Robert Frank Jarrett

Occoneechee

The Maid of the Mystic Lake

BY
ROBERT FRANK JARRETT
Author of “Back Home and Other Poems”

THE SHAKESPEARE PRESS
410 E. 32d Street
New York
1916

Copyrighted, 1916
By R. F. Jarrett

PREFACE.

Realizing that the memory of a nation is best kept aglow by its songs and the writings of its poets, I have been inspired to write OCCONEECHEE, in order that the once powerful nation known as the Cherokee may be preserved in mind, and that their myths, their legends and their traditions may linger and be transmitted to the nations yet to come.

Trusting that a generous people may hail with delight the advent of this new work, I now dedicate its pages to all lovers of music, poetry and fine art.

When you’ve read its pages give or lend

This volume to some good old friend.

The Author.

BRIEF BIOGRAPHY OF THE AUTHOR.

Robert Frank Jarrett was born in Asheville, N. C., on July 21st, 1864, and while having resided in other states and cities and visited many of the most important sections of the South, yet has made his principal home within the shadows of the rugged mountain peaks of his native and picturesque home land, the Old North State.

He was educated in the field and forest, by rippling stream and rolling rill, studied in the open book of Nature and recited to the Master of Destinies where the shadows of the everlasting hills lock hands with the sunshine of the valley.

He is a reader and student of the ancient writers and poets of all ages, singer of the old songs, lover of the new;

Servant in official capacity for many years of National, State and Civic governments; humble worker with the busy toilers, and writer of prose and verse from earliest childhood;

Author of “Back Home and Other Poems,” published in 1911, and many other manuscripts not yet published.

Married to Sallie C. Wild, of Franklin, N. C., on Dec. 25th, 1892. For twenty years a resident of Dillsboro, N. C., where orchard and field and dense deep forests have inspired and impelled him on.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

PART I

THE CHEROKEE

“I know not how the truth may be,

I tell the tale as ’twas told to me.”

THE CHEROKEE.

A brief history of the Cherokee Nation or tribe.

This history has been gleaned from the works of Ethnology by James Mooney and from word of mouth, as related to the author during the past thirty years.

In the beginning of historical events, we hear of man in his paradisaical home, located somewhere within the boundaries known as ancient Egypt or Chaldea. His home was far away and his former history shrouded in the darkness of countless centuries of the past, and when we contemplate the remoteness of his ancestry, we become lost in the midst of our own research.

When historical light began to flash from the Orient, we find man emerging with some degree of civilization from a barbaric state into the advanced degrees of civilized and enlightened tribes.

When the maritime navigator, full of visions and dreams, dared to sail for those hitherto undiscovered shores, now known as America, there lived within the realm a wandering, happy, yet untutored, race of men whom we afterwards called Indians, who dwelt in great numbers along the whole distance from Penobscot Bay south to the everglades of Florida.

Tuckaseigee Falls, above Dillsboro, N. C.

“All along the racing river

Gorgeous forest trees are seen.”

Among the more noted tribes were the Abnaki, Mohawk, Mohican, Huron, Iroquois, Munsi, Erie, Seneca, Susquehanna, Mamrahoac, Powhatan, Monacan, Nollaway, Tuscarora, Pamlico, Catawba, Santee, Uchee, Yamasee, Creek, Choctaw, Seminole, Showano and Cherokee, but of all of these it is left for us to speak alone of the valiant Cherokee, the most noble of all Red Men, who inhabited that picturesque country in the Appalachian chain of mountains in East Tennessee, Western North Carolina, Northern Georgia, South Carolina and Alabama, and part of Virginia, Kentucky and West Virginia.

These are the people of whom little has been said and less written than most of the children of men. Yet of all of the native Americans the Cherokee tribe was the most noble, humane and intelligent.

Somewhere in the annals of the Aborigines of America, the Cherokee separated from the great Northern tribe, the Iroquois, and by preference inhabited the hills of the Appalachian range, and here we find them early in the dawn of American history, occupying a country which affords ample environment for the artist, the poet and the painter. Had Homer seen and Michelangelo traveled among the towering hills of the happiest land of earth, the song and the chisel, instead of being draped with the vail of blood, would have inspired the world to look forward to the time when there will be no death serenely sitting upon the throne of war.

At one time the Cherokee tribe was the largest and most learned in art and literature of any tribe in the United States, having perhaps as many as twenty-five thousand people, and attained, under Sequoya, whose photograph is herein reproduced, that degree of learning, that many of the tribe became quite familiar with letters and literature, printed from the alphabet invented by this noted man, inventor and devout preacher of the Christian gospel.

Sequoya was himself an untutored half-breed, yet to him are we indebted for an alphabet of 76 characters which stands third among the alphabets which have been invented among men, and by which a Cherokee child learns to read as fluently in six months of study as does the average English child in three years of study under our system.

The name Cherokee, so far as research reveals, has no meaning or the meaning has been lost or perhaps Anglicized, but we have authority for its use, for the past 375 years.

When De Soto’s expedition was made through the Appalachian mountains, in 1540, he encountered this great and friendly nation living peacefully in their paradise among the hills and mountains, who received him as they were wont to receive a friendly tribe; so did they ever receive and treat the white neighbor until treaty after treaty had been broken and their homes had been destroyed and every compact violated.

Hostilities were in most cases caused by encroaching whites and broken promises and intrigues of the foreigners, who were gradually drawing the cordon around the diminishing tribe.

