VIIHIAWATHA'S SAILING

Two good friends had Hiawatha,Singled out from all the others,Bound to him in closest union,And to whom he gave the right handOf his heart, in joy and sorrow;Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind.Straight between them ran the pathway,Never grew the grass upon it;Singing birds, that utter falsehoods,Story-tellers, mischief-makers,Found no eager ear to listen,Could not breed ill-will between them,For they kept each other's counsel,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.Most beloved by HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers.Beautiful and childlike was he,Brave as man is, soft as woman,Pliant as a wand of willow,Stately as a deer with antlers.When he sang, the village listened;All the warriors gathered round him,All the women came to hear him;Now he stirred their souls to passion,Now he melted them to pity.From the hollow reeds he fashionedFlutes so musical and mellow,That the brook, the Sebowisha,Ceased to murmur in the woodland,That the wood-birds ceased from singing,And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,And the rabbit, the Wabasso,Sat upright to look and listen.Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha,Pausing, said, "O Chibiabos,Teach my waves to flow in music,Softly as your words in singing!"Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa,Envious, said, "O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as wild and wayward,Teach me songs as full of frenzy!"Yes, the robin, the Opechee,Joyous, said, "O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as sweet and tender,Teach me songs as full of gladness!"And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa,Sobbing, said, "O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as melancholy,Teach me songs as full of sadness!"All the many sounds of natureBorrowed sweetness from his singing;All the hearts of men were softenedBy the pathos of his music;For he sang of peace and freedom,Sang of beauty, love, and longing;Sang of death, and life undyingIn the Islands of the Blessed,In the kingdom of Ponemah,In the land of the Hereafter.Very dear to HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers;For his gentleness he loved him,And the magic of his singing.Dear, too, unto HiawathaWas the very strong man, Kwasind,He the strongest of all mortals,He the mightiest among many;For his very strength he loved him,For his strength allied to goodness.Idle in his youth was Kwasind,Very listless, dull, and dreamy,Never played with other children,Never fished and never hunted,Not like other children was he;But they saw that much he fasted,Much his Manito entreated,Much besought his Guardian Spirit."Lazy Kwasind!" said his mother,"In my work you never help me!In the Summer you are roamingIdly in the fields and forests;In the Winter you are coweringO'er the firebrands in the wigwam!In the coldest days of WinterI must break the ice for fishing;With my nets you never help me!At the door my nets are hanging,Dripping, freezing with the water;Go and wring them, Yenadizze!Go and dry them in the sunshine!"Slowly, from the ashes, KwasindRose, but made no angry answer;From the lodge went forth in silence,Took the nets, that hung together,Dripping, freezing at the doorway;Like a wisp of straw he wrung them,Like a wisp of straw he broke them,Could not wring them without breaking,Such the strength was in his fingers."Lazy Kwasind!" said his father,"In the hunt you never help me;Every bow you touch is broken,Snapped asunder every arrow;Yet come with me to the forest,You shall bring the hunting homeward."Down a narrow pass they wandered,Where a brooklet led them onward,Where the trail of deer and bisonMarked the soft mud on the margin,Till they found all further passageShut against them, barred securelyBy the trunks of trees uprooted,Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise,And forbidding further passage."We must go back," said the old man,"O'er these logs we cannot clamber;Not a woodchuck could get through them,Not a squirrel clamber o'er them!"And straightway his pipe he lighted,And sat down to smoke and ponder.But before his pipe was finished,Lo! the path was cleared before him;All the trunks had Kwasind lifted,To the right hand, to the left hand,Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows,Hurled the cedars light as lances."Lazy Kwasind!" said the young men,As they sported in the meadow:"Why stand idly looking at us,Leaning on the rock behind you?Come and wrestle with the others,Let us pitch the quoit together!"Lazy Kwasind made no answer,To their challenge made no answer,Only rose, and slowly turning,Seized the huge rock in his fingers,Tore it from its deep foundation,Poised it in the air a moment,Pitched it sheer into the river,Sheer into the swift Pauwating,Where it still is seen in Summer.Once as down that foaming river,Down the rapids of Pauwating,Kwasind sailed with his companions,In the stream he saw a beaver,Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers,Struggling with the rushing currents,Rising, sinking in the water.Without speaking, without pausing,Kwasind leaped into the river,Plunged beneath the bubbling surface,Through the whirlpools chased the beaver,Followed him among the islands,Stayed so long beneath the water,That his terrified companionsCried, "Alas! good-by to Kwasind!We shall never more see Kwasind!"But he reappeared triumphant,And upon his shining shouldersBrought the beaver, dead and dripping,Brought the King of all the Beavers.And these two, as I have told you,Were the friends of Hiawatha,Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind.Long they lived in peace together,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.VIIHIAWATHA'S SAILING"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!Growing by the rushing river,Tall and stately in the valley!I a light canoe will build me,Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,That shall float on the river,Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,Like a yellow water-lily!"Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,For the Summer-time is coming,And the sun is warm in heaven,And you need no white-skin wrapper!"Thus aloud cried HiawathaIn the solitary forest,By the rushing Taquamenaw,When the birds were singing gayly,In the Moon of Leaves were singing,And the sun, from sleep awaking,Started up and said, "Behold me!Gheezis, the great Sun, behold me!"And the tree with all its branchesRustled in the breeze of morning,Saying, with a sigh of patience,"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"With his knife the tree he girdled;Just beneath its lowest branches,Just above the roots, he cut it,Till the sap came oozing outward;Down the trunk, from top to bottom,Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,With a wooden wedge he raised it,Stripped it from the trunk unbroken."Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!Of your strong and pliant branches,My canoe to make more steady,Make more strong and firm beneath me!"Through the summit of the CedarWent a sound, a cry of horror,Went a murmur of resistance;But it whispered, bending downward,'Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,Shaped them straightway to a framework,Like two bows he formed and shaped them,Like two bended bows together."Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!My canoe to bind together,So to bind the ends togetherThat the water may not enter,That the river may not wet me!"And the Larch, with all its fibres,Shivered in the air of morning,Touched his forehead with its tassels,Slid, with one long sigh of sorrow."Take them all, O Hiawatha!"From the earth he tore the fibres,Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,Closely sewed the bark together,Bound it closely to the frame-work."Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!Of your balsam and your resin,So to close the seams togetherThat the water may not enter,That the river may not wet me!"And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,Rattled like a shore with pebbles,Answered wailing, answered weeping,"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"And he took the tears of balsam,Took the resin of the Fir-tree,Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,Made each crevice safe from water."Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!I will make a necklace of them,Make a girdle for my beauty,And two stars to deck her bosom!"From a hollow tree the HedgehogWith his sleepy eyes looked at him,Shot his shining quills, like arrows,Saying with a drowsy murmur,Through the tangle of his whiskers,"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"From the ground the quills he gathered,All the little shining arrows,Stained them red and blue and yellow,With the juice of roots and berries;Into his canoe he wrought them,Round its waist a shining girdle,Round its bows a gleaming necklace,On its breast two stars resplendent.Thus the Birch Canoe was buildedIn the valley, by the river,In the bosom of the forest;And the forest's life was in it,All its mystery and its magic,All the lightness of the birch-tree,All the toughness of the cedar,All the larch's supple sinews;And it floated on the riverLike a yellow leaf in Autumn,Like a yellow water-lily.Paddles none had Hiawatha,Paddles none he had or needed,For his thoughts as paddles served him,And his wishes served to guide him;Swift or slow at will he glided,Veered to right or left at pleasure.Then he called aloud to Kwasind,To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,Saying, "Help me clear this riverOf its sunken logs and sand-bars."Straight into the river KwasindPlunged as if he were an otter,Dived as if he were a beaver,Stood up to his waist in water,To his arm-pits in the river,Swam and scouted in the river,Tugged at sunken logs and branches,With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,With his feet the ooze and tangle.And thus sailed my HiawathaDown the rushing Taquamenaw,Sailed through all its bends and windings,Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.Up and down the river went they,In and out among its islands,Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,Dragged the dead trees from its channel,Made its passage safe and certain,Made a pathway for the people,From its springs among the mountains,To the waters of Pauwating,To the bay of Taquamenaw.VIIIHIAWATHA'S FISHINGForth upon the Gitche Gumee,On the shining Big-Sea-Water,With his fishing-line of cedar,Of the twisted bark of cedar,Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,In his birch canoe exultingAll alone went Hiawatha.Through the clear, transparent waterHe could see the fishes swimmingFar down in the depths below him;See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,Like a sunbeam in the water,See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,Like a spider on the bottom,On the white and sandy bottom.At the stern sat Hiawatha,With his fishing-line of cedar;In his plumes the breeze of morningPlayed as in the hemlock branches;On the bows, with tail erected,Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;In his fur the breeze of morningPlayed as in the prairie grasses.On the white sand of the bottomLay the monster Mishe-Nahma,Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;Through his gills he breathed the water,With his fins he fanned and winnowed,With his tail he swept the sand-floor.There he lay in all his armor;On each side a shield to guard him,Plates of bone upon his forehead,Down his sides and back and shouldersPlates of bone with spines projectingPainted was he with his war-paints,Stripes of yellow, red, and azure,Spots of brown and spots of sable;And he lay there on the bottom,Fanning with his fins of purple,As above him HiawathaIn his birch canoe came sailing,With his fishing-line of cedar."Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,Down into the depths beneath him,"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!Come up from below the water,Let us see which is the stronger!"And he dropped his line of cedarThrough the clear, transparent water,Waited vainly for an answer,Long sat waiting for an answer,And repeating loud and louder,"Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,Fanning slowly in the water,Looking up at Hiawatha,Listening to his call and clamor,His unnecessary tumult,Till he wearied of the shouting;And he said to the Kenozha,To the pike, the Maskenozha,"Take the bait of this rude fellow,Break the line of Hiawatha!"In his fingers HiawathaFelt the loose line jerk and tighten;As he drew it in, it tugged soThat the birch canoe stood endwise,Like a birch log in the water,With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Perched and frisking on the summit.Full of scorn was HiawathaWhen he saw the fish rise upward,Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,Coming nearer, nearer to him,And he shouted through the water,"Esa! esa! shame upon you!You are but the pike, Kenozha,You are not the fish I wanted,You are not the King of Fishes!"Reeling downward to the bottomSank the pike in great confusion,And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,To the bream, with scales of crimson,"Take the bait of this great boaster,Break the line of Hiawatha!"Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,Seized the line of Hiawatha,Swung with all his weight upon it,Made a whirlpool in the water,Whirled the birch canoe in circles,Round and round in gurgling eddies,Till the circles in the waterReached the far-off sandy beaches,Till the water-flags and rushesNodded on the distant margins.But when Hiawatha saw himSlowly rising through the water,Lifting up his disk refulgent,Loud he shouted in derision,"Esa! esa! shame upon you!You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,You are not the fish I wanted,You are not the King of Fishes!"Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,And again the sturgeon, Nahma,Heard the shout of Hiawatha,Heard his challenge of defiance,The unnecessary tumult,Ringing far across the water.From the white sand of the bottomUp he rose with angry gesture,Quivering in each nerve and fibre,Clashing all his plates of armor,Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;In his wrath he darted upward,Flashing leaped into the sunshine,Opened his great jaws, and swallowedBoth canoe and Hiawatha.Down into that darksome cavernPlunged the headlong Hiawatha,As a log on some black riverShoots and plunges down the rapids,Found himself in utter darkness,Groped about in helpless wonder,Till he felt a great heart beating,Throbbing in that utter darkness.And he smote it in his anger,With his fist, the heart of Nahma,Felt the mighty King of FishesShudder through each nerve and fibre,Heard the water gurgle round himAs he leaped and staggered through it,Sick at heart, and faint and weary.Crosswise then did HiawathaDrag his birch-canoe for safety,Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,In the turmoil and confusion,Forth he might be hurled and perish.And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Frisked and chatted very gayly,Toiled and tugged with HiawathaTill the labor was completed.Then said Hiawatha to him,"O my little friend, the squirrel,Bravely have you toiled to help me;Take the thanks of Hiawatha,And the name which now he gives you;For hereafter and foreverBoys shall call you Adjidaumo,Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"And again the sturgeon, Nahma,Gasped and quivered in the water,Then was still, and drifted landwardTill he grated on the pebbles,Till the listening HiawathaHeard him grate upon the margin,Felt him strand upon the pebbles,Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,Lay there dead upon the margin.Then he heard a clang and flapping,As of many wings assembling,Heard a screaming and confusion,As of birds of prey contending,Saw a gleam of light above him,Shining through the ribs of Nahma,Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,Gazing at him through the opening,Heard them saying to each other,"'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"And he shouted from below them,Cried exulting from the caverns:"O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;Make the rifts a little larger,With your claws the openings widen,Set me free from this dark prison,And henceforward and foreverMen shall speak of your achievements,Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"And the wild and clamorous sea-gullsToiled with beak and claws together,Made the rifts and openings widerIn the mighty ribs of Nahma,And from peril and from prison,From the body of the sturgeon,From the peril of the water,They released my Hiawatha.He was standing near his wigwam,On the margin of the water,And he called to old Nokomis,Called and beckoned to Nokomis,Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,Lying lifeless on the pebbles,With the sea-gulls feeding on him."I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;"Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;Drive them not away, Nokomis,They have saved me from great perilIn the body of the sturgeon,Wait until their meal is ended,Till their craws are full with feasting,Till they homeward fly, at sunset,To their nests among the marshes;Then bring all your pots and kettles,And make oil for us in Winter."And she waited till the sun set,Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,Rose above the tranquil water,Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,From their banquet rose with clamor,And across the fiery sunsetWinged their way to far-off islands,To their nests among the rushes.To his sleep went Hiawatha,And Nokomis to her labor,Toiling patient in the moonlight,Till the sun and moon changed places,Till the sky was red with sunrise,And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,Came back from the reedy islands,Clamorous for their morning banquet.Three whole days and nights alternateOld Nokomis and the sea-gullsStripped the oily flesh of Nahma,Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,Till the sea-gulls came no longer,And upon the sands lay nothingBut the skeleton of Nahma.IXHIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHEROn the shores of Gitche Gumee,Of the shining Big-Sea-Water,Stood Nokomis, the old woman,Pointing with her finger westward,O'er the water pointing westward,To the purple clouds of sunset.Fiercely the red sun descendingBurned his way along the heavens,Set the sky on fire behind him,As war-parties, when retreating,Burn the prairies on their war-trail;And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward,Suddenly starting from his ambush,Followed fast those bloody footprints,Followed in that fiery war-trail,With its glare upon his features.And Nokomis, the old woman,Pointing with her finger westward,Spake these words to Hiawatha:"Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather,Megissogwon, the Magician,Manito of Wealth and Wampum,Guarded by his fiery serpents,Guarded by the black pitch-water.You can see his fiery serpents,The Kenabeek, the great serpents,Coiling, playing in the water;You can see the black pitch-waterStretching far away beyond them,To the purple clouds of sunset!"He it was who slew my father,By his wicked wiles and cunning,When he from the moon descended,When he came on earth to seek me.He, the mightiest of Magicians,Sends the fever from the marshes,Sends the pestilential vapors,Sends the poisonous exhalations,Sends the white fog from the fen-lands,Sends disease and death among us!"Take your bow, O Hiawatha,Take your arrows, jasper-headed,Take your war-club, Puggawaugun,And your mittens, Minjekahwun,And your birch-canoe for sailing,And the oil of Mishe-Nahma,So to smear its sides, that swiftlyYou may pass the black pitch-water;Slay this merciless magician,Save the people from the feverThat he breathes across the fen-lands,And avenge my father's murder!"Straightway then my HiawathaArmed himself with all his war-gear,Launched his birch-canoe for sailing;With his palm its sides he patted,Said with glee, "Cheemaun, my darling,O my Birch-canoe! leap forward,Where you see the fiery serpents,Where you see the black pitch-water!"Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting,And the noble HiawathaSang his war-song wild and woful,And above him the war-eagle,The Keneu, the great war-eagle,Master of all fowls with feathers,Screamed and hurtled through the heavens.Soon he reached the fiery serpents,The Kenabeek, the great serpents,Lying huge upon the water,Sparkling, rippling in the water,Lying coiled across the passage,With their blazing crests uplifted,Breathing fiery fogs and vapors,So that none could pass beyond them.But the fearless HiawathaCried aloud, and spake in this wise:"Let me pass my way, Kenabeek,Let me go upon my journey!"And they answered, hissing fiercely,With their fiery breath made answer:"Back, go back! O Shaugodaya!Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!"Then the angry HiawathaRaised his mighty bow of ash-tree,Seized his arrows, jasper-headed,Shot them fast among the serpents;Every twanging of the bow-stringWas a war-cry and a death-cry,Every whizzing of an arrowWas a death-song of Kenabeek.Weltering in the bloody water,Dead lay all the fiery serpents,And among them HiawathaHarmless sailed, and cried exulting:"Onward, O Cheemaun, my darling!Onward to the black pitch-water!"Then he took the oil of Nahma,And the bows and sides anointed,Smeared them well with oil, that swiftlyHe might pass the black pitch-water.All night long he sailed upon it,Sailed upon that sluggish water,Covered with its mould of ages,Black with rotting water-rushes,Rank with flags and leaves of lilies,Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal,Lighted by the shimmering moonlight,And by will-o'-the-wisps illumined,Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled,In their weary night-encampments.All the air was white with moonlight,All the water black with shadow,And around him the Suggema,The mosquito, sang his war-song,And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee,Waved their torches to mislead him;And the bull-frog, the Dahinda,Thrust his head into the moonlight,Fixed his yellow eyes upon him,Sobbed and sank beneath the surface;And anon a thousand whistles,Answered over all the fen-lands,And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,Far off on the reedy margin,Heralded the hero's coming.Westward thus fared Hiawatha,Toward the realm of Megissogwon,Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather,Till the level moon stared at him,In his face stared pale and haggard,Till the sun was hot behind him,Till it burned upon his shoulders,And before him on the uplandHe could see the Shining WigwamOf the Manito of Wampum,Of the mightiest of Magicians.Then once more Cheemaun he patted,To his birch-canoe said, "Onward!"And it stirred in all its fibres,And with one great bound of triumphLeaped across the water-lilies,Leaped through tangled flags and rushes,And upon the beach beyond themDry-shod landed Hiawatha.Straight he took his bow of ash-tree,On the sand one end he rested,With his knee he pressed the middle,Stretched the faithful bow-string tighter,Took an arrow, jasper-headed,Shot it at the Shining Wigwam,Sent it singing as a herald,As a bearer of his message,Of his challenge loud and lofty:"Come forth from your lodge, Pearl-Feather!Hiawatha waits your coming!"Straightway from the Shining WigwamCame the mighty Megissogwon,Tall of stature, broad of shoulder,Dark and terrible in aspect,Clad from head to foot in wampum,Armed with all his warlike weapons,Painted like the sky of morning,Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow,Crested with great eagle-feathers,Streaming upward, streaming outward."Well I know you, Hiawatha!"Cried he in a voice of thunder,In a tone of loud derision."Hasten back, O Shaugodaya!Hasten back among the women,Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!I will slay you as you stand there,As of old I slew her father!"But my Hiawatha answered,Nothing daunted, fearing nothing:"Big words do not smite like war-clubs,Boastful breath is not a bow-string,Taunts are not so sharp as arrows,Deeds are better things than words are,Actions mightier than boastings!"Then began the greatest battleThat the sun had ever looked on,That the war-birds ever witnessed.All a Summer's day it lasted,From the sunrise to the sunset;For the shafts of HiawathaHarmless hit the shirt of wampum,Harmless fell the blows he dealt itWith his mittens, Minjekahwun,Harmless fell the heavy war-club;It could dash the rocks asunder,But it could not break the meshesOf that magic shirt of wampum.Till at sunset Hiawatha,Leaning on his bow of ash-tree,Wounded, weary, and desponding,With his mighty war-club broken,With his mittens torn and tattered,And three useless arrows only,Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree,From whose branches trailed the mosses,And whose trunk was coated overWith the Dead-man's Moccasin-leather,With the fungus white and yellow.Suddenly from the boughs above himSang the Mama, the woodpecker:"Aim your arrows, Hiawatha,At the head of Megissogwon,Strike the tuft of hair upon it,At their roots the long black tresses;There alone can he be wounded!"Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper,Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow,Just as Megissogwon, stooping,Raised a heavy stone to throw it.Full upon the crown it struck him,At the roots of his long tresses,And he reeled and staggered forward,Plunging like a wounded bison,Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison,When the snow is on the prairie.Swifter flew the second arrow,In the pathway of the other,Piercing deeper than the other,Wounding sorer than the other;And the knees of MegissogwonShook like windy reeds beneath him,Bent and trembled like the rushes.But the third and latest arrowSwiftest flew, and wounded sorest,And the mighty MegissogwonSaw the fiery eyes of Pauguk,Saw the eyes of Death glare at him,Heard his voice call in the darkness;At the feet of HiawathaLifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather,Lay the mightiest of Magicians.Then the grateful HiawathaCalled the Mama, the woodpecker,From his perch among the branchesOf the melancholy pine-tree,And, in honor of his service,Stained with blood the tuft of feathersOn the little head of Mama;Even to this day he wears it,Wears the tuft of crimson feathers,As a symbol of his service.Then he stripped the shirt of wampumFrom the back of Megissogwon,As a trophy of the battle,As a signal of his conquest.On the shore he left the body,Half on land and half in water,In the sand his feet were buried,And his face was in the water.And above him, wheeled and clamoredThe Keneu, the great war-eagle,Sailing round in narrower circles,Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer.From the wigwam HiawathaBore the wealth of Megissogwon,All his wealth of skins and wampum,Furs of bison and of beaver,Furs of sable and of ermine,Wampum belts and strings and pouches,Quivers wrought with beads of wampum,Filled with arrows, silver-headed.Homeward then he sailed exulting,Homeward through the black pitch-water,Homeward through the weltering serpents,With the trophies of the battle,With a shout and song of triumph.On the shore stood old Nokomis,On the shore stood Chibiabos,And the very strong