Give me my bow,
Said the Leaping Deer,
And my arrows sharp,
With their feathered cheer.

Then, the Graceful Fawn
Who sat in the tent
Of the bison's skin,
Felt half sad and faint.

But she handed him
The long strong bow,
And the poisoned arrows,
She handed too.

And the dark papoose,
From his panther-skin
Rolled o'er on the floor,
And laughed with a din.

They called his name,
The Star of the East,
So mellow he was,
And so gay in the feast.

And give me my moccasin,
Said the Leaping Deer,
For I must to the brake,
With my feathered cheer.

Low was the sun,
When the Graceful Fawn
Looked forth from the tent,
From her soft boiled corn.

Bright was the morn,
But the Leaping Deer
Came not to the tent,
And they 'gan to have fear.

She asked of the Wise,
Why the warrior stayed,
And she asked the old squaw,
And the bright-eyed maid.

And the warriors strong,
Now girded them up,
And each took his bow,
And his arrow so sharp.

Twenty and tall,
Were those warriors red,
Painted and plumed,
Was each haughty head.

And they sung a hoarse song,
As they tramped to the wood,
Beyond the last lodge,
To the green solitude.

O where is our brother,
The swift Leaping Deer,
And where has he fled,
With his arrowy cheer?

Has he sunk in the marsh,
Where the dog-wood is wet,
Has he buried himself
In the panther's net?

Has he fallen in fight,
With the Raven our foe?
Let us seek him till night,
Where'er we may go. —

And he lay in the mouth
Of an old panther's den,
Two cubs dead beside him,
A prize for ten men!

He was torn by the claws,
Of the mother so cross,
And jagged and marked,
Like a heart with remorse.

Then the warriors tall,
From the pine made a bed,
And they bore him along,
Thus torn and thus dead.

Till they reached the low lodge
Where the Graceful Fawn sat,
With the Star of the East,
Upon a hard mat.

The warriors haughty,
Tramped silently on,
And there they paused once,
And with slow step have gone.

She heard their shells rattle,
And saw their furs shake,
As they marched slowly by,
And no word ever spake.

She saw on the litter,
The torn Leaping Deer,
And no tear stained her eye,
She came not more near.

But still to her breast,
The Star of the East,
She held closely and firm.
As she had in the feast.

The old squaws they came,
And surrounded the bier.
Where near sat the Fawn,
By the still Leaping Deer.

They spake to her slowly,
No word did she say,
They touched her cold arm,
Where the dark papoose lay:

Cold as the stone,
Where the spring-water falls,
Her tongue was all silent,
And fixed her eyeballs.

Then this song sung the women,
As the sun painted the east,
Our sister is gone,
And our brother has rest.

To the land of the Spirit,
Flown the sweet Graceful Fawn,
There too is the Leaping Deer,
Both in the red morn.

And the boy shall be ours,
And the tribe shall him make,
A terrible hunter,
For the mountain and brake!