The battle of Horseshoe Bend, which took place in the Tallapoosa river, in Alabama, on the 27th day of March, 1814, was one of the notable events in Cherokee history, where Junaluska, in conjunction with General Jackson, slaughtered or massacred nearly one thousand Creeks, which ended the Creek war and brought much honor to Junaluska and his valiant Cherokee army of more than 500 men.

For the terrors which followed the battle of Horseshoe Bend, we have only to refer to history to be able to ascertain the facts concerning the bloody atrocities which were perpetrated upon an oppressed people. Then came the end, which occurred in the year 1838, which culminated in the removal of the band to the Indian Territory, which is now called Oklahoma, (a Choctaw word meaning red people, Okla, people; homa, red).

This removal was the most luckless and recreant of all the abuses that had been heaped upon the brave but helpless band of Cherokee.

Junaluska, who witnessed the removal, but was permitted to remain with the residue, remarked that had he known that General Jackson (who became President), would have removed the Cherokee in such a brutal manner, he would have killed him at the battle of Horseshoe Bend.

The history of the removal of the Cherokee, as told by James Mooney of the Department of American Ethnology, gleaned by him from eye witnesses and actors in the tragedy, may well exceed in weight of grief and pathos any other act in American history. Even the much sung song of the exile of the Arcadians falls far behind it in the sum of death and misery.

Under General Winfield Scott, an army of 5,000 volunteers and regular troops were concentrated in the Cherokee country, and by instruction from Washington, D. C., he was directed and gave orders to soldiers to gather all Indians to the various stockades, which had been previously prepared for their reception. From these posts, squads of soldiers were sent to search out, with rifle and bayonet, every small cabin which could be found within the ramifications and deep recesses of the great Appalachian range of mountains, and bring to the forts every man, woman and child to be found within the gates of the granite hills.

Families, while sitting peacefully at the noon-day meal; others while performing the matutinal ablution, were suddenly startled by the gleam of bayonets and with blows, curses and oaths from the men called soldiers, the Indians were driven like cattle from their humble homes down the rugged mountain paths, and their houses in many cases were burned and their small possessions destroyed, as the brave but defenceless Cherokee people looked on with that wonderful stoicism which no other race of men ever possessed.

Men were seized in the fields, women torn from the wheel and the distaff, and children frightened from the pleasures of play. The vandals who followed in the wake of the soldiery, looting and pillaging, burning and destroying, yet calling themselves civilized Christians, were such a band of outlaws as is seldom seen even among the most savage and barbaric races.

Even Indian graves were robbed of the silver pendants and other valuables which had been deposited with the dead. Women who were not able to go, were actually forced at the point of a bayonet to march with the same speed as men.

Upon one occasion the soldiers surrounded the house of an old Christian patriot, who when informed as to what was to take place, called his wife, children and grandchildren around him, kneeling down among them offered a last prayer in the sanctuary of his home, in his native tongue, while the soldiers stood astonished, looking on in silence.

When his devotions were finished, he arose, bade the household follow him, and he led them into exile, with that becoming Christian fortitude which is seldom witnessed among men.

One woman, on finding the house surrounded, went to the door and called up the chickens, fed them for the last time, bade them farewell, then taking her baby upon her back, she extended her hands to her other two small children, then followed her husband into exile, from whence she never returned.

A Georgia volunteer, who afterwards became a Colonel in the Confederate service, said, “I have fought through the Civil War and have seen men shot to pieces and slaughtered by the thousands, but the Cherokee removal was the most cruel work I ever witnessed.”

All were not thus so submissive. One old man named Tsali, “Charlie,” was seized, with his wife, his brother, his three sons and their families; exasperated at the brutality accorded his wife, who being unable to travel fast, was prodded with the bayonets to hasten her steps, he urged the other men to join him in a dash for liberty, and as he spoke in Cherokee, the soldiers, although they heard, understood nothing until each warrior suddenly sprang upon the soldier nearest and endeavored to wrench his gun from him. The attack was so sudden and unexpected that one soldier was killed and the rest fled, while the Indians escaped to the mountains. Hundreds of others, some of them from the various stockades, managed also to escape to the hills and mountains from time to time, where those who did not die from starvation subsisted on roots and wild berries until the hunt was over.

Finding that it was impossible to secure these fugitives, General Scott finally tendered them a proposition, through Colonel W. H. Thomas, known as Wil-Usdi in Cherokee, their trusted friend and chief, that if they would bring Charlie and his party for punishment, the rest would be allowed to remain until their case could be adjusted by the Government.

On hearing of the proposition, Charlie voluntarily came in with his sons, offering himself as a sacrifice for his people.

By command of General Scott, Charlie, his brother and the two elder sons were shot, near the mouth of Tuckaseigee river, a detachment of Cherokee prisoners being compelled to do the shooting in order to impress upon the Indians the fact of their utter helplessness.

From those fugitives thus permitted to remain, originated the present eastern band of Cherokee.

When nearly 17,000 Cherokee had been gathered into the stockades, the removal began.

Early in June several parties, aggregating about five thousand persons, were brought down by the troops to the old agency on Hiwassee river, at the present Calhoun, Tenn., and to Ross landing (now Chattanooga, Tenn.) and to Gunter’s landing (now Guntersville, Ala.) lower down on the Tennessee, where they were put upon steamers and transported down the Tennessee and Ohio to the farther side of the Mississippi, whence their journey was continued by land to Indian Territory (now Oklahoma).

