When these two Ricara babes were grown, To know the meaning of words, And to read the language of eyes, And to guess by the throbs of the heart, It was said to them, To the girl, he will build thee a lodge, And bring thee a good fat deer of the glade; To the boy, she will light thy fires, and be The partner of thy lot. And knowing this they loved: No more were they seen apart, They went together to pluck the grape, To look for the berry which grew on the moor, To fright the birds from the maize; They hunted together the lonely copse, To search for the bittern's eggs, And they wandered together to pluck from the waste The first blue flower of the budding moon; And, when the village children were come, Where the rope of grass, Or the twisted thong of bison-hide, Hung from the bough, To swing in childish sport, These two did always swing each other, And if by chance they found themselves apart, Then tears bedew'd their little cheeks, And the gobs of grief came thick and fast, Till they found each other's arms again, And so they grew:-- My brother hears. The maiden grew up beautiful, Tall as the chin of a lofty man, Bright as the star that shines, To guide the Indian hunter through The pathless wilds to his home. Her hair was like the grape-clustered vine; Her neck was the neck of the swan; Her eyes were the eyes of the dove; Her hand was as small as the red oak's leaf; Her foot was the length of the lark's spread wing; Her step was the step of the antelope's child; Her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon, Of the rill's most gentle song: Oh, how beautiful was the Ricara girl! How worthy to be the wife of the man, And to light-the fires of a _Brave_! How fit-to be the mother Of stout warriors and expert hunters! And how grew the Ricara boy?-- Does my brother listen? He does, it is well.-- He grew to be fair to the eye, Like a tree that hath smooth bark, But is rotten or hollow at core; A vine that cumbers the earth With the weight of leaves and flowers, But never brings forth fruit: He did not become a man: He painted not as a warrior paints, Red on the cheek, Red on the brow, Nor wore the gallant scalp-lock, Black with the plumes of the warrior-bird, Nor stole his father's bow, Nor ran away with his spear, Nor took down the barbed sheaf, Nor raised his shout as he followed the step Of his chief to the Pawnee lodge. He better loved to sit by the fire, While the women were spinning the mulberry-bark(2) Or to lie at his length by the stream, To watch the nimble salmon's sport, Or, placed by the leafy perch of the bird, To snare the poor simple thing; He better loved to rove with girls In search of early flowers.