Page:Many Many Moons.djvu/86

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.

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,