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I ONCE in the winter, | |
| Out on a lake | |
| In the heart of the north-land, | |
| Far from the fort | |
| And far from the hunters, | 5 |
| A Chippewa woman | |
| With her sick baby, | |
| Crouched in the last hours | |
| Of a great storm. | |
| Frozen and hungry | 10 |
| She fished through the ice | |
| With a line of the twisted | |
| Bark of the cedar, | |
| And a rabbit-bone hook | |
| Polished and barbed; | 15 |
| Fished with the bare hook | |
| All through the wild day, | |
| Fished and caught nothing; | |
| While the young chieftain | |
| Tugged at her breasts, | 20 |
| Or slept in the lacings | |
| Of the warm tickanegan. | |
| All the lake surface | |
| Streamed with the hissing | |
| Of millions of ice-flakes, | 25 |
| Hurled by the wind; | |
| Behind her the round | |
| Of a lonely island | |
| Roared like a fire | |
| With the voice of the storm | 30 |
| In the deeps of the cedars. | |
| Valiant, unshaken, | |
| She took of her own flesh, | |
| Baited the fish-hook, | |
| Drew in a grey-trout, | 35 |
| Drew in his fellow, | |
| Heaped them beside her, | |
| Dead in the snow. | |
| Valiant, unshaken, | |
| She faced the long distance, | 40 |
| Wolf-haunted and lonely, | |
| Sure of her goal | |
| And the life of her dear one; | |
| Tramped for two days, | |
| On the third morning, | 45 |
| Saw the strong bulk | |
| Of the Fort by the river, | |
| Saw the wood-smoke | |
| Hang soft in the spruces, | |
| Heard the keen yelp | 50 |
| Of the ravenous huskies | |
| Fighting for whitefish: | |
| Then she had rest. | |
| |
II Years and years after, | |
| When she was old and withered, | 55 |
| When her son was an old man | |
| And his children filled with vigour, | |
| They came in their northern tour on the verge of winter, | |
| To an island in a lonely lake. | |
| There one night they camped, and on the morrow | 60 |
| Gathered their kettles and birch-bark | |
| Their rabbit-skin robes and their mink-traps, | |
| Launched their canoes and slunk away through the islands, | |
| Left her alone for ever. | |
| Without a word of farewell, | 65 |
| Because she was old and useless, | |
| Like a paddle broken and warped, | |
| Or a pole that was splintered. | |
| Then, without a sigh, | |
| Valiant, unshaken, | 70 |
| She smoothed her dark locks under her kerchief, | |
| Composed her shawl in state, | |
| Then folded her hands ridged with sinews and corded with veins, | |
| Folded them across her breasts spent with the nourishing of children, | |
| Gazed at the sky past the tops of the cedars, | 75 |
| Saw two spangled nights arise out of the twilight, | |
| Saw two days go by filled with the tranquil sunshine, | |
| Saw, without pain, or dread, or even a moment of longing: | |
| Then on the third great night there came thronging and thronging | |
| Millions of snowflakes out of a windless cloud; | 80 |
| They covered her close with a beautiful crystal shroud, | |
| Covered her deep and silent. | |
| But in the frost of the dawn, | |
| Up from the life below, | |
| Rose a column of breath | 85 |
| Through a tiny cleft in the snow, | |
| Fragile, delicately drawn, | |
| Wavering with its own weakness, | |
| In the wilderness a sign of the spirit, | |
| Persisting still in the sight of the sun | 90 |
| Till day was done. | |
| Then all light was gathered up by the hand of God and | |
| Hid in His breast, | |
| Then there was born a silence deeper than silence, | |
| Then she had rest. | 95 |
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