64
CHIPPEWA MONOLOGUES
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,
