BY HARTLEY ALEXANDER
THE poetic spirit of
the American Indian is a thing to be retrieved fragmentarily, partly through
the echoes of old songs, partly through the dim rememberings of ancient
beliefs. The native expression is seldom articulate after the manner of white
men; it is too simply a communion with nature to need formal articulation. But
it falls easily into the cadences of unaffected speech, interpreted but not
misportrayed. The story of the never-ending strife of the Daughter of the
South, Mother of Life, with the Wolf-Chieftain of the North; the naïve faith
that to bathe the bare feet in the morning dews will bring youthful power;
belief in Spirit-Men of the Mirage; old myths of birds or animals who have
wished death into the world, -- of such fragments as these are the inspirations
for what is here given, tradition from the Indian, heritage for ourselves.
THOSE men build many
houses:
They dig the earth, and
they build;
They cut down the
trees, and they build;
They work always --
building.
From the elevation of
the mountainside
I behold the clouds:
The clouds build many
beautiful houses in the sky:
They build, and they
tear down;
They build, and they
dissolve. . . .
The cities of white
men,
They are not beautiful
like the cloud cities;
They are not vast, like
the cloud cities. . . .
A wind-swept teepee
Is all the house I own.
. . .
WHIPPED onwards by the
North Wind
The air is filled with
the dust of driven snow:
The earth is hidden,
The sky is hidden,
All things are hidden,
--
The air is filled with
stinging,
Before, behind, above,
below, --
Who can turn his face
from it? . . .
All the animals drift mourning,
mourning. . . .
Only the Gray Wolf
laughs.
Who are ye who wallow
in the winds?
Who are ye who strike
with stinging blows? . . .
Man-beings out of the
North?
Beast-beings out of the
North?
Snow-beings with
fingers of thin ice? . . .
I am a Daughter of the
South:
My lips are soft, my
breath is warm,
My heart is beating
wildly, --
I cannot live in the
cold. . . .
All my animals drift
mourning, mourning. . . .
Only the gaunt Gray
Wolf is laughing.
To-morrow three suns
will rise, side by side;
All the earth will be
covered with dazzling snow, --
Cold, cold, and very
quiet. . . .
The animals will lie
buried in the snow, --
Cold, and very quiet. .
. .
But the gaunt Gray Wolf
will break a new trail,
Running, with three
shadows blue upon the snow.
IN the spring when I
bathe my feet in the wet grass of morning,
I see many smiles upon
the meadows. . . .
There are drops of
shining dew clinging to the blue harebells,
And the little white
starflowers sparkle with dew, shining. . . .
Old Woman Spider has
beaded many beautiful patterns,
Spreading them where
the Sun’s ray fails. . . .
He also is smiling as
he catches the red of the blackbird’s opening wing,
As he hearkens to the
mocking-bird inventing new songs. . . .
I was an old man as I
sat by the evening fire;
When I bathe my feet in
the wet grass of morning I am young again.
THE footfalls of many
feet are on the prairies,
Treading softly, like
the rustling of shaken grasses;
In the air about me is
a sound scarce audible,
As of the wings of
silent birds, low-flying. . . .
What are they that move
in the luminous mid-day,
Invisibly, intangibly?
. . .
It is hot and
whisperingly still;
I see only the
quivering air, there on the far horizon,
And beyond it a lake of
cool water lifted into the sky:
Pleasant groves are
growing beside it,
Very distant I see
them. . . .
Are these men come out
of the silence to walk beside me?
Are these gods who flit
with invisible wings?
THE circle of the Earth
is the head of a great drum;
With the day, it moves
upward -- booming;
With the night, it
moves downward -- booming;
The day and the night
are its song.
I am very small, as I
dance upon the drum-head;
I am like a particle of
dust, as I dance upon the drum-head;
Above me in the sky is
the shining ball of the drumstick.
I dance upward with the
day;
I dance downward with
the night;
Some day I shall dance
afar into space like a particle of dust.
Who is the Drummer who
beats upon the earth-drum?
Who is the Drummer who
makes me to dance his song?
IN the Day ere Man
came,
In the Morning of Life,
They came together
The Father, the Mother,
Debating.
"Forever they
shall live,
"Our Children,
"When they are
born Men,
"Forever they
shall live,"
Said the Father,
Said the Mother.
But the little Bird
cried,
Ah, the little Bird
cried:
"How shall I nest
me --
"How shall I nest
me
"In their warm
graves
"If men live
forever?"
UPON the blue mountain
I stood,
Upon the mountain as he
sank into the Rivers of Night:
The camps of the clouds
in the heavens were shining with evening fires, many-colored,
And the pools on the
plain below gleamed with many reflections:
All things were made
precious with the Day’s last ray.
Farewell, my Father,
the Shining One!
Farewell, whither thou
goest,
Like an aged chieftain
adorned with the splendors of many deeds!
Thou dost touch the
world with many reflections,
With parting
injunctions many --
Thy thought thou hast
given us.