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 SummerKate 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 meWith a low and soft refrain,While the golden leaves and scarletFluttered down to catch the strain. And the grand old trees above me,As their stately branches swayed,Threw across my couch of crimsonMore of sunlight than of shade. I had lain there dreaming, musingOn the summer's vanished bloom,Wondering if each penciled leafletDid not mark some flow'ret's tomb ; Thinking how each tree could tell meMany a tale of warrior's fame;Gazing at the sky, and askingHow the ''Indian Summer' came. Then methought a whispered cadenceStole 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 legendOn the margin of a brook. “'Tis about an Indian maiden,She the star-flower of her race,With a heart whose soft emotionsRippled 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 presenceOne, a ‘pale-face,’ young and brave,But whom youth nor manly valorCould from savage vengeance save. “‘Bring him forth!’ in tones of thunderThus 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 hatredGlared within the warrior's eye; 'And the frown upon his foreheadDarker, deeper, sterner grew ;While the lowering clouds above themHid the face of heaven from view. ''Spare him ! oh, my father, spare him!'Friend and foe were thrust apart,While the golden thread of sunlightTwined 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 wigwamOn 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 slumberedTill the spring-time came again,Earthward from his garnered brightnessThrew 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 anotherTo the lovely maid he won,Nature still receives her tributeFrom the wigwam of the sun. ' Here, alone, this shining symbolGilds the streamlet, warms the sod,For no Indian Summer comethSave 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.