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By Markenturats Flowery Marge
But through the forest stealthily the white man came
in wrath, And fiery darts before them spread, and death was
in their path.
By Markentura's flowery marge next morn no strife
was seen, But a wail went up, for the young Fawn's blood and
White Cloud's dyed the green. A burial in their own rude way the Indians gave them
there, And a low sweet requiem the brook sang and the air.
Oh, the Spotted Fawn, oh, the Spotted Fawn, The life and light of the forest shade,— The Red Chief's child is gone!