The removal in the the hottest part of the year was attended with so great sickness and mortality that, by resolution of the Cherokee National Council, John Ross and the other chiefs submitted to General Scott a proposition that the Cherokee be allowed to remove themselves in the fall, after the sickly season ended. This was granted on condition that all should have started by the 20th of October, except the sick and aged, who might not be able to move so rapidly. Accordingly, officers were appointed by the Cherokee council to take charge of the emigration; the Indians being organized into detachments averaging one thousand each, with two leaders in charge of each department, and a sufficient number of wagons and horses for the purpose.

In this way the remainder, enrolled at about 13,000, (including a few negro slaves), started on the long march overland late in the fall. Those who thus emigrated under the management of their own officers, assembled at Rattlesnake Springs, near the present Charleston, Tenn., where a final council was held, in which it was decided to continue their old constitution and laws in their new home. Then, in October, 1838, the long procession of exiles was set in motion. A few went by the river route, but nearly all went overland. Crossing, to the north side of the Hiwassee river, at a ferry above Gunter’s Creek, they proceeded down along the river, the sick, aged and children, together with their belongings, being hauled in wagons, the rest on foot or on horses.

It was like an army, 645 wagons, regiment after regiment, the wagons in the center, the officers along the line, and the horsemen on the flank and at the rear.

Tennessee river was crossed at Tucker’s ferry, a short distance above Jolly’s Island, at the mouth of Hiwassee; thence the route lay south of Pikeville, through McMinnville, and on to Nashville, where the Cumberland was crossed.

They then went on to Hopkinsville, where the noted chief White Path, in charge of a detachment, sickened and died. His people buried him by the roadside, with a box over the grave and poles with streamers around it, that the others coming on behind might note the spot and remember him.

Somewhere along that march of death—for the exiles died by tens and twenties every day of the journey—the devoted wife of the noted chief, John Ross, sank down and died, leaving him to go on with bitter pain of bereavement added to the heartbreak at the ruin and desolation of his nation.

The Ohio was crossed at a ferry near the mouth of the Cumberland, and the army passed on through southern Illinois until the great Mississippi was reached, opposite Cape Girardean, Missouri. It was now the middle of winter, with the river running full of ice, so that several detachments were obliged to wait some time on the eastern bank for the channel to become clear.

Information furnished by old men at Tahlequah after the lapse of fifty years showed that time had not sufficed to wipe out the memory of the miseries of that halt beside the frozen river, with hundreds of sick and dying penned up in wagons or stretched upon the ground, with only a blanket overhead to keep out the January blast.

The crossing was at last made, in two divisions, at Cape Girardean and Green’s ferry, a short distance below, whence the march was continued on through Missouri to Indian Territory, the later detachment making a northerly circuit by Springfield, because those who had gone before had killed off all the game along the direct route.

They had started in October, 1838, and it was now March, 1839, the journey having occupied nearly six months of the hardest part of the year.

It is difficult to state positively as to the mortality and loss by reason of the removal of this once happy nation, but as near as can be ascertained, more than four thousand persons perished along the great highway of death.

On the arrival in Indian Territory, the exiles at once set about building houses and planting crops, the government having agreed under treaty to furnish them rations for one year after arrival. They were welcomed by their kindred, the “Old Settlers,” who held the country under previous treaties of 1828 and 1833. These, however, being already regularly organized under a government and chiefs of their own, were by no means disposed to be swallowed by the governmental authority of the newcomers.

Jealousies developed, in which the minority or treaty party of the emigrants, headed by Major Ridge, took sides with the old settlers against John Ross of the National party, which outnumbered the others nearly three to one.

While these differences were at their height, the Nation was thrown into a fever of excitement by the news that Major Ridge, his son, John Ridge, and Elias Boudinot—all leaders of the treaty party—had been killed by adherents of the National party, immediately after the adjournment of a general council, which had adjourned after nearly two weeks of debate without having been able to bring about harmonious action. Major Ridge was waylaid and shot near the Arkansas line, his son was taken from bed and cut to pieces with hatchets, while Boudinot was treacherously killed at his home at Park Hill, Indian Territory, all three being killed upon the same day, June 22, 1839, which date marks the decline and fall of a once great and happy people. For fifty years which followed this luckless day in June, Indian Territory became a veritable theater of crime and disorder.

From the South meridian of the sunflower state, to the cypress banks of the Red river, and from Fort Smith to the shifting sands of the great plains, for half a century sheltered a coterie of actors that would have made Robin Hood or Kit Carson blush with envy. The soil of the five tribes has been moistened with human blood when there was none to answer the cry for vengeance; when no sound save the deadly snap of the Winchester and the pit-pat of the bronchos' hoofs were there to bear testimony. Now, those who incited intrigue and murder are gone, the desperado is a thing of the past, the brave men who enlisted in the hazardous governmental service to give them battle have disappeared, and the sound of the firing Winchester used in deadly conflict, has been replaced by the reaper and the mower, and toilers in the field of commerce and industry.

The Indian tribe has been supplanted by the American Government; and the school and church have taken the place of the chase and the feud. Where the wild flowers nodded far out on the lonely plain, vast fields of wheat and corn whisper the great name of Oklahoma.

At this writing the eastern band of Cherokee is about to be dissolved, their lands allotted, and in a few more decades the Cherokee will have passed, and the name will be presented only in old records and in the hearts of their descendants.

