One Ricara father said to his friend, While these babes yet swung In their baskets of bark From the bough of the oak, Listen! I have a young eagle in my eyrie, Thou hast a young dove in thy nest, Let us mate them. Though now they be but squabs, There will be but twice eight chills of the lake; And twice eight fails of the maple leaf; And twice eight bursts of the earth from frosts; The corn will ripen bat twice eight times, Tall, sweet corn; The rose will bloom but twice eight times, Beautiful rose! The vine will give but twice eight times Its rich black clusters, Sweet ripe clusters, Grapes of the land of the Ricaras, Ere thy squab shall be an eagle, Ere my little dove shall wear The feathers and plumes of a full-grown bird. Let us pledge them now To each other, That when thy son has become a man, And painted his face as a brave man paints, Red on the cheek, Red on the brow, And wears but the single lock[C], That is graced with the plumes of the Warrior-bird, And has stolen thy bow for the field of strife, And run away with thy spear, And thou findest thy sheaf of arrows gone, And nearest his shout as he follows the steps Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge, And my little dove, My beautiful dove, Sings in the grove, in the hour of eve, All alone, soft songs. Maiden's songs of the restless hour, When the full heart sings, it knows not why: My son shall build himself a lodge, And thy daughter shall light his fires. Then said his friend, 'Tis well; Nor hast thou a forked tongue: My son is pledged to thee, And to thy little daughter. When he has become a warrior-man, And painted his face with the ochre of wrath, Red on the cheek, Red on the brow, And wears but a scalp-lock, Decked with the plumes of the warrior-bird, And has stolen my bow for the field of strife, And run away with my spear, And I find my sheaf of arrows gone, And hear his shout as he follows the step Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge, And thy dove Sings in the grove in the hour of eve, All alone, soft songs, Maiden songs, songs of the unquiet hour, Songs that gush out of the swelling soul, As the river breaks over its banks: My son shall build himself a cabin, And thy daughter shall light his fires.