THE MAIDEN OF THE MOON.

CHARLES LANMAN.

THE following legend was obtained from the lips of a Chippeway woman, named Pe-na-qua, or the Female Pheasant, and I hardly know which to admire most, the simple beauty of the plot, or the graphic and unique manner of the narrative, of which I regret to say, I can hardly hope to give a faithful translation.

Among the rivers of the North, none can boast of more numerous charms than the Saint Louis, and the fairest spot of earth which it waters, is that where now stands the trading post of Fond Du Lac. Upon this spot, many summers ago, there lived a Chippeway chief and his wife, who were the parents of an only daughter.

Her name was Weesh-Ko-da-e-mire, or the Sweet Strawberry, and she was acknowledged to be the most beautiful maiden of her nation. Her voice was like that of the turtle dove, and the red deer was not more graceful in its form. The young men of every nation had striven to win her heart, but she smiled upon none. Curious presents were sent to her from the four quarters

of the world, but she received them not. Seldom did she deign to reply to the many warriors who entered her father's lodge, and when she did, it was only to assure them that, while upon earth, she would never change her condition. Her strange conduct astonished them but did not subdue their affection. Many and noble were the deeds they performed, not only in winning the white plumes of the eagle, but in hunting the elk and the black bear. But all their exploits availed them nothing, for the heart of the beautiful girl was still untouched.

The snows of winter were all gone, and the pleasant winds of Spring were blowing over the land. The time for making sugar had arrived, though the men had not yet returned from the remote hunting grounds, and in the maple forests bright fires were burning, and the fragrance of the sweet sap filled all the air. The ringing laugh of childhood and the mature song of women were heard in every valley, but in no part of the wilderness could be found more happiness than on the banks of the St. Louis. But the Sweet Strawberry mingled with the young men and maidens of her tribe, in a thoughtful mood and with downcast eyes. She was evidently bowed down by some mysterious grief, but she neglected not her duties, and though she spent much of her time alone, her buchère-bucket was as frequently filled with the sugar juice as any of her companions.

Such was the condition of affairs, when a party of young warriors from the far North, came upon a frolic to the St. Louis river. Having seen the many handsome

maidens of this region, the strangers became enamored of their charms, and cach one succeeded in obtaining the love of one, who was to become his bride during the marrying season of Summer.

The warriors had heard of the Sweet Strawberry, but neglected by all of them, she was still doomed to remain alone. She witnessed the happiness of her old playmates, and, wondering at her own strange fate, spent much of her time in solitude. She even became so unhappy and bewildered that she heeded not the tender words of her mother, and from that time the music of her voice was never heard.

The sugar making season was now rapidly passing away, but the brow of the Sweet Strawberry was still overshadowed with grief. Every thing was done to restore her to her wonted cheerfulness, but she remained unchanged. Wild ducks in innumerable numbers arrived with every southern wind and settled upon the surrounding waters, and proceeded to build their nests in pairs, and the Indian maiden sighed over her mysterious doom. On one occasion she espied a cluster of early spring flowers, peering above the dry leaves of the forest, and strange to say, even these were separated into pairs, and seemed to be wooing each other in love. All things whispered to her of love, the happiness of her companions, the birds of the air, and the flowers. She looked into her heart, and inwardly praying for a companion whom she might love, the Master of Life took pity upon her lot and answered her prayer.

It was now the twilight hour, and in the maple woods the Indian boys were again watching the fires, and the women were bringing in the sap from the surrounding trees. The time for making sugar was almost gone, and the well filled makucks which might be seen in all the wigwams, testified that the yield had been abundant. The hearts of the old women beat in thankfulness, and the young men and maidens were already beginning to anticipate the pleasures of wedded life and those associated with the sweet summer time. But the brow of the Sweet Strawberry continued to droop, and her friends looked upon her as the victim of a settled melancholy. Her duties however were performed without a murmur, and so continued to be performed until the trees refused to fill her buchère-bucket with sap, when she stole away from the sugar camp, and wandered to a retired place to muse upon her sorrows. Her unaccountable grief was very bitter, but did not long endure, for as she stood gazing upon the sky, the Moon ascended above the hills and thrilled her soul with a joy she had never felt before. The longer she looked upon the brilliant object, the more deeply in love did she become with its celestial charms, and she burst forth into a song, a loud, wild and joyous song. Her musical voice echoed through the woods, and her friends hastened to ascertain the cause. They gathered around her in crowds but she heeded them not. They wondered at the wildness of her words and the airy-like appearance of her form.

They were spell-bound by the scene before them, but