r of streams,
But sweeter the voice that I heard--
In the night--in the midst of my dreams.

[BD] The Apostle Islands.

[BE] At the Sault Ste. Marie.

WINONA AND TA-TE-PSIN.

'Tis the moon of the sere, falling leaves.
From the heads of the maples the west-wind
Plucks the red-and-gold plumage and grieves
on the meads for the rose and the lily;
Their brown leaves the moaning oaks strew,
and the breezes that roam on the prairies,
Low-whistling and wanton pursue
the down of the silk-weed and thistle.
All sere are the prairies and brown
in the glimmer and haze of the Autumn;
From the far northern marshes flock down,
by thousands, the geese and the mallards.
From the meadows and wide-prairied plains,
for their long southward journey preparing.
In croaking flocks gather the cranes,
and choose with loud clamor their leaders.
The breath of the evening is cold,
and lurid along the horizon
The flames of the prairies are rolled,
on the somber skies flashing their torches.
At noontide a shimmer of gold
through the haze pours the sun from his pathway.
The wild-rice is gathered and ripe,
von the moors, lie the scarlet _po-pan-ka_,[BF]
_Michabo_[85] is smoking his pipe,--
'tis the soft, dreamy Indian Summer,
When the god of the South[3] as he flies
from _Waziya_, the god of the Winter,
For a time turns his beautiful eyes,
and backward looks over his shoulder.

[BF] Cranberries.

It is noon. From his path in the skies
the red sun looks down on _Kathaga_.
Asleep in the valley it lies,
for the swift hunters follow the bison.
Ta-te-psin, the aged brave, bends
as he walks by the side of Winona;
Her arm to his left hand she lends,
and he feels with his staff for the pathway;
On his slow, feeble footsteps attends
his gray dog, the watchful Wichaka; [a]
For blind in his years is the chief
of a fever that followed the Summer,
And the days of Ta-te-psin are brief.
Once more by the dark-rolling river
Sits the Chief in the warm, dreamy haze
of the beautiful Summer in Autumn;
And the faithful dog lovingly lays his head
at the feet of his master.
On a dead, withered branch sits a crow,
down-peering askance at the old man;
On the marge of the river below
romp the nut-brown and merry-v