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Many were the warriors who loved her, Many were the gifts laid at her father's feet; But to the warriors her father spoke: "She is my best beloved, the flower of my
heart, Her way is my way." Calm as the mountain lake was the heart of
the Rose— The heart of Onjinjintka, the Rose.
From the land of the rising sun a white man
came, Yellow as gold was his hair and he laughed After the manner of his tribe— Face to face met they—face to face, Onjinjintka, the Rose and he of the yellow hair, The maid seeing no evil in his smile.
For he would pluck the wild rose and when its
fragrance died, Fling it down in the dust of forgetfulness. Onjinjintka basked in his smile, It was as the south wind to her soul. The white man abided with us to the Spirit
Hills. Happy then was Onjinjintka, the Rose.
Here at the foot of the Spirit Hills we made
our camp, Going no farther, being fearful of the anger of