OUT OF THE DARKNESS

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 89, 6 July 1927, Page 14

OUT OF THE DARKNESS

THE UNKNOWN SITTING BULL Sitting; Bull, the Sioux, to the children of the Wigwam: The leaves in the autumn fall, and hide from view the prostrate bough. Be it oak, or ash, or gleaming birch, what matters it? Sitting Bull spake —and his voice was heard. For many moons he had followed the' lone trail, seeking for the lost tribe. One day, far out on the edge of the big city, he saw marks of the Wigwam children. The trail was hard. The moccasin made no impression. But on the black, tar-strewn pavement, Sitting Bull saw the names of some Wigwam children. They were traced in coloured chalks —blue, and white, and green. Sitting Bull marvelled! He knew that somewhere back in the smoke of the big city, stood the Wigwam. He knew also that on the Totem Polo these same chalk-names were carved. Here, they were but signs of chiefs and braves passing. They wero marks on the trail which leads through the forest of great stone houses. Back went Sitting Bull, until at last ho came, in fear and trembling, to the Wigwam. He left his swift made message, and fled. Then the echo of Redfeather’s voice came to him. “Welcome, old Sioux: who are thou?” Ah! It was as the dew of Heaven to the fallen bough. The canoe of , life seemed to spin from the swirling stream into a calm backwater, fringed with emerald, and paved with the gold of the sinking sun. . . . Once again old Sitting Bull was a papoose by the wigwam of his fathers. It was good. Too soon he left the Wigwam where his brothers played, to follow the great trail which leads out, but comes not back again. In vain has he looked for the walls of that which shut out the shadows of the big world, and baffled the bitterness of the east wind. Hold to the Wigwam! There are no walls to the long trail. Blit all is not sadness. . . . To-day Sitting Bull smokes the pipe of peace. In his ears is the echo of the welcome from your Wigwam. "Welcome, old Sioux; who art thou?” Hold to the Wigwam. This is Sitting Bull’s message to the children of the Wigwam. This is the word of the fallen bough. Redfeather, Chief of the Wigwam, to Sitting Bull, the Sioux: Comrade of the shadows, I salute you. The wind knows the lonely trail, the far, blue mountain heights, loved of cloud and sun: the wind knows the green, deep valleys of solitude and shade. It goes where feet may never follow. And the wind —friend of the voyager and the open spaces—shall carry my message. The waters of the rivers shall hear my words ancl bear them on. The walls of the canyon shall give back

their echo, until at length they shall come to the ken of Sitting Bull. Hark! The children of the Wigwam give you greeting. . . . With the farseeing eyes of youth they scan the darkness; with the swift-hearing ears of youth they listen for the breaking twig. . . . Stay your flight . . . Pause and listen well . . . What can you hear? The rustle of spring in the branches? Youth surging up the hill into the noontide tha*t is the dream, the birthright and finally, the retrospect of us all? The? hushed murmur of the river at its source, gathering strength to dare the unknown way? The old glorious pageantry of life, seeking, pausing, listening, planning, and beating ever onwards through the centuries in blind and beautiful quest? Pause and listen well . . . As the bough falls, the sap gathers and new buds break. It is the old glorious pageantry ... It is life; it is youth; it is the hidden meaning that sleeps at the root of all things visible . . . It is the secret of the unknown way. It is the Alpha and Omega of the long trail that leads to the Happy Hunting Ground. The wind blows where feet may never follow and the wind has gentle fingers to lift the leaves from the fallen bough. There are no walls to the lonely trail, you say. Walls are of our own building. They crumble at a touch and we may erect them again at will. But the children of Redfeather have built the walls of the Wigwam and six stout poles have tthey brought from the Friendship Tree. The walls of the Wigwam shall not crumble. Peace go with you and the ness of spring winds and summer rains. Grant you may come again ere the bow and quiver are laid aside. This is the word of. Redfeather—mouthpiece of the Lost Tribes. This is the word of the children of the Wigwam to Sitting Bull, the Sioux. —REDFEATHER. My friend the moon looks everywhere for me, Flooding the paths I knew with silver light. —Ralph Chaplin.