While we know our northern friends may not feel it, in the South, Spring is
here. So we thought we'd share a few of our gardening sites appropriate
for this time of the year. Along with gardening, there's grilling, and getting
ready to diet so that you can fit back into that bathing suit this summer!
The dance
to the Giant is now rarely celebrated among
the Dahcotahs. So severe is the sacrifice to
this deity, that there are few who have courage to attempt it;
and yet Haokah is universally reverenced and feared among the
Sioux.
They believe in the existence of many Giants, but Haokah is
one of the principal. He is styled the anti-natural god. In
summer he feels cold, in winter he suffers from the heat; hot
water is cold to him, and the contrary.
The Dahcotah warrior, however brave he may be, believes
that when he dreams of Haokah, calamity is impending and can
only be avoided by some sort of sacrifice to this god.
The incident on which this story is founded, occurred while
I resided among the Sioux. I allude to the desertion of
Wenona
by her lover. It serves to show the blind and ignorant devotion
of the Dahcotah to his religion.
And as man is ever alike in every country, and under every
circumstance of life as he often from selfish motives tramples
upon the heart that trusts him so does woman utterly condemn a
sister, feeling no sympathy for her sorrow, but only hatred of
her fault.
Jealous for the honor of the long-reverenced feasts of the
Dahcotahs the "Deer Killer" thought not for a moment of the
sorrow and disgrace he would bring upon Wenona, while Wauska
loved the warrior more than ever, triumphing in his preference
of her, above her companion. And Wenona
A cloud came o'er the prospect of her life,
And evening did set in
Early, and dark and deadly.
But she loved too truly to be jealous, and departed without
the revenge that most Indian women would have sought, and
accomplished too. Her silence on the subject of her early trial
induced her friends to believe that her mind was affected, a
situation caused by long and intense suffering, and followed by
neglect; in such cases the invalid is said to have no heart .
The girl from whom I have attempted to draw the character
of Wauska, I knew well.
Good looking, with teeth like pearls, her laugh was perfect
music. Often have I been roused from my sewing or reading, by
hearing the ringing notes, as they were answered by the
children. She generally announced herself by a laugh, and was
welcomed by one in return.
She was pettish withal, and easily offended, and if refused
calico for an okendokenda, or beads, or ribbon to ornament some
part of her dress, she would sullenly rest her chin on her hand,
until pacified with a present, or the promise of one.
It is in Indian life as in ours youth believes and trusts,
and advancing years bring the consciousness of the trials of
life; the necessity of enduring, and in some cases the power to
overcome them. Who but she who suffers it, can conceive the
Sioux woman's greatest trial to feel that the love that is her
right, is gone! to see another take the place by the household
fire, that was hers; to be last where she was first.
It may require some apology that Wauska should have vowed
destruction upon herself if the Deer Killer took another wife,
and yet should have lived on and become that most unromantic of
all characters a virago. She was reconciled in time to what was
inevitable, and as there are many wives among the Sioux, there
must be the proportion of scolding ones. So I plead guilty to
the charge of wanting sentiment, choosing rather to be true to
nature. And there is this consideration: if there be among the
Dahcotahs some Catharines, there are many Petruchios.
A group of Indian girls were seated on the grass, Wauska in
the centre, her merry musical laugh echoed back by all but
Wenona. The leaves of the large forest tree under which they
were sheltered seemed to vibrate to the joyous sounds, stirred
as they were by a light breeze that blew from the St. Peter's.
Hark! they laugh again, and "old John" wakes up from his
noon-day nap and turns a curious, reproving look to the noisy
party, and Shah-co-pee, the orator of the Sioux, moves towards
them, anxious to find out the cause of their mirth.
"Old John," after a hearty stretch, joins them too, and
now the fumes of the pipe ascend, and mix with the odor of the
sweet-scented prairie grass that the young girls are braiding.
But neither Shah-co-pee the chief, nor old John the
medicine man, could find out the secret; they coaxed and
threatened in turns but all in vain, for their curiosity was not
gratified. They might have noticed, however, that Wenona's face
was pale, and her eyes red with weeping. She was idle too, while
the others plaited busily, and there was a subdued look of
sadness about her countenance, contrasting strangely with the
merry faces of the others.