man, Kwasind,Waiting for the hero's coming,Listening to his songs of triumph.And the people of the villageWelcomed him with songs and dances,Made a joyous feast, and shouted:"Honor be to Hiawatha!He has slain the great Pearl-Feather,Slain the mightiest of Magicians,Him, who sent the fiery fever,Sent the white fog from the fen-lands,Sent disease and death among us!"Ever dear to HiawathaWas the memory of Mama!And in token of his friendship,As a mark of his remembrance,He adorned and decked his pipe-stemWith the crimson tuft of feathers,With the blood-red crest of Mama.But the wealth of Megissogwon,All the trophies of the battle,He divided with his people,Shared it equally among them.XHIAWATHA'S WOOING"As unto the bow the cord is,So unto the man is woman;Though she bends him, she obeys him,Though she draws him, yet she follows,Useless each without the other!"Thus the youthful HiawathaSaid within himself and pondered,Much perplexed by various feelings,Listless, longing, hoping, fearing,Dreaming still of Minnehaha,Of the lovely Laughing Water,In the land of the Dacotahs."Wed a maiden of your people,"Warning said the old Nokomis;"Go not eastward, go not westward,For a stranger, whom we know not!Like a fire upon the hearth-stoneIs a neighbor's homely daughter,Like the starlight or the moonlightIs the handsomest of strangers!"Thus dissuading spake Nokomis,And my Hiawatha answeredOnly this: "Dear old Nokomis,Very pleasant is the firelight,But I like the starlight better,Better do I like the moonlight!"Gravely then said old Nokomis:"Bring not here an idle maiden,Bring not here a useless woman,Hands unskilful, feet unwilling;Bring a wife with nimble fingers,Heart and hand that move together,Feet that run on willing errands!"Smiling answered Hiawatha:"In the land of the DacotahsLives the Arrow-maker's daughter,Minnehaha, Laughing Water,Handsomest of all the women.I will bring her to your wigwam,She shall run upon your errands,Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight,Be the sunlight of my people!"Still dissuading said Nokomis:"Bring not to my lodge a strangerFrom the land of the Dacotahs!Very fierce are the Dacotahs,Often is there war between us,There are feuds yet unforgotten,Wounds that ache and still may open!"Laughing answered Hiawatha:"For that reason, if no other,Would I wed the fair Dacotah,That our tribes might be united,That old feuds might be forgotten,And old wounds be healed forever!"Thus departed HiawathaTo the land of the Dacotahs,To the land of handsome women;Striding over moor and meadow,Through interminable forests,Through uninterrupted silence.With his moccasins of magic,At each stride a mile he measured;Yet the way seemed long before him,And his heart outran his footsteps;And he journeyed without resting,Till he heard the cataract's laughter,Heard the Falls of MinnehahaCalling to him through the silence."Pleasant is the sound!" he murmured,"Pleasant is the voice that calls me!"On the outskirts of the forests,'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine,Herds of fallow deer were feeding,But they saw not Hiawatha;To his bow he whispered, "Fail not!"To his arrow whispered, "Swerve not!"Sent it singing on its errand,To the red heart of the roebuck;Threw the deer across his shoulder,And sped forward without pausing.At the doorway of his wigwamSat the ancient Arrow-maker,In the land of the Dacotahs,Making arrow-heads of jasper,Arrow-heads of chalcedony.At his side, in all her beauty,Sat the lovely Minnehaha,Sat his daughter, Laughing Water,Plaiting mats of flags and rushesOf the past the old man's thoughts were,And the maiden's of the future.He was thinking, as he sat there,Of the days when with such arrowsHe had struck the deer and bison,On the Muskoday, the meadow;Shot the wild goose, flying southwardOn the wing, the clamorous Wawa;Thinking of the great war-parties,How they came to buy his arrows,Could not fight without his arrows.Ah, no more such noble warriorsCould be found on earth as they were!Now the men were all like women,Only used their tongues for weapons!She was thinking of a hunter,From another tribe and country,Young and tall and very handsome,Who one morning, in the Spring-time,Came to buy her father's arrows,Sat and rested in the wigwam,Lingered long about the doorway,Looking back as he departed.She had heard her father praise him,Praise his courage and his wisdom;Would he come again for arrowsTo the Falls of Minnehaha?On the mat her hands lay idle,And her eyes were very dreamy.Through their thoughts they heard a footstep,Heard a rustling in the branches,And with glowing cheek and forehead,With the deer upon his shoulders,Suddenly from out the woodlandsHiawatha stood before them.Straight the ancient Arrow-makerLooked up gravely from his labor,Laid aside the unfinished arrow,Bade him enter at the doorway,Saying, as he rose to meet him,'Hiawatha, you are welcome!"At the feet of Laughing WaterHiawatha laid his burden,Threw the red deer from his shoulders;And the maiden looked up at him,Looked up from her mat of rushes,Said with gentle look and accent,"You are welcome, Hiawatha!"Very spacious was the wigwam,Made of deer-skins dressed and whitened,With the Gods of the DacotahsDrawn and painted on its curtains,And so tall the doorway, hardlyHiawatha stooped to enter,Hardly touched his eagle-feathersAs he entered at the doorway.Then uprose the Laughing Water,From the ground fair Minnehaha,Laid aside her mat unfinished,Brought forth food and set before them,Water brought them from the brooklet,Gave them food in earthen vessels,Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood,Listened while the guest was speaking,Listened while her father answered,But not once her lips she opened,Not a single word she uttered.Yes, as in a dream she listenedTo the words of Hiawatha,As he talked of old Nokomis,Who had nursed him in his childhood,As he told of his companions,Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind,And of happiness and plentyIn the land of the Ojibways,In the pleasant land and peaceful."After many years of warfare,Many years of strife and bloodshed,There is peace between the OjibwaysAnd the tribe of the Dacotahs."Thus continued Hiawatha,And then added, speaking slowly,"That this peace may last forever,And our hands be clasped more closely,And our hearts be more united,Give me as my wife this maiden,Minnehaha, Laughing Water,Loveliest of Dacotah women!"And the ancient Arrow-makerPaused a moment ere he answered,Smoked a little while in silence,Looked at Hiawatha proudly,Fondly looked at Laughing Water,And made answer very gravely:"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes;Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!"And the lovely Laughing WaterSeemed more lovely as she stood there,Neither willing nor reluctant,As she went to Hiawatha,Softly took the seat beside him,While she said, and