Northwestern State University - Potpourri Yearbook (Natchitoches, LA)

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The Theme of Our Book HE theme of the 1929 Potpourri is based upon the Indian, the Natchi- toches Indian, called by many the chinkapin eaters. In the building of this volume, I he staff members have tried in their imagination to glimpse back into the past when the Red man of the Natchitoches tribe quietly and peacefully went his way. They have tried to picture him as he hunted the fleet-footed deer in the forests or as he glided swiftly along in his birch canoe through the waters of the muddy Red. They have watched him return from his trips, and they have seen him gathr his little family about him in his wigwam to tell them stories of by-gone days. But the days of the Natchitoches Indian are gone. On the banks of the river he loved so well and on the hills he loved to roam, there dwells another race, a people that have learned to love the old Red and the little Pine Hills as well as the Red Man. The Indian has gone but slil his spirit lingers. And at evening when the sun is sinking low. It sends searchingly its long red fingers Over the paths he used to go. Where the quiet green-blue water ripp ' es Mid graceful swaying tall cane brake- Where the fading sunlight lies caressingly Over the calm Cane River Lake; In this spot once a mad wild river Carrying all before it, red with mud, Ran dauntlessly unbridled onward Like flowing unchecked blood. And near this wandering restless river A tribe of Indians built their home Where life is dreamy soft and pleasant And chinquapin trees bloom. Here is this sleepy little village Through Spring ' s freshness of growing, Through summer ' s lazy dustiness and heat, Through autumn ' s glory, winter ' s blowing. They lived their life, were born, grew old And died. And in the wild magnolia trees Squaws hung their fretting papooses Where they were swung asleep by the breeze. POTi

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Here Braves gathered ' round the old warrior. Who told them tales of warfare in his day; And how the Way they fought now would have been To him in his time mere child ' s play. A lichen covered stone and arch of vine aswing An ancient tree weighed down with growth of years. Perhaps ' twas here the chiefs smoked their pipes While dancing braves aroused their victim ' s fears. ' Twas under this same scarlet rising moon The Indian maiden waited for her lover, S ' anding outlined in dim silhoutte on the b ' uff While the moon as now peeped from a cloud ' s cover. In time the restless river forgot its course. It found another route, a shorter one to sea. And only a tiny stream ran where it had been. There Was no mad rushing as there used to be. All must pass— nothing lingers. Nations, unions, people, kings So passed the Indian and his village Into oblivion of past things- Years later the Cane river stream was dammed, And transformed into a Lake; But the sunlight remembers, the moonlight too, When they play about the swaying cane brake. What was here is but a memory; And memories fade, grow dim with age. But oft one finds a broken arrow or two Among the rocks and leaves of swaying sage. When hush of morning broods Across the fields still wet with pearly mist. Out of the quiet deep bosomed woods, are Indian Lovers parting from their tryst. The songs they sang still whisper in the wind. And when the breezes sing among the bral(e Reminiscently of folk they once did know Who lived and died near Cane River Lake. The songs they sang are whispered in the wind. The breezes sigh the lingering refrain Like pictures painted in a fire at night These faded years are with us once again. —Hilda Perini