University of Virginia Library

A LEGEND
OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY.
—
Founded on Indian Tradition.

Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta was a powerful Sioux chief.
He numbered many distinguished warriors among his
ancestors, and was as proud of his descent as was
ever feudal noble. His name simply signified The
Red Man; but he was “a great brave,” and the poet
of his tribe, whose war-songs were sung on all great
occasions. In one of the numerous battles of the

Sioux with their enemies the Chippewas, he took
prisoner a very handsome little girl. A widowed
woman begged to adopt her, to supply the place
of a daughter, who had gone to the spirit-land; and
thus the pretty young creature was saved from the
general massacre of prisoners. As she approached
womanhood, the heart of the poet-chieftain inclined
towards her, and he made her his wife.

Their first-born was a daughter. When she was
two years old, the mother, struck by a peculiarity in
the expression of her eyes, named her Zah-gah-see-ga-quay,
which, in her own language, signified Sunbeams
breaking through a Cloud. As she grew
older, this poetic name became more and more appropriate;
for when she raised her large deeply-shaded
eyes, their bright lucid expression was still more
obviously veiled with timidity and sadness. Her
voice, as usual with young Indian women, was low
and musical, and her laugh was gentle and childlike.

There was a mixed expression in her character, as
in her eyes. She was active, buoyant, and energetic,
in her avocations and amusements; yet from childhood
she was prone to serious moods, and loved to
be alone in sequestered places, watching the golden
gleam of sunset on the green velvet of the hills, till it
passed away, and threw their long twilight-shadows
across the solitude of the prairies.

Her father, proud of her uncommon intelligence
and beauty, resolved to mate her with the most renowned
of warriors, and the most expert of hunters.
In the spring of 1765, when she had just passed her
fourteenth birth-day, she attracted the attention of one

worthy to claim the prize. Nee-hee-o-ee-woo, The
Wolf of the Hill, was a noble-looking young chief,
belonging to the neighbouring tribe of Shiennes.
He was noted for bold exploits, superb horsemanship,
and the richness of his savage attire. The first time
he saw the beautiful Sioux, he looked at her with
earnest eyes; and he soon after returned, bringing
Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta a valuable present of furs. The
maiden understood very well why his courting-flute
was heard about the wigwam till late into the night,
but the sounds excited no lively emotions in her heart.
The dashing young warrior came too late. The week
previous, a Frenchman, drawn thither by thirst for
new adventures, had arrived with a company of fur
traders from Quebec. He was a handsome man; but
Zah-gah-see-ga-quay was less attracted by his expressive
face and symmetrical figure, than by his graceful
gallantry toward women, to which she had been hitherto
unaccustomed. His power of fascinating was
increased by the marked preference bestowed upon herself.
She received his attentions with childish delight
and pretty bashfulness, like a coy little bird. The
lustrous black hair, which he praised, was braided
more neatly than ever; her dress of soft beaver-skins
was more coquetishly garnished with porcupine quill-work,
and her moccasons were embroidered in gayer
patterns.

The beauty of this forest nymph pleased the
Frenchman's fancy, and his vanity was flattered by
the obvious impression he had made on her youthful
imagination. He was incapable of love. A volatile
temperament, and early dissipation, had taken from

him that best happiness of human life. But Indian
lands were becoming more and more desirable to his
ambitious nation, and Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta had the
disposal of broad and valuable tracts. He had an
aversion to marriage; but this he knew would be but
the shadow of a fetter; for he could dissolve the bond
at any moment, with as little loss of reputation as if
it were a liaison in Paris. Thus reasoned civilized
man, while the innocent child of the woods was as
unconscious of the possibility of such selfish calculations,
as is a robin in the mating season.

Her father had encountered white men, and was
consequently more on his guard. When Jerome de
Rancé offered rich presents, and asked his daughter
in marriage, he replied, “Zah-gah-see-ga-quay must
mate with a chieftain of her own people. If a paleface
marries an Indian woman, he calls her his wife
while he likes to look upon her, but when he desires
another, he walks away and says she is not his wife.
Such are not the customs of the red men.”

Though Jerome de Rancé had secretly rejoiced
over the illegality of an Indian marriage, being highly
civilized, he of course made the most solemn protestations
of undying love and everlasting good faith.
But the proud chieftain had set his heart upon an alliance
with the magnificent Wolf of the Hill, and he
listened coldly. Obstacles increased the value of the
prize, and the adventurous Frenchman was determined
to win his savage bride at any price. With
the facility of his pliant nation, he accommodated
himself to all the customs of the tribe; he swore to
adopt all their friendships and all their enmities;

he exercised himself in all performances requiring
strength and skill, and on all possible occasions he
exhibited the most reckless courage. These things
made him very popular, and gained the admiration
of the chief more than was shown by his grave
countenance and indifferent manner. Still he could
not easily overcome a reluctance to mix his proud
race with foreign blood.