PART II

OCCONEECHEE

Along Scott’s Creek, below Balsam, N. C.

(Highest railway point East of the Rocky Mts.)

“Rippling, idling, swirling slowly,

Leaping down a waterfall.”

OCCONEECHEE,

The Maid of the Mystic Lake,

by Robert Frank Jarrett.

I.

Far away beneath the shadows

Of the towering Smoky range,

In the Western North Carolina,

Comes a story true, but strange;

Of a maiden and her lover,

Of the tribe of Cherokee,

And she lived far up the mountain,

Near the hills of Tennessee.

Far above the habitation

Of the white man, and the plain,

Lived the dark-eyed Indian maiden,

Of the Junaluska strain;

Junaluska, chief, her father,

Occoneechee was his pride,

In the lonely little wigwam,

High upon the mountain side.

There the stream Oconaluftee

Hides its source far from the eye,

Of the white man in his rovings,

Far upon the mountain high;

And the forest land primeval,

Roamed by doe and wandering bear,

And the hissing, coiling serpent,

Was no stranger to them there.

Catamount and mountain-boomer

Sprang from cliff-side into trees,

And the eagle, hawk and vulture

Winged their course on every breeze.

At the footfall of this maiden

Sped the gobbler wild and free,

From the maiden Occoneechee

Flitted butterfly and bee.

Occoneechee, forest dweller,

Lived amid the scene so wild;

In the simple Indian manner

Lived old Junaluska’s child.

Streams of purest limpid water

Gushed forth o’er the rock below,

And the trout and silver minnow

Dwelt in water, cold as snow.

Occoneechee’s Mother Qualla

Passed away from earth to God,

When this maiden was a baby

And was covered by the sod.

High upon the rugged mountain,

Far above the haunts of men,

With their burdens and their sorrows,

And their load of care and sin.

Thus the maiden knew no mother,

Knew no love as most maids know,

Heard no song, as sung by mother,

Softly, sweetly, plaintive, slow.

When the twilight came at evening,

And the wigwam fire was lit,

And the bearskin robe was spread out

Upon which they were to sit,

Junaluska wept his Qualla,

Wept the lover who had flown,

For she was the only lover

That this chieftain’s heart had known;

And at night, there was no lover

To sit by him on the rug,

Made of skins of bear and woodchuck,

In the wigwam, crude but snug.

And at times he’d stand at evening,

When the sun was setting low,

And would watch with adoration

Shifting clouds and scenes below;

And his soul would want to wander

Where the clime of setting sun

Would reveal his long lost Qualla,

When his work of life was done.

Sunset from Mt. Junaluska.

“And his soul was wont to wander

To the clime of setting sun.”

Lake Junaluska, Mount Junaluska in the distance.

(Near Waynesville, N. C.)

This beautiful lake with Alpine environment is officially recognized by Methodists as their Assembly grounds, where thousands of their faith gather during the summer months each year for social and religious intercourse.

And the tears would fill his eyelids,

And emotion shake his frame,

When he thought of her departed,

Or some friend would speak her name.

And he’d call on God the spirit,

When he’d see the golden glow

Of the radiant splendid sunset,

Where he ever longed to go.

Then he’d think of Occoneechee,

In her adolescent years,

How she needed his protection

There to drive away her fears.

Then he’d cease his deep repining,

And his wailing and his grief,

For her future and her beauty

Brought the chieftain’s heart relief.

Though the life of Occoneechee

Was one lonely strange career,

And the solitude and silence

Made the romance of it drear,

While the wildness of the forest,

With the animals that roam,

And the birds in great profusion

Cheered her little wigwam home,

Yet her spirit, like the eagle’s,

Longed to soar off and be free

From the wilds of gorge and mountain,

Stream and cliff and crag and tree.

And one day there came a red man

Wandering up the mountain side,

From the vale Oconaluftee

Which was every Indian’s pride.

Tall and handsome, agile runner,

And the keenness of his eye

Did betray his quick perception

To the casual passer-by.

Hair hung down in long black tresses,

Far below his shoulder-blade,

And the brilliant painted feathers

By the passing winds were swayed.

And the arrows in his quiver

Tipped with variegated stone,

And the tomahawk and war knife,

All the weapons he had known;

Yet he knew all of their uses,

None could wield with greater skill

Tomahawk or knife or arrow,

Than this wandering Whippoorwill.

Occoneechee, sitting lonely,

In a shady little nook,

Near the opening, by the wigwam,

And the babbling crystal brook;

She was bathing feet and ankles,

Arms and hands she did refresh,

In the iridescent splendor

Of the fountain cool and fresh.

Whippoorwill, the wandering warrior,

Spied the maiden by the pool,

‘Neath the spreading tree above her,

By the limpid stream so cool;

Then he ventured there to tarry,

Watch and linger in the wild,

Near the maiden and the fountain,

Watch this forest-dwelling child.

Though a warrior, brave, undaunted

By the fiercest, wildest foe,

In the battle’s hardest struggle,

Chasing bear and buck and doe;

For his life was used to hardships,

Scaling mountains in the chase,

Yet he ne’er was known to falter

‘Mid the hottest of the race.

But he now was moved by caution

To approach, with greatest care,

The unknown maid, there before him,

And the scene so rich and rare;

And his brave heart almost failed him

As he comes up to her side,

And obeisance makes he to her,

E’er the chieftain she espied.

Occoneechee sprang up quickly

From the rock moss-covered seat,

All abashed, but lithe and nimble

Were her ankles and her feet.

