Or rooted the snow for their food
in the lee of the bluffs and the timber;
And the mad winds that howled from the north,
from the ice-covered seas of Waziya,
Chased the gray wolf and red fox and swarth
to their dens in the hills of the forest.

Poor Father Menard,--he was ill;
in his breast burned the fire of the fever;
All in vain was the magical skill
of Wicasta Wakan [61] with his rattle;
Into soft child-like slumber he fell,
and awoke in the land of the blessed--
To the holy applause of "Well done!"
and the harps in the hands of the angels.
Long he carried the cross,
and he won the coveted crown of a martyr.

In the land of the heathen he died,
meekly following the voice of his Master,
One mourner alone by his side
--Ta-te-psin's compassionate daughter.
She wailed the dead father with tears,
and his bones by her kindred she buried.
Then winter followed winter.
The years sprinkled frost on the head of her father;
And three weary winters she dreamed
of the fearless and fair-bearded Frenchmen;
In her sweet sleep their swift paddles gleamed
on the breast of the broad Mississippi,