SONGS OF THE SIOUX

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 149, 14 September 1927, Page 6

SONGS OF THE SIOUX

Shine and shadow bathe the woodland, gleaming gold reverts to gloom; oftimes in the gold of summer, strange, portentous omens loom. Now the moon-god’s face is hidden—now he breaks the veil again . . . thus the spirit of the Sioux weaves its slow, uncertain chain. He has scanned the great bole closely, where the endless names are made, and his eyes have sought for glamour, midst the totems of the shade. Fierce, alas, are many totems, speaking of the chase and war; echoing through the realm of conflict like the canyon’s ceaseless roar . . . These are great; they tell of valour, living in the fierce red strife, greater still when they are weilded for the joyous things of life . . . Oh that man would seek that valour that his brother can upraise; oh that man might change each war-whoop into vibrant songs of praise! Sad the age that slowly hardens gentleness to vengeance dire, turning love that once wa,s y tender, into fierce, consuming fire . . . What then of the many totetns, carved upon the wondrous bole? . . . Swift the Sioux eyes go searching o’er the staunch, name-weighted pole . . . Then a surge his heart upraises; one has made a touching claim: Silver Dove—O peaceful totem, sweet thoughts circle round thy name! Speed ye oft into the Wigwam; fly where eagles preen their wings; peace is greater far than conflict in the scale of earthly things . . . Once again his gaze arrested, still the Sioux old can smile, silver mist of early morning—lie can feel its trance the while; he can see the silver arrows, shooting from the nether gloom . . . Eyes of Moaning, at the Wigwam, for thy totem there is room . . . Must we ban the Eagle totem, and the hosts that speak of war? Must we shun the mighty hunter, following the primal law? . . . Nay, alas, for life, uncertain, still must heed their valiant tread; Earth was born in time of tempest, and the tempest is not dead! Trails untrodden circle round us; trodden trails -grow rank again; age-old impulse, still unvanquished, lingers in the haunts of men . . . Mangle them the many totems; Dove shall dwell with Eagle brave, each imparting; to the other, gifts the Mighty Giver gave . . . Thus the Sioux turns contented, once more to the open trail, knows the mixing of the totems, tells its own and joyous tale; hears the soft, sweet woodland whisper, join with rush of Eagle’s wing . . . Peace is in the cherished Wigwam—at the dawning of the Spring. —SITTING BULB. RED STAR TO SITTING BULL To the Lake of Many Waters yestereve my footsteps strayed, where the winds crooned sweet and softly, where the tiny wavelets played, and the west wind sang a love song in the tall straight forest trees, brought a message from the Sioux, wafted on the evening breeze. “Listen, Night Wind,” murmured Red Star, as it rustled tree and fern. “Tell the Sioux I have heard him, give him greetings in return, that when he comes home from hunting at the close of every day, he may see a red star gleaming still to guide him on his way.” —RED STAR (aged 12).

A CLOUD FANCY PRIZE-WINNING ESSAY “Good-bye,’ cried the little cloud gleefully, as he untied his mother’s apron string. “Come back! Come back!” called the big billowy cloud, but heedlessly the little cloud floated on. How lovely it was to be able to do just as he pleased. Drifting on and on gave him such a pleasant sensation that he closed his eyes and went to sleep. He woke with a jerk. Right in front of him was a huge, rocky mountain. The little cloud began to get colder and colder. ‘ What shall 1 do? What shall I do?” he sobbed. Almost mechanically he began t.c climb higher and higher, as his mother had taught him. Hurrah! the mountain had passed, and he was still alive, although very, very tiny. As night came on the sun began to sink' in the heavens, sending beautiful coloured lights over the surrounding sky. Immediately the little cloud had an insane desire to bathe in the pink glow of the seating sun. Madly lie capered over expanse of blue, ever nearing his goal. Oh. what a dreadful feeling! He had collided with another cloud, and was becoming larger and larger, until he was nearly as big as his mother. Then he rose up into the air again at a tremendous rate, to find himself being pushed along with hundreds of others, all going in the same direction. Far, far below lay the big blue sea. It must be safer down there. In sheer desperation the little cloud let out all his breath, and dropped like a stone. Oh, horrors! he was in another endless stream of clouds, making its way to the place whened he had lately come. In his dismay he dropped so lo>v that he was riding on the mighty billows of the ocean. At that moment a ship came in sight, and, before he knew where he was, the little cloud was huddled against the bow, and being carried away from the warm regions to the cold ones. Soon he was shivering so much that the vessel began to rock, and. in alarm, the captain brought it to a standstill. At daybreak a rainbow appeared in the sky. With a whoop of 303* the little cloud danced high into the air, climbed on to the rainbow, and slid down it. Soon he was going so fast that it was impossible for him to stop. He was almost sure to hit himself on the crock of gold at the rainbow’s foot. How he wished he had never left his mother! He was too young to die, yet if he should hurt himself, the water fairy who looks after cloudland would be bound to change him into rain, as a cloud that could not fly was never allowed to stay in the sky. Oh, joy! There was his mother! She has seen *im. In another minute she had lifted him off the rainbow slide. In haste the little cloud secured himself to the apron string with two reef knots, one tied on top of the other. If you look up into the sky on a clear night you will see the big, billowy mother cloud, and. trailing after her, the little cloud. Perhaps if you look carefully you will see the apron string tied with two reef knots, one on top of the other. —Silver Heel (Dapjme Dymoek, aged 15).