About every other Sunday afternoon we would get a long distance call from Wisconsin. It would be from Dorothy, Ruby's second cousin. They always had lots of news for each other, They both grew up in Chippawa Falls. Ruby was very glad to get the call and would say "Hi dear heart," and on they talked. She loved the town and told me about a river than ran right through it.

One summer day we drove all the way to San Clemente for a Chippawa Falls yearly picnic. It was hard to find as it was back on a side road near the beach. Next we had to walk down a long dirt path. Two ladies met us and helped Ruby down the hill. She only knew a couple of them but they all were interested in her.

After lunch they asked her if she would tell them a story or recite something and of course, she did. She sang them a song or two. Then we took the long hike back up to the car and drove the 65 miles back to San Diego. It was a long, fun day.

Sometimes Ruby's relatives wrote her from Chippawa Falls and I read the letter to her. Her nickname was Birdie and I found out it was because she was small and never sat still. When Ruby didn't feel like talking on the phone I would answer for her. I found out they had large caves in Chippawa Falls where they stored ice in the winter and used it in the summer. Her cousin lived there her whole life.

Ruby played with the Indian children when she was young and thought they were badly treated by our country. She wrote this beautiful poem about them.

FIRES OF THE SIOUX

This is the valley of our sunset!
This is the valley of our silence!

Hear the grey smoke of rememberance,
Incense sweet, with pine and balsam,
Drifts in now to stir and lull us.

Where once the red flames danced so madly
And smoke plumed answering and asking,
Now embers only light the long years into the future.
Light the years into the future.

***

Braves now fill the council circle,
And the flames grow brighter, leaping.

In silence sit the wise, the old men.
They pass the peace pipe of our fathers.
Hold it tightly in gnarled fingers.
Wrinkled lips breathe out the smoke rings.
Ask that sky above receive it.
With dignity and meditation
They grace the ritual of the "old ones."

***

"To North, to South, to East, to West."
The prayers of smoke cling in the wind."

To all we have been in the past
We dedicate the future years.
May increased knowledge now be ours
And far distant futures sung.
Comes now this hush, this silver silence.
Prayers broken only by a bird song.
Prayers for the birth of guided wisdom.

***

Time comes for each to speak his thought.
How tall and very straight they stand!

Each in his turn the old ones speak.
Quavering voices, each willed to strength,
Heads held high, with hands and hearts, they speak.
Sense life outside the firelight's glow
Young eyes that see and intent ears that hear,
Tribe mothers, youths whose arms are strong
Could lift the load from weary ones, and lead.

***

And how good is all remembering!
Tell it true, the past, the future.
Tell tales of valor, war steeds prancing,
Wild tales that set young hearts to dancing
To the lauding songs of valor,
Merged together, past and future,
Shadows dancing with the present.
Brilliantly the flames are wirling,
And how good is the remembering!

***

Bright stars listen as our hearts call
To our sons in far flung battles.
Call to sons on foreign shores,
To strange lands and distant places
Where too long our sons have tarried.
"Tell us, tell us of your wanderings.
Tell us of the smoke of battle."
For you woodland paths are lonely.
Sad hearts and empty lodges call you.

***

"oh, moon guard paths where young braves wander.
In deep, dark forests guard their sleeping."

Scent their blood with campfires smokey.
Let the wild loon cry their plight
Against the canopy of night. (oh, may they hear!)
The timed deer with high tossed antler
Scents the wood for peace or danger.
The sturgeon, trout and muskellunge
Show shining bellies to the sun. (oh , may they see!)

***

Each one has spoken of his heart's need.
The council fire's flame is dying.
Grey embers die- and now the dancers
Steal one by one into the shadows.
Soon their hushed and quiet voices
Still sleepy children in the wigwams.
"Wasta okchela, be strong son,
Wah-kon-ton-kah guards each one, son."
They lull them softly into slumber.

***

Now only one old man is resting,
Waiting, listing by the ashes.
Close he draws his blanket around him,
Shields his frail and aching body
From probing fingers of the night wind.
Only one old man, in dreaming,
Thinks he hears the eerie voices,
Hears the ponies thudding hoofbeats.
Looks into the sky and listens.

***

Eerie voices calling to him
Eerie voices on the night wind!
Then from the stars and from the oceans,
Across the plains and deep, wide valleys
On the cold wind comes the voices.
Spoken words of Sioux. He hears them
And he sees both red and white men
Riding, waving, calling to him.
Quick! He answers them with longing.

***

"Hear, Father! On these great heights
White brothers ride with us tonight!
Come, oh come where we are going
To the land of peace and hunting
Where the arrow speeds in flight
And the bow is never broken!"
The old one rises tall and stalwart
Answers them in strength and vigor
Answers them and rides beside them!

***

White the ashes! Cold the embers!
---But tell us, tell us of the future.

In the smoke of future campfires
Sire to son will tell the stories.

Relate the stirring tales of heartbreak.
Of happy hunting in lands hereafter.
Sons and their sons' sons will listen
And in their hearts it will be written
And it shall not be a death knell!

-- By Ruby Harris

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Miss Muriel