"Why did you not tell Shah-co-pee what we were laughing at,
Wenona?" said Wanska. "Your secret is known now. The Deer-killer
told all at the Virgin's feast. Why did you not make him promise
not to come? If I had been you, I would have lain sick the day
of the feast, I would have struck my foot, so that I could not
walk, or, I would have died before I entered the ring.
"The Deer-killer promised to marry me," replied Wenona. "He
said that when he returned from his hunt I should be his wife.
But I know well why he has disgraced me; you have tried to make
him love you, and now he is waiting to take you to his lodge. He
is not a great warrior, or he would have kept his word."
"Wenona!" said Wanska, interrupting her, "you have not
minded the advice of your grandmother. She told you never to
trust the promises of the bravest warriors. You should not have
believed his words, until he took you to his wigwam. But do not
be afraid that I will marry the
Deer-killer. There was never but one woman among the Dahcotahs
who did not marry, and I am going to be the second."
"You had better hush, Wanska," said the Bright Star. "You
know she had her nose cut off because she refused to be a wife,
and somebody may cut yours off too. It is better to be the
mother of warriors than to have every one laughing at you."
"Enah! then I will be married, rather than have my nose cut
off, but I will not be the Deer-killer's wife. So Wenona may
stop crying."
"He says he will never marry me," said Wenona; "and it will
do me no good for you to refuse to be his wife. But you are a
liar, like him; for you know you love him. I am going far away,
and the man who has broken his faith to the maiden who trusted
him, will never be a good husband."
"If I were Wenona, and you married the Deer-killer," said
the Bright Star to Wanska, "you should not live long after it.
She is a coward or she would not let you laugh at her as you
did. I believe she has no heart since the Virgin's feast;
sometimes she laughs so loud that we can hear her from our
teepee, and then she bends her head and weeps. When her mother
places food before her she says, 'Will he bring the meat of the
young deer for me to dress for him, and will my lodge be ever
full of food, that I may offer it to the hungry and weary
stranger who stops to rest himself?' If I were in her place,
Wanska," added the Bright Star, "I would try and be a medicine
woman, and I would throw a spell upon the Deer-killer, and upon
you too, if you married him."
"The Deer-killer is coming," said another of the girls. "He
has been watching us; and now that he sees Wenona has gone away,
he is coming to talk to Wanska. He wears many eagle feathers:
Wenona may well weep that she cannot be his wife, for there is
not a warrior in the village who steps so proudly as he."
But he advanced and passed them indifferently. By and by
they separated, when he followed Wanska to her father's teepee.
Her mother and father had gone to dispose of game in
exchange for bread and flour, and the Deer-killer seated himself
uninvited on the floor of the lodge.
"The teepee of the warrior is lonely when he returns from
hunting," said he to the maiden. "Wanska must come to the lodge
of the Deer-killer. She shall ever have the tender flesh of the
deer and buffalo to refresh her, and no other wife shall be
there to make her unhappy."
"Wanska is very happy now," she replied. "Her father is a
good hunter. He has gone to-day to carry ducks and pigeons to
the Fort. The promises of the Deer-killer are like the branch
that breaks in my hand. Wenona's face is pale, and her eyes are
red like blood from weeping. The Deer-killer promised to make
her his wife, and now that he has broken his word to her, he
tells Wanska that he will never take another wife, but she
cannot trust him."
"Wanska was well named the Merry Heart," the warrior
replied; "she laughs at Wenona and calls her a fool, and then
she wishes me to marry
her. Who would listen to a woman's words? And yet the voice of
the Merry Heart is sweeter than a bird's her laugh makes my
spirit glad. When she sits in my lodge and sings to the children
who will call me father, I shall be happy. Many women have loved
the Deer-killer, but never has he cared to sit beside one, till
he heard the voice of Wanska as she sang in the scalp-dance, and
saw her bear the scalp of her enemy upon her shoulders."