De Rancé, considering himself the one who stooped
in the proposed alliance, was piqued by what seemed
to him a ridiculous assumption of superiority. Had
it not been for the tempting Indian lands, of which he
hoped to come in possession, he would have gained
the loving maiden on his own terms, and left her
when he chose, without seeking to conciliate her
father. But the fulfilment of his ambitious schemes
required a longer probation. With affected indifference,
he made arrangements for departure. He intended
to re-appear among them suddenly, in a few
weeks, to test his power over the Clouded Sunbeam;
but he said he was going to traffic with a neighbouring
tribe, and it was doubtful whether he should see
them again, or return to Canada by a different route.
That she would pine for him, he had no doubt; and
he had observed that Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta, though
bitter and implacable to his enemies, was tender-hearted
as a child toward his own family.

He was not mistaken in his calculations. Zah-gah-see-ga-quay
did not venture to dispute the will
of her father; but her sweet voice was no more
heard in songs; the sunbeam in her eyes went more
and more behind the cloud, and the bright healthy

colour of her cheek grew pale. Her listless movements
and languid glance pained her mother's heart,
and the stern father could not endure the mournfulness
of their beseeching looks. He spoke no words, but
called together a few of his companions, and went
forth apparently to hunt in the forest. Before the
moon had traversed half her monthly orbit, he and
Jerome entered the wigwam together. Zah-gar-see-ga-quay
was seated in a dark corner. Her head
leaned despondingly on her hand, and her basket-work
lay tangled beside her. As she looked up, a
quick blush mantled her face, and her eyes shone like
stars. Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta noticed the sudden change,
and, in tones of deep tenderness, said, “My child, go
to the wigwam of the stranger; that your father may
again see you love to look on the rising sun and the
opening flowers.” There was mingled joy and modesty
in the upward glance of The Clouded Sunbeam,
and when she turned away bashfully from his triumphant
gaze, the Frenchman smiled with a consciousness
of unlimited power over her simple heart.

That evening, they rambled alone, under the
friendly light of the moon. When they returned, a
portion of the scarlet paint from her brown cheek was
transferred to the face of her lover. Among his
Parisian acquaintance, this would have given rise to
many a witty jest; but the Indians, with more natural
politeness, observed it silently. A few days after, the
gentle daughter of the Sioux passed into the tent of
the stranger, and became his wife.

Years passed on, and she remained the same devoted,
submissive friend. In all domestic avocations

of the Indians, she was most skilful. No one made
more beautiful matting, or wove into it such pretty
patterns. The beaver skins she dressed were as soft
and pliable as leather could be. She rowed her
canoe with light and vigorous stroke, and the flight
of her arrow was unerring. Her husband loved her
as well as was possible for one of his butterfly temperament
and selfish disposition; but the deferential
courtesy of the European lover gradually subsided
into something like the lordly indifference of the men
around him. He was never harsh; but his affectionate
bride felt the change in his manner, and sometimes
wept in secret. When she nestled at his feet,
and gazed into his countenance with her peculiarly
pleading plaintive look, she sometimes obtained a
glance such as he had given her in former days.
Then her heart would leap like a frolicsome lamb,
and she would live cheerfully on the remembrance of
that smile through wearisome days of silence and
neglect. Her love amounted to passionate idolatry.
If he wished to cross the river, she would ply the oar,
lest he should suffer fatigue. She carried his quiver
and his gun through the forest, and when they returned
at twilight, he lounged indolently on the bottom
of the boat, while she dipped her oars in unison with
her low sweet voice, soothing him with some simple
song, where the same plaintive tones perpetually came,
and went away in lullaby-cadence.

