When the moon peers red through the cornfield,
And the dead leaves' rustle is still,
Then silently, stealthily creeping,
The Indians glide down the hill!
Hushed are the mice in the stubble;
Stayed is the hoot-owl's flight,
As squaws and braves and papooses
Like cloud-shadows drift through the night.
When dim 'mid the cornfield wigwams
The dancing fox-fire gleams,
While the dull, even throb of the tom-tom
Comes faintly up from the streams,
We know that the tribesmen are gathered,
The sachems have come their far ways,
And the white mist floats from their peace pipes
At the mystic feats of the Maize.