Wanska's face was pale while she listened to him. She
approached him, and laid her small hand upon his arm "I have
heard your words, and my heart says they are good. I have loved
you ever since we were children. When I was told that you were
always by the side of Wenona, the laugh of my companions was
hateful to me the light of the sun was darkness to my eyes. When
Wenona returned to her village with her parents, I said in the
presence of the Great Spirit that she should not live after you
had made her your wife. But her looks told me that there was
sadness in her heart, and then I knew you could not love her.
"You promise me you will never bring another wife to your
wigwam. Deer-killer! the wife of the white man is happy, for her
husband loves her alone. The children of the second wife do not
mock the woman who is no longer beloved, nor strike her children
before her eyes. When I am your wife I shall be happy while you
love me; there will be no night in my teepee while I know your
heart is faithful and true; but should you break your word to
me, and bring to your lodge another wife, you shall see me no
more, and the voice whose sound is music to your ears you will
never hear again."
Promises come as readily to the lips of an Indian lover as
trustfulness does to the heart of the woman who listens to them;
and the Deer-killer was believed.
Wanska had been often at the Fort, and she had seen the
difference between the life of a white and that of an Indian
woman. She had thought that the Great Spirit was unmindful of
the cares of his children.
And who would have thought that care was known to Wanska,
with her merry laugh, and her never-ceasing jokes, whether
played upon her young
companions, or on the old medicine man who kept everybody but
her in
awe of him.
She seemed to be everywhere too, at the same time. Her
canoe dances lightly over the St. Peter's, and her companions
try in vain to keep up with her. Soon her clear voice is heard
as she sings, keeping time with the strokes of the axe she uses
so skillfully. A peal of laughter rouses the old woman, her
mother, who goes to bring the truant home, but she is gone, and
when she returns, in time to see the red sun fade away in the
bright horizon, she tells her mother that she went out with two
or three other girls, to assist the hunters in bringing in the
deer they had killed. And her mother for once does not scold,
for she remembers how she used to love to wander on the
prairies, when her heart was as light and happy as her child's.
When Wanska was told that the Deer-killer loved Wenona, no
one heard her sighs, and for tears, she was too proud to shed
any. Wenona's fault had met with ridicule and contempt; there
was neither sympathy nor excuse found for her. And now that the
Deer-killer had slighted Wenona, and had promised to love her
alone, there was nothing wanting to her happiness.
Bright tears of joy fell from her eyes when her lover said
there was a spell over him when he loved Wenona, but now his
spirit was free; that he would ever love her truly, and that
when her parents returned he would bring rich presents and lay
them at the door of the lodge.
Wanska was indeed "the Merry Heart," for she loved the
Deer-killer more than life itself, and life was to her a long
perspective of brightness. She would lightly tread the journey
of existence by his side, and when wearied with the joys of this
world, they would together travel the road that leads to the
Heaven of the Dahcotahs.
She sat dreaming of the future after the Deer-killer had
left her, nor knew of her parents' return until she heard her
mother's sharp voice as she asked her "if the corn would boil
when the fire was out, and where was the bread that she was told
to have ready on their return?"
Bread and corn! when Wanska had forgot all but that she was
beloved. She arose quickly, and her light laugh drowned her
mother's scolding. Soon her good humor was infectious, for her
mother told her that she had needles and thread in plenty,
besides more flour and sugar, and that her father was going out
early in the morning to kill more game for the Long Knives who
loved it so well.
A few months ago, the Deer-killer had told Wenona that
Wanska was noisy and tiresome, and that her soft dark eyes were
far more beautiful than Wanska's laughing ones. They were not at
home then, for Wenona had accompanied her parents on a visit to
some relations who lived far above the village of Shah-co-pee.
While there the Deer-killer came in with some warriors who
had been on a war party; there Wenona was assured that her
rival, the Merry Heart, was forgotten.
And well might the Deer-killer and Wenona have loved each
other. "Youth turns to youth as the flower to the sun," and he
was brave and noble in his pride and power; and she, gentle and
loving, though an Indian woman; so quiet too, and all unlike
Wanska, who was the noisiest little gossip in the village.
