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231 Soft-footed, swift, but surely— Thou dwellest in the sky Within a lodge of ice and cold, Oh! Phantom maiden of the North! Thou art not real or mortal— But here amid the forests Dwells thine likeness there, She, a vision full of life, She, a tender sapling, And with heart like unto thine. Neeburban, dusky full-breasted sylph.⁶ Fred Ranco (1932–2008) Fred Ranco grew up on Indian Island during the Great Depression, enlisted in the U.S. Army near the end of World War II, and later joined the National Guard in Bangor. Like many Penobscots of his generation, he also worked for the Old Town Canoe Company. After marrying an Abenaki woman he moved to New Hampshire for forty years. He maintained a small Indian crafts shop in Albany and during this time met journalist Tara Marvel, who recorded his life story. The poem below appeared in the March 1979 issue of the Wabanaki Alliance, a Native American newspaper (1977–82) that covered regional politics and culture and was read across Indian Country. The Avenger To you, the great white hunters Who shot off my buffalo. And also for you the great bald eagle Also had to go. 232 penobscot The eagle was our talisman. The buffalo, our life. You left us naught but empty land You left us only strife. My war bonnet’s getting ragged My teepee lets in snow. I have no hides to patch it, And no eagle feathers grow. The great white buffalo, whose spirit Once led our braves to game You’ve driven far from our lands Now, there’s nothing the same. There were buffalo that flourished As far as your eye could see Led by the white bull buffalo For the other braves, and me. Now, as you look upon the plain All you see is dust on the land. Like Egypt country overworked And ended up as a pile of sand. My ambition is so much greater I vanquish all the deer I’ll poach them till they vanish And no more will be here. And then, you mighty hunters You’ll eat your lowly cow. And roam no more on Indian lands To you, I make this vow. ...

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