| A Wintu Indian Legend High in the hills in the drifted snow, On an Indian trail, in the long ago, A lovely bird that had missed it's way, Down in the snow exhausted lay. Far from the north it had winged its way To the snowy vales that southward lay. Spent and weary, with injured wing, It fell to earth, a helpless thing. A Wintoon trod that lonely way And saw the bird that wounded lay. With tenderness his heart was filled: He warmed the bird the cold had chilled. And placed it in his warm black hair. In calm content it nestled there. On the mountain Shasta, wild and high, Near where the rugged trail goes by, Where leaps the rugged water free In scenes of great sublimity, He sat and gently bathed that wing Until, relieved, the bird did sing. It sang and sang its sweetest lay Then in the darkness flew away. But never sweeter song was heard Than was caroled by that grateful bird. The years passed on, yea rolled away. Helpless, alone, the Indian lay. A bird flew in at his wigwam door, And sang and sang as ne'er before. Yes, sweetly sang, as if to say, "A debt of love I come to pay." The aged Indian raised his head And to the bird he softly said, "O, messenger of good to me, 'The Spirit Great now speaks through thee; O sing again - my heart is sad. O, sing again, and make me glad. Releive me of my aches and pain, Restore me unto health again. As though he understood each word, Such song ne'er came from throat of bird. He sang as though his song could say, "I've come my precious debt to pay." He sang away the old man's pain And brought new life and health again. This is the tale the Shaman told, This is the tale the mountains hold. This treasure in these words I find: The greatest good is to be kind. |
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