“O-I-see-you,” were the greetings

They exchanged spontaneously,

As they moved off together.

Occoneechee leads the way,

To the quiet little wigwam,

Where old Junaluska dwells

With the maiden Occoneechee,

And for whom his heart up-wells.

Spreading out the flowing doe-skin

Flat upon the earthen floor,

Occoneechee and the warrior

Sat and talked the chases o’er.

Sat and talked of bear and venison,

Sat and smoked the calumet.

These the greetings of the warrior,

When the maiden first he met.

Whippoorwill, the wandering warrior,

Tarried for a night and day,

Tarried long within the wigwam,

And was loath to go away,

For the maid and Junaluska

To the warrior were so kind,

That ‘twere hard among the tribesmen

Such a generous clan to find.

But at dawn upon the morrow,

Whippoorwill must wend his way

From old Junaluska’s wigwam,

For too long had been his stay.

Kind affection, Junaluska

Gave to parting Whippoorwill,

As he sauntered from the wigwam,

Wandering toward the rugged rill.

Now the silence so unbroken

Starts a tear-drop in each eye,

And the gentle passing zephyr

Gathered up the lover’s sigh,

And the sighs were borne to heaven,

Like as lovers' sighs ascend,

As the good angelic zephyrs

Bear the message, friend to friend.

Now each heart was sore and lonely,

Sad the parting lovers feel,

Yet the hopes of love’s devotion

Deep into each life did steal.

And when Whippoorwill had left them,

Good old Junaluska said

To his daughter Occoneechee,

“Would you like this brave to wed?”

Occoneechee, timid maiden,

Never thought of love before,

For she ne’er had spread the doe-skin

Wide upon the earthen floor,

For a warrior, brave as he was,

One possessed of skill so rare,

With his tomahawk and war knife,

And such long black raven hair;

And she knew not how to answer,

Though she felt as lovers do,

When they plight their deep devotion

To each other to be true.

“Occoneechee! child of wild woods,

I am growing old and gray,

And I feel I soon must leave you,

Though I grieve to go away.

I can feel the hand of time, child,

Pressing down upon my head,

And I know it won’t be long now

Till I’m resting with the dead.

“I can hear your mother calling,

Sweetly, gently, calling me,

Beckoning from the golden sunset,

And she calls also for thee.

’Twas just last night she stood beside me,

While you lay there sound asleep,

And she called me, ‘Junaluska!’

And her voice caused me to weep.

“And she said, ‘Dear Junaluska,

I have come to tell you where

You will find me at the portals

Of the Lord’s house over there.

I will be among the blessed,

Be with angels up on high.

Have no fears of Death’s dark river,

Be courageous till you die.’

“Then she stood and sang a message

O’er you in your lonely bed,

For a moment, then departed;

And I called, but she had fled.

Yet I daily hear her sweet voice,

And I see her image there,

As she calls us unto heaven,

‘Mid the pleasures, O, so rare.

“And I soon shall cross the river,

And will join her on the strand,

With immortals long departed,

In the fair, blest, happy land.

When I’m gone you’ll need protection,

By a brave who knows no fear,

And when sorrows overflow you,

One to wipe away the tear.

“Then I’ll watch and wait with Qualla,

With the chiefs and warriors brave,

Who have joined the tribe eternal,

Conquered death, hell and the grave.

I shall watch then for your coming,

And I’ll tell the mighty throng

That you’re coming in the future,

And we’ll greet you with the song,

“That the seraphs sing in glory,

Casting gem crowns at the feet,

Praising Him who reigns forever

On the grand tribunal seat.”

As he talked his voice grew weaker,

And his hand grew very chill,

Then the moisture crowned his forehead,

And his pulse was deathly still.

Then she knew that her dear mother

And the great chiefs that had been

Had op’ed the gate of heaven wide

To let another brave chief in.

Then she sobbed out for her father,

As a broken-hearted child

Will for loved ones just departed,

Left so lonely in the wild.

But the dead, too soon forgotten,

Now lies buried by the side

Of his much lamented Qualla,

Once his sweet and lovely bride,

While their spirits dwell together,

Free from care and want and pain,

Where the tempest full of sorrow

Ne’er can reach their souls again.

Years had flown since Occoneechee

Saw her loving Whippoorwill,

High upon the Smoky Mountain,

Near the crystal rippling rill;

For the white man had transported

Brave and squaw and little child

Far away to Oklahoma,

To the western hills so wild.

Some had gone to the Dakotas,

Some had gone to Mexico,

Some had joined the tribe eternal;

All were going, sure but slow.

For the white man’s occupation,

Cherokee must give their land,

And must give up all possessions,

Go and join some other band.

Yet a residue of tribesmen

Were allowed here to remain,

‘Mid the mountains and the forest,

And the meadows and the plain,

But the strong men and the warriors,

Most of them had gone away,

Far across the mighty mountains

Toward the closing of the day.

General Jackson’s men in blue coats

Came and took away the braves,

Took away the squaw and papoose,

Buried many in their graves,

Yet the residue triumphant,

Roamed out in the forest wild,

Without shelter, food or comfort,

For decrepid chief and child.

Sad and weary, long and dreary,

Moved the Cherokee out West,

With their store of skins and venison,

And the trinkets they possessed.

Up across the Smoky Mountains,

Rough and rugged trail and road,

Lined by rhododendron blossoms,

Close beside where Lufty flowed.

When they down the gorge descended,

Winding toward the Tennessee,

Branch and bough o’erhead were bending

And no landscape could they see,

And the labyrinthian footway

Led through forests dense and dark

And the air was sweetly laden

With the bruised birchen bark;

A glimpse of the Craggies. From top of Chimney Rock.
Graybeard Mountain. Chimney Top.

Hemlocks tall and swaying gently

In the sighing passing breeze,

And the fir and spreading balsam

Joined the cadence of the trees.

At the base of birch and hemlock

Flowed the Pigeon fierce and bold,

With its water clear as crystal,

And its fountains icy cold;

Flowed the dauntless rapid waters,

Fresh and pure and ever free,

Rushed o’er cataract and cascade,

Ever onward toward the sea.

Whippoorwill, the wandering warrior,

Shorn of power and of pride,

Marched in single file and lonely,

With his hands behind him tied.

Hands were bound with thongs and fetters—

Thongs and fetters could not hold

Brave so gallant young and noble

As this valiant warrior bold.

For his thoughts of Occoneechee,

Who was left far, far behind,

With the residue of women,

Stirred his brave heart and his mind.

On and on for days they traveled

By the stream whose silver flow,

From the great high Smoky Mountains,

Became silent now and slow;

For the rocks and rising ridges,

Once their progress did impede,

Now were fading in the distance,

Could not now retard their speed.

And the journey, long and tedious,

Wore the women, wore the brave,

And they sore and much lamented,

To be bound as serf or slave;

For their free-born spirits never

Had been bound by man before,

Till the blue-coat Jackson soldier

Came and dragged them from their door.

Corn was blooming on the lowlands

When the journey they betook,

And the grass gave much aroma,

By the laughing Soco brook;

But the suns and moons oft waning

Brought the moon of ripening corn

To a nation, broken-hearted,

With a doubting hope forlorn.

Level lands brought no enchantment

To a people who had known

Naught but freedom till the present,

Whose utopian dream had flown;

Flown as flows the radiant river,

Flown as flows the hopes of youth,

From the red man of the forest.

They were no more free, forsooth.

By and by the Father Waters

Came in view of brave and squaw,

And the skiff and side-wheel steamer

Were the shifting scenes they saw,

Plying fast the Father Waters,

With a current slow and still,

And reverberating whistles

Shrieked a medley loud and shrill.

And the ferryboat was busy,

Plying fast the liquid wave

Of the Father Water’s current,

Bearing squaw and chief and brave,

Till the last brave Indian warrior

Crossed the Father Waters' tide,

Crossed the gentle flowing river,

With its current deep and wide.

Then they rested from their journey,

Rested for a little while,

On the bluff above the river,

Where they saw her laughing smile.

They could see the sun at morning

Rise up quickly from his rest,

See him hasting to his zenith,

Soon to go down in the west.

Then the winter came on quickly,

Killing corn and grass and cane,

And the wind brought cloudy weather,

With its snow and mist and rain,

And the tribe within the barracks

Were disheartened, one and all.

And they longed now for their Lufty,

With its cascade and its fall.

But at last the genial sunshine

Took away the ice that froze

The corn of hope, from the tribesmen,

And the chilly wind that blows,

Along the valley, of the river,

Over bog and prairie, too;

And an order came with springtime,

“You the journey must renew.”

Then they rose up in the morning,

Rose before the dawn of day,

Rolled and tied the tents together,

And were quickly on their way,

On their way to Oklahoma,

Out across Missouri land,

Chief and squaw and wary warrior,

Marched the Cherokee brave band.

To the western reservation,

Where the bison and the owl,

And the she-wolf, fox and serpent

Writhe and roam and nightly prowl;

This the country where they took them,

This the country that they gave

In exchange for their own country,

To the chief and squaw and brave.

Leaving all they loved behind them,

Leaving all to them most dear,

And they settled there so lonely,

In a country dry and drear;

There to pine away in sorrow,

And repining, die of grief;

From the solitude and silence

Of this land there’s no relief.

II.

Amid the hills of Carolina,

Hills impregnant with rich bliss,

With their grots and groves and fountains,

Hills that love-beams love to kiss;

Roamed the dark, but pretty maiden,

Occoneechee, lovely child,

Roamed she far out in the mountains,

‘Mid their solitude so wild.

Dreamed she oft here, as she rambled,

Of her warrior Whippoorwill,

Of her lover, long her lover,

Whom she first met near the rill,

High upon the Smoky Mountains,

Where the sunset’s afterglow

Holds the secrets of Dame Nature

From the sons of men below.

Occoneechee sought her lover,

Down Oconaluftee’s vale,

Through the brush and tangled wildwood,

Without compass, chart or trail,

Where the river Tuckaseigee

Dashes down its rocky bed,

Near a trail long since deserted,

Over which a tribe once sped.

Upper Catawba Falls, Esmeralda, N. C. Occoneechee Falls, Jackson County, N. C.
In the Cherokee Country. “Falls and foams and seethes forever.” Whitewater Falls. “Pours its deluge down the ravine Unobstructed in its rage.”

Then she wandered down the river,

On and on, as on it flows,

Wades the river, wades its branches,

Follows it where’er it goes

Through the laurel brush and ivy,

Over spreading beds of fern,

Over rock moss-covered ledges,

Follows every winding turn,

Till it flows into the river,

Called the Little Tennessee,

Here she lingers long and tarries,

And she strains her eyes to see

If her vision will reveal him,

And abates her breath to hear

The voice of Whippoorwill, her lover,

One of all to her most dear.

