WHIRLING-RAPIDS TALKS
65
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