blushed to say it,"I will follow you, my husband!"This was Hiawatha's wooing!Thus it was he won the daughterOf the ancient Arrow-maker,In the land of the Dacotahs!From the wigwam he departed,Leading with him Laughing Water;Hand in hand they went together,Through the woodland and the meadow,Left the old man standing lonelyAt the doorway of his wigwam,Heard the Falls of MinnehahaCalling to them from the distance,Crying to them from afar off,"Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!"And the ancient Arrow-makerTurned again unto his labor,Sat down by his sunny doorway,Murmuring to himself, and saying:"Thus it is our daughters leave us,Those we love, and those who love us!Just when they have learned to help us,When we are old and lean upon them,Comes a youth with flaunting feathers,With his flute of reeds, a strangerWanders piping through the village,Beckons to the fairest maiden,And she follows where he leads her,Leaving all things for the stranger!"Pleasant was the journey homeward,Through interminable forests,Over meadow, over mountain,Over river, hill, and hollow.Short it seemed to Hiawatha,Though they journeyed very slowly,Though his pace he checked and slackenedTo the steps of Laughing Water.Over wide and rushing riversIn his arms he bore the maiden;Light he thought her as a feather,As the plume upon his head-gear;Cleared the tangled pathway for her,Bent aside the swaying branches,Made at night a lodge of branches,And a bed with boughs of hemlock,And a fire before the doorwayWith the dry cones of the pine-tree.All the travelling winds went with them,O'er the meadows, through the forest;All the stars of night looked at them,Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber;From his ambush in the oak-treePeeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Watched with eager eyes the lovers;And the rabbit, the Wabasso,Scampered from the path before them,Peering, peeping from his burrow,Sat erect upon his haunches,Watched with curious eyes the lovers.Pleasant was the journey homeward!All the birds sang loud and sweetlySongs of happiness and heart's-ease;Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,"Happy are you, Hiawatha,Having such a wife to love you!"Sang the robin, the Opechee,"Happy are you, Laughing Water,Having such a noble husband!"From the sky the sun benignantLooked upon them through the branches,Saying to them, "O my children,Love is sunshine, hate is shadow,Life is checkered shade and sunshine,Rule by love, O Hiawatha!"From the sky the moon looked at them,Filled the lodge with mystic splendors,Whispered to them, "O my children,Day is restless, night is quiet,Man imperious, woman feeble;Half is mine, although I follow;Rule by patience, Laughing Water!"Thus it was they journeyed homeward;Thus it was that HiawathaTo the lodge of old NokomisBrought the moonlight, starlight, firelight,Brought the sunshine of his people,Minnehaha, Laughing Water,Handsomest of all the womenIn the land of the Dacotahs,In the land of handsome women.XIHIAWATHA'S WEDDING-FEASTYou shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis,How the handsome YenadizzeDanced at Hiawatha's wedding;How the gentle Chibiabos,He the sweetest of musicians,Sang his songs of love and longing;How Iagoo, the great boaster,He the marvellous story-teller,Told his tales of strange adventure,That the feast might be more joyous,That the time might pass more gayly,And the guests be more contented.Sumptuous was the feast NokomisMade at Hiawatha's wedding;All the bowls were made of bass-wood,White and polished very smoothly,All the spoons of horn of bison,Black and polished very smoothly.She had sent through all the villageMessengers with wands of willow,As a sign of invitation,As a token of the feasting;And the wedding guests assembled,Clad in all their richest raiment,Robes of fur and belts of wampum,Splendid with their paint and plumage,Beautiful with beads and tassels.First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma,And the pike, the Maskenozha,Caught and cooked by old Nokomis;Then on pemican they feasted,Pemican and buffalo marrow,Haunch of deer and hump of bison,Yellow cakes of the Mondamin,And the wild rice of the river.But the gracious Hiawatha,And the lovely Laughing Water,And the careful old Nokomis,Tasted not the food before them,Only waited on the othersOnly served their guests in silence.And when all the guests had finished,Old Nokomis, brisk and busy,From an ample pouch of otter,Filled the red-stone pipes for smokingWith tobacco from the South-land,Mixed with bark of the red willow,And with herbs and leaves of fragrance.Then she said, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis,Dance for us your merry dances,Dance the Beggar's Dance to please us,That the feast may be more joyous,That the time may pass more gayly,And our guests be more contented!"Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis,He the idle Yenadizze,He the merry mischief-maker,Whom the people called the Storm-Fool,Rose among the guests assembled.Skilled was he in sports and pastimes,In the merry dance of snow-shoes,In the play of quoits and ball-play;Skilled was he in games of hazard,In all games of skill and hazard,Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters,Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones.Though the warriors called him Faint-Heart,Called him coward, Shaugodaya,Idler, gambler, Yenadizze,Little heeded he their jesting,Little cared he for their insults,For the women and the maidensLoved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis.He was dressed in shirt of doeskin,White and soft, and fringed with ermine,All inwrought with beads of wampum;He was dressed in deer-skin leggings,Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine,And in moccasins of buck-skin,Thick with quills and beads embroidered.On his head were plumes of swan's down,On his heels were tails of foxes,In one hand a fan of feathers,And a pipe was in the other.Barred with streaks of red and yellow,Streaks of blue and bright vermilion,Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis.From his forehead fell his tresses,Smooth, and parted like a woman's,Shining bright with oil, and plaited,Hung with braids of scented grasses,As among the guests assembled,To the sound of flutes and singing,To the sound of drums and voices,Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis,And began his mystic dances.First he danced a solemn measure,Very slow in step and gesture,In and out among the pine-trees,Through the shadows and the sunshine,Treading softly like a panther.Then more swiftly and still swifter,Whirling, spinning round in circles,Leaping o'er the guests assembled,Eddying round and round the wigwam,Till the leaves went whirling with him,Till the dust and wind togetherSwept in eddies round about him.Then along the sandy marginOf the lake, the Big-Sea-Water,On he sped with frenzied gestures,Stamped upon the sand, and tossed itWildly in the air around him;Till the wind became a whirlwind,Till the sand was blown and siftedLike great snowdrifts o'er the landscape,Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes,Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo!Thus the merry Pau-Puk-KeewisDanced his Beggar's Dance to please them,And, returning, sat down laughingThere among the guests assembled,Sat and fanned himself serenelyWith his fan of turkey-feathers.Then they said to Chibiabos,To the friend of Hiawatha,To the sweetest of all singers,To the best of all musicians,"Sing to us, O Chibiabos!Songs of love and songs of longing,That the feast may be more joyous,That the time may pass more gayly,And our guests be more contented!"And the gentle ChibiabosSang in accents sweet and tender,Sang in tones of deep emotion,Songs of love and songs of longing;Looking still at Hiawatha,Looking at fair Laughing Water,Sang he softly, sang in this wise:"Onaway!  