Often had they wandered together through the "solemn
temples of the earth," nor did she ever fear, with the warrior
child for a protector. She had followed him when he ascended the
cliffs where the tracks of the eagle were seen; and with him she
felt safe when the wind was tossing their canoe on the
Mississippi, when the storm spirits had arisen in their power.
They were still children when Wenona would know his step among
many others, but they were no longer children when Wenona left
Shah-co-pee's village, for she loved with a woman's devotion and
more than loved. She had trembled when she saw the Deer-killer
watch Wanska as she tripped merrily about the village. Sleeping
or waking, his image was ever before her; he was the idol to
which her spirit bowed, the sun of her little world.
The dance to the giant was to be celebrated at the village
where they were visiting; the father of Wenona and "Old John"
the medicine man, were to join in it. The maiden had been
nothing loath to undertake the journey, for the Deer-killer had
gone on a war party against the Chippeways, and she thought that
in the course of their journey they might meet him and when away
from Wanska, he would return to her side. He could not despise
the love she had given him. Hope, that bright star of youth,
hovered over her, and its light was reflected on her heart.
When they arrived at the village of the chief Markeda, or
"Burning Earth," the haughty brow of the chief was subdued with
care. He had dreamed of Haokah the giant, and he knew there was
sorrow or danger threatening him. He had sinned against the
giant, and what might be the consequence of offending him? Was
his powerful arm to be laid low, and the strong pulse to cease
its beatings? Did his dream portend the loss of his young wife?
She was almost as dear to him as the fleet hunter that bore him
to the chase.
It might be that the angry god would send their enemies
among them, and his tall sons would gladden his sight no more.
Sickness and hunger, phantom-like, haunted his waking and
sleeping hours.
There was one hope; he might yet ward off the danger, for
the uplifted arm of the god had not fallen. He hoped to appease
the anger of the giant by dancing in his honor.
"We have traveled far," said old John the medicine man, to
Markeda, "and are tired. When we have slept we will dance with
you, for we are of the giant's party."
"Great is Haokah, the giant of the Dahcotahs," the chief
replied; "it is a long time since we have danced to him."
"I had been hunting with my warriors, we chased the
buffalo, and our arrows pierced their sides; they turned upon
us, bellowing, their heads beating the ground; their terrible
eyes glared upon us even in death; they rolled in the dust, for
their strength was gone. We brought them to the village for our
women to prepare for us when we should need them. I had eaten
and was refreshed; and, tired as my limbs were, I could not
sleep at first, but at last the fire grew dim before my eyes,
and I slept.
"I stood on the prairie alone, in my dream, and the giant
appeared before me. So tall was he that the clouds seemed to
float about his head. I trembled at the sound of his voice, it
was as if the angry winds were loosed upon the earth.
"'The warriors of the Dahcotahs are turned women,' said he;
'that they no longer dance in honor of the giant, nor sing his
songs. Markeda is not a coward, but let him tremble; he is not a
child, but he may shed tears if the anger of the giant comes
upon him.'
"Glad was I when I woke from my dream and now, lest I am
punished for my sins, I will make a sacrifice to the giant.
Should I not fear him who is so powerful? Can he not take the
thunder in his hand and cast it to the earth?
"The heart of the warrior should be brave when he dances to
the giant. My wigwam is ready, and the friends of the giant are
ready also."
"Give me your moccasins," said the young wife of Markeda to
old John; "they are torn, and I will mend them. You have come
from afar, and are welcome. Sleep, and when you awake, you will
find them beside you." As she assisted him to take them off, the
medicine man looked admiringly into her face. "The young wife of
Markeda is as beautiful as the white flowers that spring up on
the prairies. Her husband would mourn for her if the giant
should close her eyes. They are bright now, as the stars, but
death would dim them, should not the anger of the giant be
appeased."
The "Bounding Fawn" turned pale at the mention of the angry
giant; she sat down, without replying, to her work; wondering
the while, if the soul of her early love thought of her, now
that it wandered in the Spirit's land. It might be that he would
love her again when they should meet there. The sound of her
child's voice, awakening out of sleep, aroused her, and called
to her mind who was its father.
