50 NEW YORK STATE MUSEUM 



mountains are proud, and push through the clouds to welcome me 

 as I blaze the east and the west and the north and the south ! 



Great Mother, behold your valleys, the paths of your guarding 

 hills ! The smoke of my ah-so-qua-ta is searching them far where 

 swift rivers run and lakes hide down. As the winds warn, the 

 trees bend low and loosen their leaves to soften the bed for the 

 winter snow; and the leaves fall fast, Mother Earth, red with your 

 blood in their dying breath, and gold with my parting touch! 



The trails of your valleys reach vast and long where your great 

 rivers meet, and your willing breast flows and nurses its young. 

 Great Mother, hug close your valleys while yet the smoke of my 

 ah-so-qua-ta shields ! Your deep-dwelling lakes are pale shadowed 

 and dim in the hiding haze of my ah-so-qua-ta as it loses its way 

 in their chasing waves; and over your face the mist falls low as 

 Go-ho-ne is capturing my glow for his icy veil that will cover you 

 down from my peering sky. 



Great Mother, listen! The smoke of my ah-so-qua-ta drifts, 

 my sleep spirit waits for its winter dream, and I speed as I go to 

 the land of my rest. I hear the voice of Go-ho-ne, it is hindering 

 and slow as it weaves your blanket of feathery snows. Shrink 

 you strong from the stealing cold that chills your breast where 

 your streams have fed. 



Your veins will grow little and race no more, and your heart will 

 hush slow when you turn from my gaze to the dark where your 

 echoes hide. Their voices are stilled, they search no more for my 

 Summer Day. Her feet are fastened with Ga-oh's thongs that bind 

 her from the torturing winds. Ga-oh is kind. 



Your mountains will wake when I come again, your mountains 

 will wake, your rivers run fast, and lakes cradle low. Go-ho-ne 

 will flee, I will burn his thongs. Your heart will hear my calling 

 voice. Your seeds will climb to my waiting glow, and your breast 

 flow swift to nourish your young. 



Great Mother, listen! I am A-deka-ga-gwaa, the Sun! I rule 

 the skies! I govern An-da. I chase Go-ho-ne. I frighten the 

 shriek of the Thunderer's voice when he furrows my paths with 

 his storms; but when I touch the wings of his flying clouds, they 

 fold the rains fast and sift dews to your thirsting vales. I scorch 

 and I burn, and I kill! I turn my face, and the tempests come. 

 When I sleep in my South, Go-ho-ne is bold, when I open my eyes, 

 Go-ho-ne flies, and He-no grows frightened and still! 



I am A-deka-ga-gwaa! I reign, and I rule all your lives! My 

 field is broad where swift clouds race, and chase, and climb, and 



