Ohio History Journal

The Black Hand.                  455

 

the rock was in mute appeal and forcibly reminded the wayfarer in

a way at once forcible, as it was poetical, that thus far and no

farther should the waves of unglutted vengeance roll. The hand

marked the portal of a sanctuary which was sacred to the

savage, whose lust for blood rose above every other considera-

tion in his narrow but intense, isolated but eventful life.

 

THE CHIEFTAIN WACOUSTA, THE YOUNG LAHKOPIS, AND

THE MAIDEN AHYOMAH.

 

MRS. DAVID GEBHART.

"An unremembered Past

Broods like a presence, midst

These cliffs and hills."

Many moons ago, long before the pale face came across

the Great Water to this land, here upon the bank of the Pataskala,

was the lodge of the great chief Powkongah, whose daughter

Ahyomah was fair as the dawn and graceful as the swan that

floats on the lake. Her eyes were soft and shy as the eyes of a

young deer, her voice sweet and low as the note of the cooing

dove. Two braves were there who looked upon her with eyes of

love, and each was fain to lead her from the lodge of her father,

that she might bring light and joy and contentment to his own.

At last said the chief, her father, "No longer shall ye contend for

the hand of Ahyomah, my daughter. Go ye now forth upon the

war path, and when three moons have passed see that ye come

hither once more, and then I swear by the Great Spirit that to

him who shall carry at his belt the greatest number of scalps

shall be given the hand of Ahyomah, my daughter."   Three

months had waxed greater and grown less ere the warriors re-

turned. Then, upon the day appointed, behold, all the tribe gath-

ered to view the counting of the scalps. First stepped forth Wa-

cousta, a grim visaged warrior, who had long parted company

with fleet-footed youth, and walked soberly with middle man-

hood. From his belt he took his trophies, one by one, and laid

them at the feet of the chief, while from behind the lodge door

Ahyomah, unseen by all, looked fearfully forth upon the scene.

With each fresh scalp the clouds settled more and more darkly

The Black Hand.                   457

 

thyself be beaten by the cunning right hand of a boy! Disgraced

thou art, and no longer shalt thou be numbered among the

members of my frame." And the hand clung to the rock and

turned black, and spread and grew until it was as the hand of

a giant; and while the chief, Ahyomah and the tribe stood silently

watching the wonder, the defeated warrior wrapped his robe

about him, spoke no word of farewell, and striding swiftly into

the dark depths of the forest, was seen no more by man.

 

THE BLACK HAND.

 

HON. ALFRED KELLEY.

Have you ever seen the place where the murderer's hand

Had instamped on the rock its indelible brand,

A stain which nor water nor time could efface?

'Tis a deep lonely glen, 'tis a wild gloomy place,

Where the waters of Licking so silently lave,

Where the huge frowning rock high impends o'er the wave,

On whose pine-covered summit we hear the deep sigh

When the zephyrs of evening so gently pass by.

Here a generous savage was once doomed to bleed,

'Twas the treacherous white man committed the deed.

The hand of the murderer fixed the imprint,

'Twas the blood of the victim that gave the black tint.

A captive in battle the white man was made,

And deep in the wilds is the victim conveyed,

Here far from his kindred the youth must be slain,

His prayers, his entreaties, his struggles are vain.

The war dance is treading, his death song is singing,

And the wild savage yell in his ears is a-ringing.

The fire for the torture is blazing on high,

His death doom is sealed, here the white man must die,

The hatchet is raised, the weapon descends,

But quick an old chief o'er the victim now bends.

The hatchet he seizes and hurls to the ground.

He raises the youth and his limbs are unbound.

"My son fell in battle," exclaims the old chief,

"But ye saw not my sorrow, tho' deep was my grief,