Many Many Moons/Whirling-Rapids Talks
WHIRLING-RAPIDS TALKS
Boo-zhóo! Inspector Taylor!I, Wah-wee-yáh-tun-ung, Chief Whirling-Rapids,Make this talk, "big talk," for all my peopleTo be readstolidly andmonotonouslywith deep reso-nant tones.Sitting there in the pines.
In eighteen eighty-nineThe Long-Blade, Major Rice,Called council with the Ojibways on Pine Point,And there he made this big and pretty talk:K'tchée-gah-mee Indians, men of the land of the Big-Water,Today we will make a good treaty;Go to the marked-out reservation;Here will come no white men;Here will ye hunt and dance in peace,Free from all the Long-Knives."
Ho! Good talk! Pretty talk!
(Ho! Ugh! Ho! Ho!)
Ugh! Talk now of the Treaty of Pine Point!Comes too much white man on the reservation! My people know the story!It is marked on the slashed pine,And the burned timbers,And the scratched earth.Came the trappers for our beaver;Came the crazy Iron-Roads,And the crazy Fire-Wagons,Blowing Devil's-Noise,Puffing Devil's-Breath—Ugh!Came the loggers with their axes,With their flashing iron axes;And our mighty forests trembledFrom the cursings—from the clashingsOf the irons everywhere—Ugh!Came the rat-eyed little tradersWith their shining silver clocks,Their eésh-kwo-dáy-wah-bóo,Their plenty Fire-Water,Their plenty Devil's-Spit—Ugh!Came many, many Long-Knives,Pretty on the outside,Rotten in the heart;From the many, many townsCame many waves of white men—Big wave, big wave,Wave, wave, wave.And my people wither like the oak-leaves;And hunger stalks about my village; From this pointthe poemshould be readwith a sustainedchant, rising inpitch, increasingin volume andgathering power;And sickness spots my little children;And often in the Moon-of-FreezingThe chantings for the dead are as manyAs the wailings of the starving panthers.Ai-yeee! Pity us!Ai-yeee! Pity us!
Little wave, little wave,Big wave, big wave,Wave, wave, wave,—So comes the white man in the North,Like the waters of the ocean.On the waters of that sea walks the IndianIn his frail and battered Chée-mon,In his dancing birch canoe,And he paddles from the dawn to the twilight.Comes the little rippling water on the bow,Little white fingers rippling on the birch-bark,Rippling white fingers blowing in the breeze.Comes little wave of white men,Little wave, little wave,Many pretty waves.
Comes bigger wave of white men,Bigger wave of white men,Big waves, big waves,Tumbling into the silver shore,Rumbling as they come;Foaming. roaring, leaping billows,Bending like the weeping willows,Rolling up and tumbling over, Rolling,Rolling,Rolling up and rolling under,Growling with a mighty thunder,—Higher, higher, wildly leaping higher—Flashing tongues across the sky,Fire in the crackling clouds, fire!—Wave, wave, wave,Rolling up and tumbling over,Shattering silver sprayOn the Indian in the Chée-mon,Battering iron fists upon his birch-bark,—Crazy laughing crazy-waters,Crazy hands and crazy armsSplashing wildly in the wind,Crashing madly on the tossing birch-bark,Smashing wildly at the wailing 'Cheebway . . .And the Indian walking on the watersFlings his chantings to the Spirits in the sky:
"Hah-eee-ooooo! Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, I sing the chant of death!To be read withwailing andchanting. O pity me! And stop the crasy-waters, Ai-yee! the rolling waves of white men. . . . O pity me! Hah-eee-ooo00! Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó! I am asking with a good heart That———
"Ai-yee! The Spirit cannot hear me; Nothing does he hear Chantingceases. Withdramatic forceslightly re-pressed, andwailing. But the clashing iron axes, The rumblings of the waters, And the cursings in the timber on the shore. . . .
"Ai-yee! He hurls his balls of fire, Fiercely crashing in the timber,— In the timber There is Death!
"O pity me!
"Ai-yee! He lashes at his clouds, At his frightened shivering clouds, With his whips Of cracking wind!
"O pity me!
"Ai-yee! He lunges with his spear, With his double-lightning spear, At the trembling Little Chée-mon!
"O pity me! . . . O pity me! . . ."
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Look! He plunges at the wailing 'Cheebway—Look!—With crazy hands of crazy-waters! . . . Lo! and Death walks with the IndianOn the bottom of the lake,Beneath the crazy-waters,Crashing up and rolling over . . .Crashing up . . . and rolling over . . .Crashing up . . . and rolling over . . .Rolling . . . rolling . . .Rolling over . . . over . . .Rolling . . . rolling . . . rolling . . .
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Now the dripping sun is laughing in the rainbow-sky,On the quivering silver birches on the land;And the laughing little waters with their little white feet,Quietly witha lilt.Run pattering on the shifting yellow sand.But the Devil-Spirit, Much-ie Má-ni-dó,Is walking on the bottom of the lake,In the drifting tangled weeds,In the water shimmering greenWhere the fishes flashAnd shiver in the sun.He is shaking his big belly,He is winking his red eyeAt the Long-Knife who stands chucklingWhere the waters wash the shore,At the buzzard-taloned white manWho stands gazing at the bottom of the waters.
Ugh! Crazy Long-Knife! . . .
Quietly andbrokenly—withsharp changesof emotion.Ugh! Crazy Devil!
Ai-ee! Drifting bodyThat lies tangled in the weeds! . . .
I have said it!
(Ho! How! How! How! Ho!)