Awake, beloved!Thou the wild-flower of the forest!Thou the wild-bird of the prairie!Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like!"If thou only lookest at me,I am happy, I am happy,As the lilies of the prairie,When they feel the dew upon them!"Sweet thy breath is as the fragranceOf the wild-flowers in the morning,As their fragrance is at evening,In the Moon when leaves are falling."Does not all the blood within meLeap to meet thee, leap to meet thee,As the springs to meet the sunshine,In the Moon when nights are brightest?"Onaway! my heart sings to thee,Sings with joy when thou art near me,As the sighing, singing branchesIn the pleasant Moon of Strawberries!"When thou art not pleased, beloved,Then my heart is sad and darkened,As the shining river darkensWhen the clouds drop shadows on it!"When thou smilest, my beloved,Then my troubled heart is brightened,As in sunshine gleam the ripplesThat the cold wind makes in rivers."Smiles the earth, and smile the waters,Smile the cloudless skies above us,But I lose the way of smilingWhen thou art no longer near me!"I myself, myself! behold me!Blood of my beating heart, behold me!Oh awake, awake, beloved!Onaway! awake, beloved!"Thus the gentle ChibiabosSang his song of love and longing;And Iagoo, the great boaster,He the marvellous story-teller,He the friend of old Nokomis,Jealous of the sweet musician,Jealous of the applause they gave him,Saw in all the eyes around him,Saw in all their looks and gestures,That the wedding guests assembledLonged to hear his pleasant stories,His immeasurable falsehoods.Very boastful was Iagoo;Never heard he an adventureBut himself had met a greater;Never any deed of daringBut himself had done a bolder;Never any marvellous storyBut himself could tell a stranger.Would you listen to his boasting,Would you only give him credence,No one ever shot an arrowHalf so far and high as he had;Ever caught so many fishes,Ever killed so many reindeer,Ever trapped so many beaver!None could run so fast as he could,None could dive so deep as he could,None could swim so far as he could;None had made so many journeys,None had seen so many wonders,As this wonderful Iagoo,As this marvellous story-teller!Thus his name became a by-wordAnd a jest among the people;And whene'er a boastful hunterPraised his own address too highly,Or a warrior, home returning,Talked too much of his achievements,All his hearers cried, "Iagoo!Here's Iagoo come among us!"He it was who carved the cradleOf the little Hiawatha,Carved its framework out of linden,Bound it strong with reindeer sinews;He it was who taught him laterHow to make his bows and arrows,How to make the bows of ash-tree,And the arrows of the oak-tree.So among the guests assembledAt my Hiawatha's weddingSat Iagoo, old and ugly,Sat the marvellous story-teller.And they said, "O good Iagoo,Tell us now a tale of wonder,Tell us of some strange adventure,That the feast may be more joyous,That the time may pass more gayly,And our guests be more contented!"And Iagoo answered straightway,"You shall hear a tale of wonder,You shall hear the strange adventuresOf Osseo, the Magician,From the Evening Star descending."XIITHE SON OF THE EVENING STAR

Two good friends had Hiawatha,Singled out from all the others,Bound to him in closest union,And to whom he gave the right handOf his heart, in joy and sorrow;Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind.Straight between them ran the pathway,Never grew the grass upon it;Singing birds, that utter falsehoods,Story-tellers, mischief-makers,Found no eager ear to listen,Could not breed ill-will between them,For they kept each other's counsel,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.Most beloved by HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers.Beautiful and childlike was he,Brave as man is, soft as woman,Pliant as a wand of willow,Stately as a deer with antlers.When he sang, the village listened;All the warriors gathered round him,All the women came to hear him;Now he stirred their souls to passion,Now he melted them to pity.From the hollow reeds he fashionedFlutes so musical and mellow,That the brook, the Sebowisha,Ceased to murmur in the woodland,That the wood-birds ceased from singing,And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,And the rabbit, the Wabasso,Sat upright to look and listen.Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha,Pausing, said, "O Chibiabos,Teach my waves to flow in music,Softly as your words in singing!"Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa,Envious, said, "O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as wild and wayward,Teach me songs as full of frenzy!"Yes, the robin, the Opechee,Joyous, said, "O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as sweet and tender,Teach me songs as full of gladness!"And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa,Sobbing, said, "O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as melancholy,Teach me songs as full of sadness!"All the many sounds of natureBorrowed sweetness from his singing;All the hearts of men were softenedBy the pathos of his music;For he sang of peace and freedom,Sang of beauty, love, and longing;Sang of death, and life undyingIn the Islands of the Blessed,In the kingdom of Ponemah,In the land of the Hereafter.Very dear to HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers;For his gentleness he loved him,And the magic of his singing.Dear, too, unto HiawathaWas the very strong man, Kwasind,He the strongest of all mortals,He the mightiest among many;For his very strength he loved him,For his strength allied to goodness.Idle in his youth was Kwasind,Very listless, dull, and dreamy,Never played with other children,Never fished and never hunted,Not like other children was he;But they saw that much he fasted,Much his Manito entreated,Much besought his