And winging over and through this Babel
Babel of Indian Tongues
But the plain swarms with the living. Furred, feathered and painted, Splotching the meadows with bright colors, they crowd around the pennant of some favorite chief, or gather about the smoky camp-fires, or welcome the late comers at the shore, where a thousand canoes already deck the beach. Coppery skins glisten everywhere in the bright sunshine. There is a medley of sounds as well; the puttering voice of the Sioux, the deep gutteral tones of the Chippewas, the pitched tones of the lower-lake Hurons; the shrill yip-yipping of the northern wolf-dogs, children calling one another cheerily across the green, the piping gulls circling overhead. And winging over and through this Babel comes the deep and steady diapason of the rapids unconfined.
It would have been worth your while to look upon a council in session in the great lodge extended perhaps a hundred feet for the occasion...