Slow Smoke/Spotted-Face, the Tribal Fool, Prays
SPOTTED-FACE, THE TRIBAL FOOL, PRAYS
O Mystery, take my feast of maple-sugarSet on this medicine-earth for you to eat—And let your heart grow good to me with presents.
Give me the legs and sinews of the moose,For trailing otters steadily from sleepTo sleep; the cunning of the timber-wolf,That I may kill prime fishers, minks, and martens;And put upon the pan of my trap the pawsOf silver foxes, and let its ragged teethHold to the bone with the never-ending clutchOf quicksand—ho! many foxes—eleven, twelve!
All this I ask, that I may pack much furTo the village—pelts to the muzzle of my gun,Pelts that will put white eyes in the heads of allThe pretty-colored women, bold round eyesThat burn my spotted face with naked asking. Put in my hands your devil-magic herbs:A medicine to kill Blue-Whooping-Crane,Whose pretty talk, like tongue of rattlesnake,Tickled my woman until she bared her breastTo it and took his poison in her blood;A medicine to wither and rot the legs.Of Pierre La Plante, who took her to his lodge,And ran with her to parish Trois Pistoles.
Give me an herb to lock the jaws of womenTight as a rusty trap, to freeze the lipsOf the dry old women of my tribe who speakMy name with mouths that flow with dirty laughter.
Fix me a woman, a woman who will holdHerself for me alone, as the trumpeter-swanThat waits through lonely silver nights for wingsThat whistle down the wind like an old song.
Ho! Mighty-Spirit, let your heart grow goodTo me with presents; so much I ask—no more.