"They tore me away from my lover, and made me come to the
teepee of the chief," was her bitter reflection. "Enah! that I
cannot love the father of my child."
She rose and left the teepee. "Where is the heaven of the
Dahcotahs," she murmured, as she looked up to the silent stars.
"It may be that I shall see him again. He will love my child
too, and I will forget the many tears I have shed."
The dance to the Giant is always performed inside the
wigwam. Early in the morning the dancers were assembled in the
chief's lodge. Their dress was such as is appointed for the
occasion. Their hats were made of the bark of trees, such as
tradition says the Giant wears. They were large, and made forked
like the lightning. Their leggings were made of skins. Their
ear-rings were of the bark of trees, and were about one foot
long.
The chief rose ere the dawn of day, and stood before the
fire. As the flames flickered, and the shadows of the dancers
played fantastically about the wigwam, they looked more like
Lucifer and a party of attendant spirits, than like human beings
worshipping their God.
Markeda stood by the fire without noticing his guests, who
awaited his motions in silence. At last, moving slowly, he
placed a kettle of water on the fire, and then threw into it a
large piece of buffalo meat.
Lighting his pipe, he seated himself, and then the dancers
advanced to the fire and lit theirs; and soon they were
enveloped in a cloud of smoke.
When the water began to boil, the Indians arose, and,
dancing round the fire, imitated the voice of the Giant.
"Hah-hah! hah hah!" they sung, and each endeavored to drown
the voice of the other. Now they crouch as they dance, looking
diminutive and contemptible, as those who are degrading
themselves in their most sacred duties. Then they rise up, and
show their full height. Stalwart warriors as they are, their
keen eyes flash as they glance from the fire to each others'
faces, distorted with the effort of uttering such discordant
sounds. Now their broad chests heave with the exertion, and
their breath comes quickly.
They seat themselves, to rest and smoke. Again the hellish
sounds are heard, and the wife of the chief trembles for fear of
the Giant, and her child clings closer to her breast. The water
boils, and, hissing, falls over into the fire, the flames are
darkened for a moment, and then burst up brighter than before.
Markeda addresses the dancers "Warriors! the Giant is
powerful the water which boils before us will be cold when
touched by a friend of the Giant. Haokah will not that his
friends should suffer when offering him a sacrifice."
The warriors then advanced together, and each one puts his
hand into the kettle and takes the meat from the boiling water;
and although suffering from the scalds produced, yet their
calmness in enduring the pain, would induce the belief that the
water really felt to them cool and pleasant.
The meat is then taken out, and put into a wooden dish, and
the water left boiling on the fire. The dancers eat the meat
while hot, and again they arrange themselves to dance. And now,
the mighty power of the Giant is shown, for Markeda advances to
the kettle, and taking some water out of it he throws it upon
his bare back, singing all the while, "The water is cold."
"Old John" advances and does the same, followed by the next
in turn, until the water is exhausted from the kettle, and then
the warriors exclaim, "How great is the power of Haokah! we have
thrown boiling water upon ourselves and we have not been
scalded."
The dance is over the sacrifice is made. Markeda seeks his
young wife and fears not. He had fancied that her cheeks were
pale of late, but now they are flushed brilliantly, his heart is
at rest.
The warriors disperse, all but the medicine man, and the
chief's store of buffalo meat diminishes rapidly under the magic
touch of the epicure.
Yes! an epicure thou wert old John! for I mind me well when
thou camest at dinner time, and how thou saidst thou couldst eat
the food of the Indian when thou wert hungry, but the food of
the white man was better far. And thou! a Dahcotah warrior, a
famous hunter, and a medicine man. Shame! that thou shouldst
have loved venison dressed with wine more than when the tender
meat was cooked according to the taste of the women of thy
nation. I have forgotten thy Indian name, renegade as thou wert!
But thou answerest as well to "old John!"
Thou art now forgotten clay, though strong and vigorous
when in wisdom the Sioux were punished for a fault they did not
commit. Their money was not paid them their provisions were
withheld. Many were laid low, and thou hast found before now
that God is the Great Spirit, and the Giant Haokah is not.
