University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Ten years had passed away since their marriage, and
Red Deer had never brought another wife to his teepee.
Harpstenah was without a rival in his affections, if we
except the three strong boys who were growing up beside
them.

Chaskè (the oldest son) could hunt for his mother, and it
was well that he could, for his father's strength was gone.
Consumption wasted his limbs, and the once powerful arm
could not now support his drooping head.

The father and mother had followed Cloudy Sky to the
world of spirits; they were both anxious to depart from
earth, for age had made them feeble, and the hardships of
ninety years made them eager to have their strength renewed,
in the country where their ancestors were still in
the vigor of early youth. The band at Lake Calhoun
were going on a hunt for porcupines; a long hunt, and
Harpstenah tried to deter her husband from attempting
the journey; but he thought the animating exercise of the
chase would be a restorative to his feeble frame, and they
set out with the rest.

When the hunters had obtained a large number of those
valued animals, the women struck their teepees and prepared
for their return. Harpstenah's lodge alone remained,
for in it lay the dying man—by his side his patient wife.
The play of the children had ceased—they watched with
silent awe the pale face and bright eye of their father—
they heard him charge their mother to place food that his
soul might be refreshed on its long journey. Not a tear
dimmed her eye as she promised all he asked.

“There is one thing, my wife,” he said, “which still
keeps my spirit on earth. My soul cannot travel the road
to the city of spirits—that long road made by the bravest
of our warriors—while it remembers the body which it has
so long inhabited shall be buried far from its native village.
Your words were wise when you told me I had not strength
to travel so far, and now my body must lie far from my
home—far from the place of my birth—from the village
where I have danced the dog feast, and from the shores of
the `spirit lakes' where my father taught me to use my
bow and arrow.”

“Your body shall lie on the scaffold near your native
village,” his wife replied. “When I turn from this place, I
will take with me my husband; and my young children
shall walk by my side. My heart is as brave now as it
was when I took the life of the medicine man. The love
that gave me courage then, will give me strength now.
Fear not for me; my limbs will not be weary, and when
the Great Spirit calls me, I will hear his voice, and follow
you to the land of spirits, where there will be no more
sickness nor trouble.”

Many stars shone out that night; they assisted in the

solemn and the sacred watch. The mother looked at the
faces of her sleeping sons, and listened to their heavy breathing;
they had but started on the journey of life.

She turned to her husband: it was but the wreck of a
deserted house, the tenant had departed

The warrior was already far on his journey; ere this,
he had reached the lodge where the freed spirit adorns itself
ere entering upon its new abode.

Some days after, Harpstenah entered her native village,
bearing a precious burden. Strapped to her back was the
body of her husband. By day, she had borne it all the
weary way; at night, she had stopped to rest and to weep.
Nor did her strength fail her, until she reached her home;
then, insensible to sorrow and fatigue, she sunk to the earth.

The women relieved her from the burden, and afterwards
helped her to bury her dead.

Many waters could not quench her love, nor could the
floods drown it. It was strong as death.

Well might she sit in her lodge and weep! The village
where she passed her childhood and youth was deserted.
Her husband forgotten by all but herself. Her two sons
were murdered by the Chippeways, while defending their
mother and their young brother.

Well might she weep! and tremble too, for death among
the Dahcotahs comes as often by the fire water purchased
from the white people, as from the murderous tomahawk
and scalping-knife of the Chippeways.

Nor were her fears useless; she never again saw her
son, until his body was brought to her, his dark features
stiff in death. The death blow was given, too, by the

friend who had shamed him from listening to his mother's
voice.

What wonder that she should not heed the noise of the
tempest! The storms of her life had been fiercer than the
warring of the elements. But while the fountains of
heaven were unsealed, those of her heart were closed forever.
Never more should tears relieve her, who had shed
so many. Often had she gone into the prairies to weep,
far from the sight of her companions. Her voice was heard
from a distance. The wind would waft the melancholy
sound back to the village.

“It is only Harpstenah,” said the women. “She has
gone to the prairies to weep for her husband and her children.”

The storm raged during the night, but ceased with the
coming of day. The widowed wife and childless mother
was found dead under the scaffold where lay the body of
her son.

The Thunder Bird was avenged for the death of his
friend. The strength of Red Deer had wasted under a
lingering disease; his children were dead; their mother
lay beside her youngest son.

The spirit of the waters had not appeared in vain.
When the countenance of Unktahe rests upon a Dahcotah,
it is the sure prognostic of coming evil. The fury of the
storm spirits was spent when the soul of Harpstenah followed
her lost ones.

Dimly, as the lengthened shadows of evening fall around
them, are seen the outstretched arms of the suffering Dahcotah

women, as they appeal to us for assistance—and
not to proud man!

He, in the halls of legislation, decides when the lands of
the red man are needed—one party makes a bargain which
the other is forced to accept.

But in a woman's heart God has placed sympathies to
which the sorrows of the Dahcotah women appeal. Listen!
for they tell you they would fain know of a balm for the
many griefs they endure; they would be taught to avoid
the many sins they commit; and, oh! how gladly would
many of them have their young children accustomed to
shudder at the sight of a fellow creature's blood. Like us,
they pour out the best affections of early youth on a beloved
object. Like us, they have clasped their children to
their hearts in devoted love. Like us, too, they have wept
as they laid them in the quiet earth.

But they must fiercely grapple with trials which we have
never conceived. Winter after winter passes, and they
perish from disease, and murder, and famine.

There is a way to relieve them—would you know it?
Assist the missionaries who are giving their lives to them
and God. Send them money, that they may clothe the
feeble infant, and feed its starving mother.

Send them money, that they may supply the wants of
those who are sent to school, and thus encourage others to
attend.

As the day of these forgotten ones is passing away, so
is ours. They were born to suffer, we to relieve. Let
their deathless souls be taught the way of life, that they
and we, after the harsh discords of earth shall have ceased,
may listen together to the “harmonies of Heaven.”