Hiatus Week Day 2: A belated autumnal poem to explain the Indian Summer phenomenon. 

The date is December 3rd, Tuesday, and today I’m coming to you from Auckland, New Zealand. 

This week I’ll be on hiatus, check out Monday’s episode, December 2nd for the whole scoop!

Legend of The Indian Summer

Kate Harrington

I have learned a simple legend,

Never found in books of lore,

Copied not from old tradition,

Nor from classics read of yore ;

But the breezes sang it to me

With a low and soft refrain,

While the golden leaves and scarlet

Fluttered down to catch the strain.

And the grand old trees above me,

As their stately branches swayed,

Threw across my couch of crimson

More of sunlight than of shade.

I had lain there dreaming, musing

On the summer's vanished bloom,

Wondering if each penciled leaflet

Did not mark some flow'ret's tomb ;

Thinking how each tree could tell me

Many a tale of warrior's fame;

Gazing at the sky, and asking

How the ''Indian Summer' came.

Then methought a whispered cadence

Stole from out the haunted trees,

While the leaves kept dropping, dropping,

To the music of the breeze.

“I will tell thee,” said the whisper,

“What I've learned from Nature's book;

For the sunbeams wrote this legend

On the margin of a brook.

“'Tis about an Indian maiden,

She the star-flower of her race,

With a heart whose soft emotions

Rippled through her soul-lit face.

“All her tribe did homage to her,

For her father was their chief;

He was stern, and she forgiving,—

He brought pain, and she relief.

“And they called him 'Indian Winter,'

All his actions were so cold ;

Her they named the 'Indian Summer,'

For she seemed a thread of gold

“Flashing through her native forest,

Beaming in the wigwam lone,

Singing to the birds, her playmates,

Till they warbled back her tone.

“When the summer days were ended,

And the chilling months drew near,

When the clouds hung, dull and leaden,

And the leaves fell, brown and sere,

“Brought they to the chieftain's presence

One, a ‘pale-face,’ young and brave,

But whom youth nor manly valor

Could from savage vengeance save.

“‘Bring him forth!’ in tones of thunder

Thus the 'Indian Winter' cried,

While the gentle ' Indian Summer'

Softly flitted to his side.

'When the tomahawk was lifted,

And the scalping-knife gleamed high,

Pride, revenge, and bloody hatred

Glared within the warrior's eye;

'And the frown upon his forehead

Darker, deeper, sterner grew ;

While the lowering clouds above them

Hid the face of heaven from view.

''Spare him ! oh, my father, spare him!'

Friend and foe were thrust apart,

While the golden thread of sunlight

Twined around the red man's heart.

'And her eye was full of pity,

And her voice was full of love,

As she told him of the wigwam

On the hunting-ground above,

'Where great Manito was talking,—

She could hear him in the breeze ;

How he called the ' pale-face' brother—

Smoked with him the pipe of peace.

'Then the warrior's heart relented,

And the glittering weapon fell: 

For the maiden's sake,' he muttered,

'Thou art pardoned,— fare thee well!'

' And the sun, that would have slumbered

Till the spring-time came again,

Earthward from his garnered brightness

Threw a flood of golden rain;

'And the 'Indian Summer' saw it,

She, the gentle forest child ;

And to ' Indian Winter' whispered,

See how Manito has smiled !'

'All the tribe received the omen,

And they called it by her name:

Indian Summer, Indian Summer,

It will ever be the same.

'Though the ' pale-face' gave another

To the lovely maid he won,

Nature still receives her tribute

From the wigwam of the sun.

' Here, alone, this shining symbol

Gilds the streamlet, warms the sod,

For no Indian Summer cometh

Save where Indian feet have trod.'

Thank you for listening. I’m your host, Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening.