Classic Poem

She wore a bright red ribbon in her hair,
Little Mary Tamahaw,
Seventh daughter of old Charlie Tamahaw
And his squaw.
She was like a lily pale and fair,
Like a golden lily, for her skin
Never reddened with the Indian stain,
Never coarsened with the wind and rain.

She was silent, wouldn't talk to us
When we teased or tried to make a fuss
When we came to buy the moccasins
That her mother cut from the moose skins; —
Only sat and smiled, and smiling slid
Out of sight beneath the furs and hid. —
Little Mary Tamahaw,
Seventh daughter of old Charlie Tamahaw
And his squaw.

City folks came, coaxed her far away
" Down below " to New York town to stay;
Gave her play-houses and costly things,
Shetland ponies and some bright gold rings,
Ribbons that she wanted. She was glad
For a while, then something made her sad.
She was lonely for the old North River

For the sunset flames that leap and quiver
In the sky when dusk of night is falling?
Did she hear the grey mist-spirits calling?
No one ever knew;
Only saw her life-stream going — going —
Like a weary river flowing — flowing.

In a palace on Fifth Avenue,
Where the walls were painted every hue,
Where the rain could never drip and seep
Down the gilded walls, she fell asleep,
Broken, like a springtime lily golden,
Plucked from out the forest gray and olden. —
Little Mary Tamahaw,
Seventh daughter of Old Charlie Tamahaw
And his squaw.