock 
 Out to the boiling current and was swept 
 Into the canon’s iron-ribbed despair. 
 
 Black Hawk beheld her body cleave the foam, 
 
 Rising, as though to overtake a form 
 Already borne from view beyond the cliffs— 
 
 Then, in the rushing water, swept from sight.— 
 Swift as the hawk darts onward in its flight, 
 
 The Chief swung down between the crowding trees 
 To gain the river’s level,—reached the edge— 
 Piercing the shadows with keen gase—alert 
 To rescue those swept by resistless strength, 
 
 Where gliding waves concealed the jagged rock 
 And sucking current drew to hidden depths,— 
 
 But saw them not. 
 
 With haste the following braves 
 Searched the long shores in silence, fearfully, 
 
 But never finding those for whom they sought;— 
 Waded the sunlit shallows—clove the heart 
 Of tree-hung pools’ dark depths of mystery, 
 
 Watched the St. Francis take the Magog’s rush 
 Into calm tides, but never caught the gleam 
 Of that white form in any sliding wave, 
 
 Or rainbow foam, nor saw her beckoning hand 
 Hail them from dripping rock or rush-edged shore. 
 Natuakami, her nurse went many days 
 Along the heights, refusing aid and food. 
 
 She said, 
 
“Now, in my soul, Still Water rests 
 Forever, and I know, in truth, my name. 
 
 No light shall pierce my sorrow and no wave 
 Shall touch this stillness where her head has lain. 
 
 My breast is cold,—for she—my child has gone 
 Into the silence—I go also ! Now 
 My full years claim me ! ” Thus indeed she passed 
 After few days. 
 
 At last the search was stayed— 
 
 They said, 
 
 “Lo, the Great Spirit, many moons 
 Lent us His child—Behold, He takes again 
 His gift to be with spirits that she knew ! ” 
 
 Thus hearing, Black Hawk took the height to live 
 Again the hour when Winnowaia dared 
 The hazard of the leap to depths below. 
 
 He pondered, as he stood with folded arms 
 And said, 
 
 “She died the daughter of a Chief, 
 
 And as a Chief should die ! So ! It is good ! ” 
 
 And raising his bowed head, held up his hand, 
 
 “My daughter rest !—I keep this in my heart, 
 
 Where all good lives ! ” 
 
 Then turning, left the place 
 To silence born of whispering great trees 
 And solemn undertone of water floods. 
 
 So Winnowaia passed—Earth Spirits knew, 
 
 Vision had found fulfilment in life given— 
 
 Love had revealed itself in sacrifice. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 37 
 
VOICES 
 
 This is the song of the Forest sent down through the years, 
 Wistfully whispering—sighing like spirits in pain. 
 
 Heard through the laughter of leaves like the falling of tears, 
 Seeking forever, lost beauty and calling in vain. 
 
 SOHG OF THE FOREST 
 
 Night that is dar\ and still 
 Can give no rest 
 Li\e my green thickets cool 
 And leaf strewn breast !— 
 
 Long , long is the way 
 That white feet roam !— 
 
 Is there never a sunlit aisle 
 That will lead them home ? 
 
 Was that a sigh in the air ,— 
 
 Or fluttering leaves ? 
 
 The rippled laughter goes , 
 
 For the wood's heart grieves; 
 
 Long, long is the way 
 
 That the white feet roam !— 
 
 There is something silent that breads 
 'Till the feet come home. 
 
 38 
 
The River that falls through the rock and that sings as it goes, 
 Keeps one clear thought in its song like the note of a bird. 
 These are the words that the soul hears at times, as it flows. 
 Giving to nature the message the wilderness heard. 
 
 THE RIVER'S SONG 
 
 Forever passing — forever here , — 
 
 I — the river, am Life ! 
 
 Currents are crossing — frantic or clear 
 Great waves are at strife, 
 
 Floods a'roar till the wet roc\s ring, 
 
 Dan\ and blac\ with the wrath they fling, 
 
 Words long past I shall ever sing — 
 
 I—the river,—am Life. 
 
 Spin faster rapids your silver thread ! 
 
 Nothing shall pass or stay. 
 
 Weave iridescent, a shining web. 
 
 Capture its folds, who may ? 
 
 Weep green ferns where the tears have grown. 
 
 Beauty once to my heart was shown. 
 
 Toothing dies that the heart has \nown — 
 
 Love can not pass away. 
 
 39