through the haze pours the sun from his pathway. 
The wild-rice is gathered and ripe,
von the moors, lie the scarlet po-pan-ka,[BF]
Michabo[85] is smoking his pipe,—­
          ’tis the soft, dreamy Indian Summer,
When the god of the South[3] as he flies
          from Waziya, the god of the Winter,
For a time turns his beautiful eyes,
          and backward looks over his shoulder.

[BF] Cranberries.

It is noon.  From his path in the skies
          the red sun looks down on Kathaga. 
Asleep in the valley it lies,
          for the swift hunters follow the bison. 
Ta-te-psin, the aged brave, bends
        as he walks by the side of Winona;
Her arm to his left hand she lends,
        and he feels with his staff for the pathway;
On his slow, feeble footsteps attends
        his gray dog, the watchful Wichaka; [a]
For blind in his years is the chief
        of a fever that followed the Summer,
And the days of Ta-te-psin are brief. 
        Once more by the dark-rolling river
Sits the Chief in the warm, dreamy haze
        of the beautiful Summer in Autumn;
And the faithful dog lovingly lays his head
        at the feet of his master. 
On a dead, withered branch sits a crow,
        down-peering askance at the old man;
On the marge of the river below
        romp the nut-brown and merry-voiced children,
And the dark waters silently flow,
        broad and deep, to the plunge of the Ha-ha.

[a] Wee-chah kah—­literally “Faithful”.

By his side sat Winona. 
        He laid his thin, shriveled hand on her tresses,
“Winona my daughter,” he said,
        “no longer thy father beholds thee;
But he feels the long locks of thy hair,
        and the days that are gone are remembered,
When Sisoka [BG] sat faithful and fair
        in the lodge of swift footed Ta-te-psin. 
The white years have broken my spear;
        from my bow they have taken the bow-string;
But once on the trail of the deer,
        like a gray wolf from sunrise till sunset,
By woodland and meadow and mere,
        ran the feet of Ta-te-psin untiring. 
But dim are the days that are gone,
        and darkly around me they wander,
Like the pale, misty face of the moon
        when she walks through the storm of the winter;
And sadly they speak in my ear. 
        I have looked on the graves of my kindred. 
The Land of the Spirits is near. 
        Death walks by my side like a shadow. 
Now open thine ear to my voice,
        and thy heart to the wish of thy father,
And long will Winona rejoice
        that she heeded the words of Ta-te-psin. 
The cold, cruel winter is near,
        and famine will sit in the teepee. 
What hunter will bring me the deer,
        or the flesh of the bear or the bison?