“I strolled to meet the evening breeze
That blew so fresh through the green trees,
And view the country far and nigh –
The mount, the vale, the woods, the sky.
But, hark! what means that low dull sound,
Slowly rolling along the ground
Is it loud thunder that I hear?
Or is it a herd of elk or deer?
And hark! that rumbling sound again
Slowly rolling o’er the plain –
And now far away to the West,
I saw a storm cloud’s dismal crest,
And as I gazed, higher it grew,
Until the sun was hid from view.
A wild chaotic mass it seemed,
On every side bright lightning gleamed.
Chekiwow had given command
That every warrior of the band
Should arm and be prepared to fight, –
‘For danger hovers round to-night!’