THE FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR. And answers with her warm caresses, Its soul to her's!-And this is Love- And in Love's name I'll drink my cup, One only-and it will endure ‘O, keep my dear ones good and pure!' And Heaven will hear my prayer! 189 190 THE BIRTH OF THUNDER. THE BIRTH OF THUNDER. A DAHCOTAH LEGEND. BY J. SNELLING. Twenty-eight miles from the Big Stone Lake, near the sources of the St. Peter's River, is a cluster of small lakes, or ponds, lying much below the level of the surrounding prairie, and ornamented with an oak wood. The Dahcotahs call this place THE NEST OF THUNDER, and say that here Thunder was born. As soon as the infant spirit could go alone, he set out to see the world, and at the first step placed his foot upon a hill twenty-five miles distant; a rock on the top of which actually seems to bear the print of a gigantic human foot. The Indians call the hill THUNDER'S TRACKS. The Nest of Thunder is, to this day, visited by the being whose birth it witnessed. He comes clad in a mantle of storms, and lightnings play round his head. 'Look, white man, well on all around, Here Thunder, awful spirit! reigns. Look on those waters far below, So deep beneath the prairie sleeping, The summer sun's meridian glow Scarce warms the sands their waves are heaping; And scarce the bitter blast can blow In winter on their icy cover; The Wind Sprite may not stoop so low, But bows his head and passes over. Perched on the top of yonder pine, The heron's billow-searching eye Can scarce his finny prey descry, THE BIRTH OF THUNDER. Glad leaping where their colors shine. Those lakes, whose shores but now we trod, Are the strong impress of a god, Famed heroes, erst my nation's pride, It is not ever so. Come when the lightning flashes, Break on thine ear-drum thick and fast, 'But now attend, while I unfold The lore my brave forefathers taught.— As yet the storm, the heat, the cold, The changing seasons had not brought. 191 * Sweet-grass is found in the prairies, and has an exceedingly fragrant odor. 192 THE BIRTH OF THUNDER. Famine was not; each tree and grot In mirth did man the hours employ With song and dance and shouts of joy No death shot pealed upon the ear, Save when the wolf to earth was borne; 'Alas! that man will never learn THE BIRTH OF THUNDER. But He who rules the earth and skies, And all the hills in homage bended. He digs his brother's timeless grave: He gives the crimson stain of slaughter. On bloody hands and deeds of guile. 'The moon that night withheld her light. By fits, instead, a lurid glare Illumed the skies; while mortal eyes Were closed, and voices rose in prayer. 193 |