To please him, she named her son and daughter
Felicie and Florimond, in memory of his favourite
brother and sister. On these little ones, she could
lavish her abundant love without disappointment or

fear. The children inherited their parents' beauty;
but Felicie, the eldest, was endowed with a double
portion. She had her mother's large lucid eye, less
deeply shaded with the saddening cloud; but her
other features resembled her handsome father. Her
oval cheeks had just enough of the Indian tint to
give them a rich warm colouring. At thirteen years
old, her tall figure combined the graceful elasticity of
youth, with the rounded fulness of womanhood. She
inherited her father's volatile temperament, and was
always full of fun and frolic. As a huntress, she was
the surest eye, and the fleetest foot; and her pretty
canoe skimmed the waters like a stormy petrel. It
was charming to see this young creature, so full of
life, winding about among the eddies of the river, or
darting forward, her long black hair streaming on the
wind, and her rich red lips parted with eagerness.
She sported with her light canoe, and made it play
all manner of gambols in the water. It dashed and
splashed, and whirled round in pirouettes, like an
opera-dancer; then, in the midst of swift circles, she
would stop at once, and laugh, as she gracefully shook
back the hair from her glowing face. Jerome de
Rancé had never loved anything, as he did this beautiful
child. But something of anxiety and sadness,
mingled with his pride, when he saw her caracoling
on her swift little white horse of the prairies, or leaping
into the chase, or making her canoe caper like a
thing alive. Buoyant and free was her Indian childhood;
but she was approaching the period, when she
would be claimed as a wife; and he could not endure
the thought, that the toilsome life of a squaw, would be
the portion of his beautiful daughter. He taught her
to dance to his flute, and hired an old Catholic priest
to instruct her in reading and writing. But these
lessons were irksome to the Indian girl, and she was
perpetually eluding her father's vigilance, to hunt
squirrels in the woods, or sport her canoe among the
eddies. He revolved many plans for her future advancement
in life; and sometimes, when he turned
his restless gaze from daughter to mother, the wife
felt troubled, by an expression she did not understand.
In order to advance his ambitious views, it was necessary
to wean Felicie from her woodland home; and
he felt that his Clouded-Sunbeam, though still beautiful,
would be hopelessly out of place in Parisian
saloons. Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta and his wife were
dead, and their relatives were too much occupied with
war and hunting, to take particular notice of the white
man's movements. The acres of forest and prairie,
which he had received, on most advantageous terms,
from his Indian father-in-law, were sold, tract after
tract, and the money deposited in Quebec. Thither,
he intended to convey first his daughter, and then his
son, on pretence of a visit, for the purposes of education,
but in reality, with the intention of deserting his
wife, to return no more.

According to Indian custom, the mother's right to
her offspring amounts to unquestioned law. If her
husband chooses to leave the tribe, the children must
remain with her. It was therefore necessary to proceed
artfully. De Rancé became more than usually
affectionate; and Zah-gah-see-ga-quay, grateful for
such gleams of his old tenderness, granted his earnest

prayer, that Felicie might go to Quebec, for a few
moons only. The Canadian fur-traders made their
annual visit at this juncture, and he resolved to accept
their escort for himself and daughter. His wife begged
hard to accompany them; humbly promising,
that she would not intrude among his white friends,
but would remain with a few of her tribe, hidden in
neighbouring woods, where she could now and then
get a glimpse of their beloved faces. Such an arrangement,
was by no means pleasing to the selfish European.
The second time she ventured to suggest it,
he answered briefly and sternly, and the beautiful
shaded eyes filled with unnoticed tears. Felicie was
the darling of her heart; she so much resembled the
handsome Frenchman, as she had first known him.
When the parting hour came, she clung to her
daughter with a passionate embrace, and then starting
up with convulsive energy, like some gentle animal
when her young is in danger, she exclaimed,
“Felicie is my child, and I will not let her go.” De
Rancé looked at her, as he had never looked before,
and raised his arm to push her away. Frightened at
the angry expression of his eye, she thought he intended
to strike her; and with a deep groan she fell
on the earth, and hid her face in the long grass.

Felicie sobbed, and stretched out her arms imploringly
towards her mother; but quick as a flash, her
father lifted her on the horse, swung himself lightly
into the same saddle, and went off at a swift gallop.
When the poor distracted mother rose from the ground,
they were already far off, a mere speck on the wide
prairie. This rude parting would perhaps have killed

her heart, had it not been for her handsome boy of
seven summers. With a sad countenance, he gravely
seated himself by her side. She spoke no word to
him, but the tears rolled slowly down, as she gazed at
him, and tried to trace a resemblance to his unkind
father.