Yet no sound came to relieve her,

And no vision came to please,

And it never dawned upon her,

Here among the virgin trees,

That her lover was transported,

With the brave and chief and child

To the land of Oklahoma,

Land so lonely, weird and wild.

Up the stream she then ascended,

Slowly, surely did she march,

‘Neath the spreading oak and hemlock,

Resting oft beneath their arch.

Walls of solid spar and granite

Roared their heads up toward the blue,

But no wall or hill or river

Could impede the maiden true.

She now reached the Nantahala,

Picturesque in every way,

And she rested ‘neath the shadow

Of the mountain tall and gray;

High the mountain, clear the water,

That comes rushing down the side

Of the mountain from the forest

With its unpolluted tide.

Speckled beauties swam the water,

Swam as only they can do;

Deer in herds roamed all the forest,

Only Cherokees were few.

Eagles, swift upon their pinions,

Soared aloft upon the air,

They would turn their eyes to heaven,

Then down on the maiden fair,

As to guard her in her roaming,

For she had no other guide,

Save one squaw and constellation,

And the racing river tide.

Birds had ceased their long migration,

Not a cloud disturbed the blue

Of the canopy of heaven,

And the country they passed through.

Nightingale and thrush and robin

Mated, sang and dwelt serene,

In the forest, by the river,

With its banks so fresh and green,

And each spoke to Occoneechee,

In the language Nature gives,

Of the flora and the fauna,

Where the child of Nature lives.

Then she rambled through the mountains,

To the summit, grand and high,

Where Tusquittee’s bald and forest

Penetrates the cloudless sky.

Unobstructed vision reaches

‘Cross the Valley River, wide,

To the Hiawassee river,

Flowing in its lordly pride.

Here the panorama rises

In its beauty grand and gay,

As you linger on the summit,

As you hesitating stay;

Visions long out in the distance;

Haunt you with enchanted smile,

And the reverie of Nature

Doth the wanderer beguile.

Valleytown, the Indian village,

And Aquone, the camping ground,

Cheoas vale within the distance,

Once where Cherokee were found,

Came within the easy focus

Of the trained observant eye

Of the maiden on the mountain,

Near the clearest vaulted sky.

Occoneechee looked and wondered,

Scanned the mountain, scanned the vale,

And she lifted up her voice there,

And began to weep and wail;

For her lover, long departed,

For her lover brave and true,

And she wondered if he tarried

In the reaches of her view.

Still no sight or sound revealed him,

Beauty smiled and smiled again,

As she sighed and prayed to Nature,

Yet her anxious thoughts were vain.

For the valley and the mountain,

And the river and the rill,

Separated Occoneechee

From her lover Whippoorwill.

Then she to the Hiawassee,

Wound the mountain-side and vale,

And she made a boat of hemlock,

And she left the mountain trail,

And she launched the boat of hemlock

On the Hiawassee tide,

Launched the boat and went within it,

Down the silver stream to glide.

Down the river set with forest,

Nottely joins the quickened pace

Of the river and the maiden,

In their onward rapid race,

And she passes through the narrows,

Through the narrows quick she flew,

Through the spray and foaming current,

With her long hemlock canoe.

Faster sped the boat of hemlock,

Past the mountains and the shoal,

Past the inlet Conasauga,

Where Okoee waters roll;

Here she stopped to make inquiry

Of a relegated brave.

If he’d seen her wandering lover,

In the forest, by the wave.

Then she left the boat of hemlock,

Roamed the forest far and wide,

Crossed the mountain streams and fountains,

With their cliff and foaming tide,

Followed far Okoee river,

Toccoa laves her weary feet,

Ellijay and Coogawattee

Do the pretty maiden greet.

Not a word in all her wanderings

Did she hear of Whippoorwill,

Though she roamed through leagues of forest,

And by many a rippling rill.

Candy creek and Oostanula,

Both were followed to their source,

With their winding current flowing

In their ever onward course.

Where the brave had traveled with her,

And had told her many tales

Of the wars he’d been engaged in,

And the windings of the trails,

Over which the tribe had traveled

In the years that long had flown,

And the land now held by strangers,

Which his tribe once called their own.

And at evening in the autumn,

When the leaves turn brown and red,

And the hickory and the maple

Gild with yellow as they shed,

And the poplar and the chestnut,

And the beech and chinquapin,

Hide the squirrel and the pheasant

From the sight of selfish men;

Where the grapevine climbs the alder,

Clings with tendril to the pine,

And the air is sweetly laden

With rich odors from the vine;

And the walnut and the dogwood

Furnish dainties rich and rare,

For the chipmunk and the partridge,

Which perchance do wander there.

Where the otter slide is slickened,

And the weasel and the mink

Do come creeping down the river,

There to bathe and fish and drink,

And the red fox roams the forest,

And defies the fleetest hound,

And the panther in the forest

Makes a hideous screaming sound.

Here the brave would sit and tell them

Tales and myths told oft before,

Tales of war and of adventure,

By great chiefs now known no more;

And one night they heard the shrieking

Of a wildcat near the stream,

That awakened them from slumber

And disturbed their peaceful dream;

For a panther, fierce and fearless,

Had come creeping down the side

Of the cliffs far up the mountain,

Near the Hiawassee tide,

And they met down near the river,

And they fought down near the stream,

And they made the night grow hideous

With their awful shrieks and scream.

