For my kinsmen before me have gone;
        they hunt in the land of the shadows. 
In my old age forsaken, alone,
        must I die in my teepee of hunger? 
Winona, Tamdoka can make my empty lodge
        laugh with abundance;
For thine aged and blind father’s sake,
        to the son of the Chief speak the promise. 
For gladly again to my tee
        will the bridal gifts come for my daughter. 
A fleet-footed hunter is he,
        and the good spirits feather his arrows;
And the cold, cruel winter
        will be a feast-time instead of a famine.”

[BG] The Robin—­the name of Winona’s Mother.

“My father,” she said, and her voice
          was filial and full of compassion,
“Would the heart of Ta-te-psin rejoice
          at the death of Winona, his daughter? 
The crafty Tamdoka I hate. 
          Must I die in his teepee of sorrow? 
For I love the White Chief and I wait
          his return to the land of Dakotas. 
When the cold winds of winter return,
          and toss the white robes of the prairies,
The fire of the White Chief will burn
          in his lodge at the Meeting-of-Waters. 
Winona’s heart followed his feet
          far away to the land of the Morning,
And she hears in her slumber his sweet,
          kindly voice call the name of thy daughter. 
My father, abide, I entreat,
          the return of the brave to Katahga. 
The wild-rice is gathered, the meat
          of the bison is stored in the teepee;
Till the Coon-Moon[71] enough and to spare;
          and if then the white warrior return not,
Winona will follow the bear and the coon
          to their dens in the forest. 
She is strong; she can handle the spear;
          she can bend the stout bow of the hunter;
And swift on the trail of the deer
          will she run o’er the snow on her snow-shoes. 
Let the step-mother sit in the tee,
          and kindle the fire for my father;
And the cold, cruel winter shall be
          a feast-time instead of a famine.” 
“The White Chief will never return,”
          half angrily muttered Ta-te-psin;
“His camp-fire will nevermore burn
          in the land of the warriors he slaughtered. 
I grieve, for my daughter has said
          that she loves the false friend of her kindred;
For the hands of the White Chief are red
          with the blood of the trustful Dakotas.”

Then warmly Winona replied,
          “Tamdoka himself is the traitor,
And the brave-hearted stranger had died
          by his treacherous hand in the forest,
But thy daughter’s voice bade him beware
          of the sly death that followed his footsteps. 
The words of Tamdoka are fair,
          but his heart is the den of the serpents. 
When the braves told their tale like a bird