The promised period of return arrived; but moon
after moon passed away, and nothing was heard from
the absent ones. A feeling that she had been intentionally
deceived gradually grew strong within the
heart of the Indian mother; and the question often
arose, “Will he seek to take my boy away also?”
As time passed on, and suspicion changed into certainty,
she became stern and bitter. She loved young
Florimond intensely; but even this love was tinged
with fierceness, hitherto foreign to her nature. She
scornfully abjured his French name, and called him
Mah-to-chee-ga, The Little Bear. Her strongest
wish seemed to be to make him as hard and proud as
his grandfather had been, and to instil into his bosom
the deadliest hatred of white men. The boy learned
her lessons well. He was the most inveterate little
savage that ever let fly an arrow. Already, he carried
at his belt the scalp of a boy older and bigger
than himself, the son of a chief, with whom his tribe
were at war. The Sioux were proud of his vigour and
his boldness, and considered his reckless courage
almost a sufficient balance to the disadvantage of
mixed blood.

Such was the state of things, when Jerome de
Rancé returned to the shores of the Mississippi, after
an absence of three years. He was mainly induced

to make this visit by a wish to retain some hold upon
his Indian boy, and preserve a good understanding
with the tribe, as an advantage in future speculations.
He had some dread of meeting the Clouded Sunbeam,
and was not without fear that she might have exasperated
her people against him. But he trusted much
to her tenderness for him, and still more to his own
adroitness. He was, however, surprised at the cold
indifference with which she met him. He had expected
deep resentment, but he was not prepared for
such perfect apathy. He told a mournful and highly-wrought
story of Felicie's sudden death, by being
thrown from her horse, in their passage through the
forest; and sought to excuse his long absence, by
talking of his overwhelming grief, and his reluctance
to bring sad tidings. The bereaved mother listened
without emotion; for she did not believe him.
She thought, and thought truly, that Felicie was in
her father's native land, across the wide ocean. All
his kind glances and endearing epithets were received
with the same stolid indifference. Only when he
talked with her Little Bear, did she rouse from this
apparent lethargy. She watched over him like a she-wolf,
when her young are in danger. She hoped
that the hatred of white men, so carefully instilled,
would prove a sufficient shield against all attempts to
seduce him from her. But in the course of a few
weeks, she saw plainly enough that the fascinating
and insidious Frenchman was gaining complete power
over the boy, as he had over her own youthful spirit.
She was maddened with jealousy at her own diminished
influence; and when Mah-to-chee-ga at last expressed
a wish to go to Canada with his father, the
blow was too severe for her deeply lacerated soul.
The one thought that he would be enticed away from
her took complete possession of her mind, and night
and day she brooded over plans of vengeance. More
than once, she nearly nerved her hand to murder the
father of her son. But his features recalled the image
of the handsome young Frenchman, who had carried
her arrows through the woods, and kissed the moccason
he stooped to tie; and she could not kill him.

As the time approached for de Rancé to return to
Canada with the traders, her intense anxiety increased
almost to frenzy. One day, when he had gone to a
neighbouring tribe to traffic for furs, she invited Mah-to-chee-ga
to go up the river with her, to fish. She
decked herself in her most richly embroidered skins,
and selected the gaudiest wampum-belt for her Little
Bear. When the boy asked why they were dressed
so carefully, she replied, “Because we are going to
meet your grandfather, who was a great brave, and a
mighty hunter.” He was puzzled by the answer, but
when he questioned of her meaning, she remained
silent. When they came to the waterside, she paused
and looked back on the forest, where she had spent
her happy childhood, and enjoyed her brief dream of
love. The beautiful past, followed by a long train of
dark shadows, rushed through memory, and there
seemed no relief for her but death.

She entered the boat with a calm countenance, and
began to chant one of those oppressively mournful
songs, which must have been suggested to her people
by the monotonous minor cadences of the rustling

forest. As they approached the Falls of St. Anthony,
and heard more and more plainly the rush of waters,
she gazed on her child with such a wild expression
of vehement love, that the boy was frightened. But
his eye was spell-bound to hers, and he could not escape
its concentrated magnetic power. At length,
his attention was roused by the violent motions of the
boat; and he screamed, “Mother! mother! the canoe
is going over the rapids!”

“We go to the spirit-land together,” she replied:
“he cannot come there to separate us.”

With whirl and splash, the boat plunged down the
cataract. The white foam leaped over it, and it was
seen no more.

The sky soon after darkened, and the big rain fell
in torrents.

The Indians believe that the spirits of the drowned
ones, veiled in a winding-sheet of mist, still hover
over the fatal spot. When they see the vapour rising,
they say, “Let us not hunt to-day; a storm will certainly
come; for Zah-gah-see-ga-quay and her son
are going over the Falls of St. Anthony.”

Felicie was informed of the death of her mother
and brother, and wept for them bitterly, though she
never knew the painful circumstances of their exit.
She married a wealthy Frenchman, and was long
pointed out in society as “La Belle Indienne.”