And it may be that thou wouldst fain have those thou hast
left on earth know of His power, who is above all spirits, and
of His goodness who would have all come unto Him.
Wenona had not hoped in vain, for her lover was with her,
and Wanska seemed to be forgotten. The warrior's flute would
draw her out from her uncle's lodge while the moon rose o'er the
cold waters. Wrapped in her blanket, she would hasten to meet
him, and listen to his assurances of affection, wondering the
while that she had ever feared he loved another.
She had been some months at the village of Markeda, and she
went to meet her lover with a heavy heart. Her mother had
noticed that her looks were sad and heavy, and Wenona knew that
it would not be long ere she should be a happy wife, or a mark
for the bitter scorn of her companions.
The Deer-killer had promised, day after day, that he would
make her his wife, but he ever found a ready excuse; and now he
was going on a long hunt, and she and her parents were to return
to their village. His quiver was full of arrows, and his
leggings were tightly girded upon him. Wenona's full heart was
nigh bursting as she heard that the party were to leave
to-morrow. Should he desert her, her parents would kill her for
disgracing them; and her rival, Wanska, how would she triumph
over her fall?
"You say that you love me," said she to the Deer-killer,
"and yet you treat me cruelly. Why should you leave me without
saying that I am your wife? Who would watch for your coming as I
would? and you will disgrace me when I have loved you so truly.
Stay tell them you have made me your wife, and then will I wait
for you at the door of my teepee."
The warrior could not stay from the chase, but he promised
her that he would soon return to their village, and then she
should be his wife.
Wenona wept when he left her; shadows had fallen upon her
heart, and yet she hoped on. Turning her weary steps homeward,
she arrived there when the maidens of the village were preparing
to celebrate the Virgin's Feast.
There was no time to deliberate should she absent herself,
she would be suspected, and yet a little while ere the
Deer-killer would return, and her anxious heart would be at
rest.
The feast was prepared, and the crier called for all
virgins to enter the sacred ring.
Wenona went forward with a beating heart; she was not a
wife, and soon must be a mother. Wanska, the Merry Heart, was
there, and many others who wondered at the pale looks of Wenona
she who had been on a journey, and who ought to have returned
with color bright as the dying sun, whose light illumined earth,
sky and water.
As they entered the ring a party of warriors approached the
circle. Wenona does not look towards them, and yet the
throbbings of her heart were not to be endured. Her trembling
limbs refused to sustain her, as the Deer-killer, stalking
towards the ring, calls aloud "Take her from the sacred feast;
should she eat with the maidens? she, under whose bosom lies a
warrior's child? She is unworthy."
And as the unhappy girl, with features of stone and glaring
eyes, gazed upon him bewildered, he rudely led her from the
ring.
Wenona bowed her head and went even as night came on when
the sun went down. Nor did the heart of the Deer-killer reproach
him, for how dare she offend the Great Spirit! Were not the
customs of his race holy and sacred?
Little to Wenona were her father's reproaches, or her
mother's curse; that she was no more beloved was all she
remembered.
Again was the Deer-killer by the side of Wanska, and she
paid the penalty. Her husband brought other wives to his wigwam,
though Wanska was ever the favorite one.
With her own hand would she put the others out of the
wigwam, laughing when they threatened to tell their lord when he
returned, for Wanska managed to tell her own story first; and,
termagant as she was, she always had her own way.
Wenona has ceased to weep, and far away in the country of
the Sissetons she toils and watches as all Indian women toil and
watch. Her young son follows her as she seeks the suffering
Dahcotah, and charms the disease to leave his feeble frame.
She tells to the child and the aged woman her dreams; she
warns the warrior what he shall meet with when he goes to
battle; and ever, as the young girls assemble to pass away the
idle hours, she stops and whispers to them.
In vain do they ask of her husband: she only points to her
son and says, "My hair, which is now like snow, was once black
and braided like his, and my eyes as bright. They have wept
until tears come no more. Listen not to the warrior who says he
loves." And she passes from their sight as the morning mists.
The books presented are for
their historical value only and are not the
opinions of the Webmasters of the site.
Dahcotah, Or Life and Legends of the
Sioux around Ft. Snelling
