THE MUSIC MAKER

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 611, 13 March 1929, Page 6

THE MUSIC MAKER

The campfire flickered as the wind swept across the river, and the ghostly shadows danced fantastically through the trees. The warrior stirred restlessly and dragged a log to the flames. The embers smouldered dimly for a moment, and then, suddenly, the red and orange flames leaped fiercely from the log and the lire burned brightly again. The warrior was not watching the shadows on the leaves, or the dancing flames. His eyes searched the river meditatively, and he turned sharply at every sound in the trees, every snapping twig or falling leaf. But he was dreaming, in spit© of the alert gleam in his eyes, of days when he had led the bands of warriors and hunting-men to the fight, when he had conquered the boldest of his tribe in combat and received honour for his warlike deeds even from the hostile tribes, across the waters of the great lake. He remembered how, one evening, when the red sun hung low in the west, he had wandered many miles up the river and was resting a moment beneath the pines. A great pain came into his eyes as he remembered the falling of the father of the pines, the death of the greatest tree in the forest, remembered the crashing of the timbers, the thud of weighted boughs on the ground, the sudden danger of hovering death, the slow returning life and, afterwards, the long pain.

Thes>- found him long after, crushed beneath the weight of the greatest bough, groaning a little, and bore him back in their canoes to the camp in the river glen. Now the great battle of life and death was over. Life had won, but death would have come more welcome then to the warrior who had known victory—and defeat. He thought, as he watched the rippling of the water, of the day when he was brought to the lonely wigwam by the river, where his fire was piled and lit for him as an honour from the camp. He remembered with a great pride the honour that the chief had done him, saying: "O boldest of our bold! In battle thou hast earned great praise; in thy dealings with thy people, great love; and in thy duty to thy chief, great trust, which is the greatest of all honour.” This was how he came to be the sentinel of the river; how his name was given him. the proudest name of the tribe—Lone Watch. He held his reed flute to his lips and a soft note of music echoed through the forest, passed whispering among the leaves and rippled on the waters of the river. The winds hushed suddenly and the wild things stopped to listen. Such a sad note, so pure and sweet, too soft for windsong, too sweet even for the birds. The hunting-men, passing between the tall, dark pines, waited a moment to listen, and the crackling of dry twigs ceased with the silencing of the padded footsteps. They raised their arms in greeting to the music-maker by the river, answering the farewell call of Lone Watch. They were bound for the pine-land far up the river, where a strange tribe had camped some little time ago. Their war-canoes were gleaming in the morning sunshine and in each lay a heap of fine skins and furs, strings of bright-col-oured beads, feathers of great beauty and shells of intricate design. For each sought the daughter of the mighty chieftain of the new tribe, a maiden of peerless beauty, with long, rippling hair, deep, dark eyes and a sweet, low voice. And because of their love for her, they named her as the emblem of her father’s tribe and called her Dawn Star. Now, when the maiden heard of the "warriors plan, and how he who proved boldest and bravest in the fight would seek her hand when the battle was done, she was afraid, for she had no love for her father’s enemies. So, when the moon had risen that night and the stars were twinkling in the sky, Lawn Star crept silently from her tepee and sped through the darkness to where her light eanoe was beached by the river. Swiftly she skimmed over the waters of the river for many miles, and the moonboat

swung higher in the sky. After many hours, when the trees were almost gold-tipped with the light of the new dawn, the maiden raised her arms in silent prayer to the lone star shimmering in the sky. Too weary to go on, she guided her canoe to the riverbank and, stepping out into the reeds, wandered through the forest. Suddenly a, sweet melody rose from beyond the trees. “Music will bring thee thy desire,” the voice sang, softly, almost sadly, and, half unconsciously, Lawn Star stumbled toward the place whence the music came. Soon she spied a steady light shining in the darkness of the forest and shivered with the cold as she watched its beckoning warmth. Lone Watch gazed wide-eyed at the lovely figure of Dawn Star, lying for dead beside liis fire. He had seen her canoe as it whirled gidily round the river bend, had watched her stumble through the trees toward his campfire and fall unconscious at his side.

But Lawn Star was not dead. For many days she lay unconscious in the tepee of Lone Watch, who at last won the great victory over death and Lawn Star lived. One morning when Lone Watch had sat beside his fire, one eye ever to the river and one eye ever on the pale face of the maiden in his tepee, who had not yet seen him, Dawn Star opened her eyes. She heard the rushing of the river and the singing of the birds; she heard the sad note of the wind among the river reeds; she heard, too, the low voice of the river-sentinel, his song still soft and sweet, no longer sad — “Music hath brought me my desire.” LITTLE SWIFT CANOE. (Fitzia Morris.}