The Balsam Mountains.

In Jackson Co., N. C.

North from Sunset Rock, Tryon Mt.

Then she took her boat of hemlock,

And they launched it on the wave,

And they sat upon its gunnels,

Occoneechee squaw and brave,

And they pushed out in the current,

Where the waves were rolling high,

And the boat sped through the rapids,

Fast as flocks of pigeons fly.

Pushed they down and ever onward

Toward the placid Tennessee,

To the island and the inlet

Of the rolling Hiawassee.

Here they camped o’er night and rested,

Told they tales of long ago,

With their memories and sorrows

Breathed they out their care and woe.

Then they floated down the river,

On its smooth, unrippled tide.

To the creek of Chicamauga,

Where so many braves had died.

And they tented near the river,

Tied their boat up to the bank,

Where John Ross had crossed the river,

Where his ferryboat once sank.

Wandered through the vale of dryness,

Chattanooga’s pretty flow,

Clear as crystal, pure as sunbeams,

Winding hither too and fro.

Drank the waters, bathed they in it,

Fished and hunted stream and plain,

Where the buffalo once wandered,

But where none now doth remain.

Like a serpent that is crawling,

Wriggling, writhing, resting not,

Fleeing from a strange invader

To some lone secluded spot,

Winds and curves and turns forever,

In its course that has no end,

Swings to starboard and to larboard,

Round the Moccasin’s great bend.

Flows the river on forever,

By the nodding flowering tree,

Shedding fragrance like a censer,

Flows the pretty Tennessee;

On her bosom’s crest is carried

Precious burdens, rich and rare,

From the fertile fields about her,

And the ozone-laden air.

Occoneechee squaw and warrior

Rode the silver-flowing tide,

in the boat made out of hemlock,

Which so long had been their pride;

But the time now came for parting,

As must come in every life,

That is heir to human nature,

With its toil and woe and strife.

Here Sequatchie’s fertile valley,

They approached and must ascend,

Like the cloud before the sunbeam,

Driven by the fiercest wind;

Then they hid the boat of hemlock,

Sure and safe, then bade adieu,

To the boat upon the river,

Which had been their friend so true.

Then they mounted little ponies,

Fresh and sleek and fat and fast,

And they sped along the valley,

Like the birds upon the blast,

Looking for the handsome warrior,

Looking hither, glancing there,

And quite often on the journey,

They would stop to offer prayer;

But the valley held the secret;

Not a living man could wrest,

From the valley rich and fertile,

Secrets buried in its breast;

Though the tribe had ceased to own it,

Though the tribe had passed away,

From the valley of Sequatchie,

Like the fading of the day,

Still the signs and many tokens

Told a tale of war and strife,

Where the whites had used the rifle,

And the braves had used the knife,

For the bleaching bones of warriors

Were discovered everywhere,

And the hideous sight brought sorrow,

To this maiden now so fair,

Birds were singing in the forest,

Merrily and full of glee,

And a symphony unrivaled

Flooded forestland and lea;

With the mellow tones from singers,

Varied, versatile and sweet,

Came from forest and from meadow,

Came the attuned ear to greet.

And when evening shade would settle,

And the moon full rose to view,

And the zephyrs filled the valley,

And the flowers suffused with dew,

Then the nightingale would lure them

Or the mockingbird hold sway,

From the advent of Orion,

Till the dawning of the day.

Stretching meadows lay before them,

Rich with fragrance, rare with flowers,

Variegated blending colors

Lent a rapture to its bowers,

That outstripped the fields elysian,

Decked with Nature’s rarest guise,

Pleasure-house for wisest sages,

Such as only fools despise.

Such the scenes within the valley,

As they joyous sped along,

Filled with rapture, filled with pleasure,

At the scenery and the song.

Nature clapped her hands exultant,

In the sylvan groves so green,

Where the Goddess Proserpina

Was enthroned majestic queen.

Mighty warriors red with passion,

Once had trod this virgin soil,

And had rested in the valley,

When o’ercome by heat and toil;

Sportive maidens once delighted

To engage in dance and song,

With the warriors in the valley,

With the chieftains brave and strong.

But the mighty men and maidens

Long since ceased this land to roam,

Since the pale face armed with power,

Killed the braves and burned the home,

Took the land and burned the wigwam,

Bound the chief and drove away,

All the warriors, squaws and maidens,

Toward the golden close of day.

Happy children, wild with rapture,

Laughed with ecstasy and glee,

Once had filled the vale with echoes,

And had sported lithe and free,

All along the hill-locked valley,

Played lacrosse and strung the bow,

Ran the races, caught the squirrel,

In the distant long ago.

Sped they like the rolling torrent,

Thru the Appalachian chain,

With its towering peaks and gorges,

‘Mid its sunshine and its rain,

Sped along the flowing Chuckey,

With its reddened banks of clay,

Were delighted by its beauty,

Were enticed with it to stay;

Saw the rushing, rolling waters

Fall and foam and seeth below,

Saw the cascade of Watauga

Surging hither to and fro;

Looked with tireless vision upward,

Viewed from summits high and proud,

Landscapes grander than Olympus,

With their crags above the cloud.

“Occoneechee,” said the warrior,

In a gentle tone, and mild,

“I remember all this grandeur,

Since I was a little child,

I have traveled trail and mountain,

Chased Showono, deer and bear,