FROM THE OUTER DARKNESS

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 77, 22 June 1927, Page 14

FROM THE OUTER DARKNESS

The following delightful letter lias come to the Wigwam from some anonymous scribe, apparently over the membership age. It is signed merely “Sitting Bull”: Redfeather, salutations. I come to the door of the Wigwam but I enter not. From a distance I salute thee and thy Chiefs and Braves. The darkness is for the night, and light is for the morning and the glowing noon. I heard the joyous cries of youth resounding from the Wigwam and the patter of the light, moeeasined feet and I came out of the shadows to gaze on the Wigwam of Redfeather, where Chiefs and Braves gather and the tribes mingle. The hand of Redfeather is strong. From the wilderness it has . gathered the scattered tribes. Its strength has joined brother to brother, sister to sister, friend to friend. It has caused the nearby Chiefs and Braves to turn inward to the Totem-Pole, and those in the far out wilderness to start up and listen. It is the homing of the tribes. The voice of Redfeather is on the wind, and the wind bloweth over the whole world. But who am I? Listen! Once my feet were swift, my eyes keen and my ears alert. The mighty bison sniffed the prairie air lest Sitting Bull should be upon the trail and take him unawares. Man and beast feared the strength of Sitting Bull, who hunted alone. Nothing evaded his skill. The broken twig in the forest trail was compassed by his sight, the sound of the breaking reed escaped not his sharp hearing. He drove the prow of his birch canoe into the seething rapid where few dared venture. But the trail was long. Sitting Bull’s fellows have passed to the Happy Hunting Ground, leaving a lonely Chief to follow the trail alone. The morning mist hangs in the valley, the bison has fled to the prairie’s distant rim. The chase is almost ended. But lo—a cry! It seemed to rise from the circling mist in the deep valley. I followed it—up and up until at last I stood before the Wigwam. I saw Redfeather calling together the broken tribes. Sitting Bull’s blood ran warm. The Chiefs and Braves came and went. There was magic somewhere. ... Farewell . . . Sitting Bull must go—back to follow the lonely trail and wonder at the beauty of the new Wigwam. Perchance he will come again ere the bow and quiver are laid aside. Who can tell? For none knoweth where the long trail leadeth. Joy be in the Wigwam . . . Farewell, children of Redfeather. This is the word of the Sioux, SITTING BULL.