THE MESSAGE OF THE WIND

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 101, 20 July 1927, Page 12

THE MESSAGE OF THE WIND

HEARD BY THE SIOUX

Lo! It is dusk. The fire has burned out from the far-flung sky, and in its place an unseen hand has lighted the myriad candles of the night. The river is smooth and wide and hath taken unto its breast the spangled splendour of the great dome. On the distant waters a canoe glides silently along. To the rhythmic paddle beat an Indian maid croons the song of youth that tells of everlasting joy and the power of chiefs and braves in earth’s happy hunting ground. The eyes of the maid are undimmed. To her, time is a changing picture—day a study in blue and gold—night, a silver nocturne ... In the shadows of the low shore where the waters lap the feet of the drooping birch, an ancient warrior stands. Perhaps the music of life has been dimmed for him. He stands also in the glory of the hour when night spreads her filmy wings as if to ease the arm, now tired with straining at the bow. The Warrior is weary. He sees the backward trail, strewn with many things. Night to him is but a cloak to cover the trail’s rugged outline—day—an aid to the blazing of trails as yet untrod. . . The maid sings on. Each paddle-splash drifts astern —a thousand gems torn from the river’s jewelled breast. The warrior smiles. He has seen the silver lace of the rippling waters flee like the dawn mist before the morn’s first cold breath. He has seen the waters turned to ink, and the affrighted sea-eagle flee from their face to the heart of the hills. He has heard the waters of the canyon fret and moan, and cry for freedom, as they raced seaward—ever seaward—between those unrelenting walls of rock! Fierce, fiery tongues he has seen in the skies where no candle was alight, when the rock-eagle cowered on his crag, high up in the clef ted rock—his meagre nest hurled down to the new-born torrents in the valley below. Y’ea, he would build again .... but, hark! the song of the Indian maid grows loud! The swish of the paddle falls plainly on the warrior’s ear. The silver wake of the canoe laps the roots of the birch tree beside him. The song is sweet. It does not falter. Its echo rings in every trail. Lo—it is the voice of Redfeather—chief of the Wigwam, caught up by the spirit of youth, and borne upon the wings of the wind to Sitting Bull! It is the laughter from another Wigwam, floating across the years! It is the ripple of the shining river, endowed with tongues long silent! It is the wind of repentance lifting the leaves from the fallen bough, bidding it take its place again in the mighty forest. Sitting Bull is alert—listening! The purple shadows hide the look upon his face. “Alpha—Omega!” He hears the words, but —“no beginning, no end” — that is what the song seems to say . . . Youth is eternal! It is but the fragments that fall. Walls are made to crumble. Men see the fragments, but build anew the walls of laughter and delight . . . Above the ridge the circling mist at morn holds sway. Then through the night-born shroud there gleams a silver shaft. It is the first arrow of the red sun. It is the messenger which seems to say, “I will disperse the mist and night-born shadows. Take up thy bow. Be strong!” . . . Behold! the eagle on the wind-swept crag unfolds his wings, and gazes—expectant—into the dawnflecked skies . . .The waters of the canyon have reached the broad river and mingle with its peaceful flow ... a bird awakes on a nearby bough and gives way to full-throated song, telling the Sioux that night, with its shadows, has fled. Into the flood of dawn-light the Indian maid and her canoe have passed . . . “The wind bloweth where no feet may follow. What do you hear?” . . . The timbrel of Youth resounding across the threshold of the new day . . . The children of Redfeather singing in unison the Song of Hope . . . The spring zephyr murmuring among the bursting buds . . . The flutter of wings on the swaying bough . . . And the greeting of one who is the mouthpiece of the lost tribes, echoing from the walls of the wonderful Wigwam, whose six stout poles were borrowed from the Friendship Tree. These things hath the Sioux heard.

It is well, o chief! Sitting Bull lays down his bow and quiver. With outstretched arms he takes greeting from the children of Redfeather. Yea, the moccasin of the Sioux is silent, but often in the great night-watch he circles the Wigwam. At dawn he creeps close to the Totem Pole. His heart bounds at the knowledge of some new child of the scattered tribes gathered in from the far-flung trails. Keep bright the Wigwam fire. Let its glow tell the warmth of welcome which awaits the wandering ones, and the ascending blue smoke-wreath be ever a sign of the gathering place.

The wind hath borne home its message. The phantom canoe has passed into the shadows. I know not its beaching place, but from somewhere close to the Wigwam it leaves at dusk Jaden with its freight of joy, and returns at dawn—empty. And the song of the giver of good things is sweet to the watcher in the purple shadows. The beaver halts by the swelling dam. The Bluebird breaks on his purest note. The warrior turns to the wondrous song. Ah! it is the echo of the triple knock. It is the key to the mystic sign. It is the heart of the Wigwam revealed. It is the offering of Redfeather and the chiefs and braves to every lonely follower on the long trail. Happy the brave who hears the magic song and sees the Phantom Canoe! Such may feel the warmth of the Wigwam fire, and sit in the magic circle. Even Sitting Bull will so sit one day. He will laugh at the search of Redfeather. and tell how he laid the false trail by the stream where the beavers build. Sitting Bull has spoken. THE SEA Below the surface the sea is perfectly still, for it is only the wind that makes the waves and gives the water the appearance of constant motion. Sometimes we see waves when there is no faintest suggestion of a breeze, but these have been disturbed by the wind in other regions, and have travelled across the expanse of ocean. During the greatest storm, a few feet below the surface, the water is as calm as a mill-pond.