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 people
To be read
stolidly and
monotonously
with deep reso-
nant tones.
Sitting there in the pines.
I, Wah-wee-yáh-tun-ung, Chief Whirling-Rapids,
Make this talk, "big talk," for all my people
To be read
stolidly and
monotonously
with deep reso-
nant tones.
Sitting there in the pines.
In eighteen eighty-nine
The 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."
The 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!
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 trembled
From the cursings—from the clashings
Of the irons everywhere—
Ugh!
Came the rat-eyed little traders
With 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 towns
Came 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 point
the poem
should be read
with a sustained
chant, rising in
pitch, increasing
in volume and
gathering power;
And sickness spots my little children;
And often in the Moon-of-Freezing
The chantings for the dead are as many
As the wailings of the starving panthers.
Ai-yeee! Pity us!
Ai-yeee! Pity us!
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 trembled
From the cursings—from the clashings
Of the irons everywhere—
Ugh!
Came the rat-eyed little traders
With 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 towns
Came 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 point
the poem
should be read
with a sustained
chant, rising in
pitch, increasing
in volume and
gathering power;
And sickness spots my little children;
And often in the Moon-of-Freezing
The chantings for the dead are as many
As 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 Indian
In 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.
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 Indian
In 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 spray
On the Indian in the Chée-mon,
Battering iron fists upon his birch-bark,—
Crazy laughing crazy-waters,
Crazy hands and crazy arms
Splashing wildly in the wind,
Crashing madly on the tossing birch-bark,
Smashing wildly at the wailing 'Cheebway . . .
And the Indian walking on the waters
Flings his chantings to the Spirits in the sky:
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 spray
On the Indian in the Chée-mon,
Battering iron fists upon his birch-bark,—
Crazy laughing crazy-waters,
Crazy hands and crazy arms
Splashing wildly in the wind,
Crashing madly on the tossing birch-bark,
Smashing wildly at the wailing 'Cheebway . . .
And the Indian walking on the waters
Flings 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 with
wailing and
chanting.
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———
I sing the chant of death!
To be read with
wailing and
chanting.
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
Chanting
ceases. With
dramatic force
slightly re-
pressed, and
wailing.
But the clashing iron axes,
The rumblings of the waters,
And the cursings in the timber on the shore. . . .
Nothing does he hear
Chanting
ceases. With
dramatic force
slightly re-
pressed, and
wailing.
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!
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!
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!
With his double-lightning spear,
At the trembling
Little Chée-mon!
"O pity me! . . .
O pity me! . . ."
O pity me! . . ."
·····
Look! He plunges at the wailing 'Cheebway—
Look!—With crazy hands of crazy-waters! . . .
Lo! and Death walks with the Indian
On 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 . . .
Look!—With crazy hands of crazy-waters! . . .
Lo! and Death walks with the Indian
On 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 . . .
·····
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 with
a 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 green
Where the fishes flash
And shiver in the sun.
He is shaking his big belly,
He is winking his red eye
At the Long-Knife who stands chuckling
Where the waters wash the shore,
At the buzzard-taloned white man
Who stands gazing at the bottom of the waters.
On the quivering silver birches on the land;
And the laughing little waters with their little white feet,
Quietly with
a 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 green
Where the fishes flash
And shiver in the sun.
He is shaking his big belly,
He is winking his red eye
At the Long-Knife who stands chuckling
Where the waters wash the shore,
At the buzzard-taloned white man
Who stands gazing at the bottom of the waters.
Ugh! Crazy Long-Knife! . . .
Quietly and
brokenly—with
sharp changes
of emotion.
Ugh! Crazy Devil!
brokenly—with
sharp changes
of emotion.
Ugh! Crazy Devil!
Ai-ee! Drifting body
That lies tangled in the weeds! . . .
That lies tangled in the weeds! . . .
I have said it!
(Ho!
How! How! How!
Ho!)
How! How! How!
Ho!)