Guardian Spirit."Lazy Kwasind!" said his mother,"In my work you never help me!In the Summer you are roamingIdly in the fields and forests;In the Winter you are coweringO'er the firebrands in the wigwam!In the coldest days of WinterI must break the ice for fishing;With my nets you never help me!At the door my nets are hanging,Dripping, freezing with the water;Go and wring them, Yenadizze!Go and dry them in the sunshine!"Slowly, from the ashes, KwasindRose, but made no angry answer;From the lodge went forth in silence,Took the nets, that hung together,Dripping, freezing at the doorway;Like a wisp of straw he wrung them,Like a wisp of straw he broke them,Could not wring them without breaking,Such the strength was in his fingers."Lazy Kwasind!" said his father,"In the hunt you never help me;Every bow you touch is broken,Snapped asunder every arrow;Yet come with me to the forest,You shall bring the hunting homeward."Down a narrow pass they wandered,Where a brooklet led them onward,Where the trail of deer and bisonMarked the soft mud on the margin,Till they found all further passageShut against them, barred securelyBy the trunks of trees uprooted,Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise,And forbidding further passage."We must go back," said the old man,"O'er these logs we cannot clamber;Not a woodchuck could get through them,Not a squirrel clamber o'er them!"And straightway his pipe he lighted,And sat down to smoke and ponder.But before his pipe was finished,Lo! the path was cleared before him;All the trunks had Kwasind lifted,To the right hand, to the left hand,Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows,Hurled the cedars light as lances."Lazy Kwasind!" said the young men,As they sported in the meadow:"Why stand idly looking at us,Leaning on the rock behind you?Come and wrestle with the others,Let us pitch the quoit together!"Lazy Kwasind made no answer,To their challenge made no answer,Only rose, and slowly turning,Seized the huge rock in his fingers,Tore it from its deep foundation,Poised it in the air a moment,Pitched it sheer into the river,Sheer into the swift Pauwating,Where it still is seen in Summer.Once as down that foaming river,Down the rapids of Pauwating,Kwasind sailed with his companions,In the stream he saw a beaver,Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers,Struggling with the rushing currents,Rising, sinking in the water.Without speaking, without pausing,Kwasind leaped into the river,Plunged beneath the bubbling surface,Through the whirlpools chased the beaver,Followed him among the islands,Stayed so long beneath the water,That his terrified companionsCried, "Alas! good-by to Kwasind!We shall never more see Kwasind!"But he reappeared triumphant,And upon his shining shouldersBrought the beaver, dead and dripping,Brought the King of all the Beavers.And these two, as I have told you,Were the friends of Hiawatha,Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind.Long they lived in peace together,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.

"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!Growing by the rushing river,Tall and stately in the valley!I a light canoe will build me,Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,That shall float on the river,Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,Like a yellow water-lily!"Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,For the Summer-time is coming,And the sun is warm in heaven,And you need no white-skin wrapper!"Thus aloud cried HiawathaIn the solitary forest,By the rushing Taquamenaw,When the birds were singing gayly,In the Moon of Leaves were singing,And the sun, from sleep awaking,Started up and said, "Behold me!Gheezis, the great Sun, behold me!"And the tree with all its branchesRustled in the breeze of morning,Saying, with a sigh of patience,"Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"With his knife the tree he girdled;Just beneath its lowest branches,Just above the roots, he cut it,Till the sap came oozing outward;Down the trunk, from top to bottom,Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,With a wooden wedge he raised it,Stripped it from the trunk unbroken."Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!Of your strong and pliant branches,My canoe to make more steady,Make more strong and firm beneath me!"Through the summit of the CedarWent a sound, a cry of horror,Went a murmur of resistance;But it whispered, bending downward,'Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,Shaped them straightway to a framework,Like two bows he formed and shaped them,Like two bended bows together."Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!My canoe to bind together,So to bind the ends togetherThat the water may not enter,That the river may not wet me!"And the Larch, with all its fibres,Shivered in the air of morning,Touched his forehead with its tassels,Slid, with one long sigh of sorrow."Take them all, O Hiawatha!"From the earth he tore the fibres,Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree,Closely sewed the bark together,Bound it closely to the frame-work."Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree!Of your balsam and your resin,So to close the seams togetherThat the water may not enter,That the river may not wet me!"And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre,Sobbed through all its robes of darkness,Rattled like a shore with pebbles,Answered wailing, answered weeping,"Take my balm, O Hiawatha!"And he took the tears of balsam,Took the resin of the Fir-tree,Smeared therewith each seam and fissure,Made each crevice safe from water."Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog!All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog!I will make a necklace of them,Make a girdle for my beauty,And two stars to deck her bosom!"From a hollow tree the HedgehogWith his sleepy eyes looked at him,Shot his shining quills, like arrows,Saying with a drowsy murmur,Through the tangle of his whiskers,"Take my quills, O Hiawatha!"From the ground the quills he gathered,All the little shining arrows,Stained them red and blue and yellow,With the juice of roots and berries;Into his canoe he wrought them,Round its waist a shining girdle,Round its bows a gleaming necklace,On its breast two stars resplendent.Thus the Birch Canoe was buildedIn the valley, by the river,In the bosom of the forest;And the forest's life was in it,All its mystery and its magic,All the lightness of the birch-tree,All the toughness of the cedar,All the larch's supple sinews;And it floated on the riverLike a yellow leaf in Autumn,Like a yellow water-lily.Paddles none had Hiawatha,Paddles none he had or needed,For his thoughts as paddles served him,And his wishes served to guide him;Swift or slow at will he glided,Veered to right or left at pleasure.Then he called aloud to Kwasind,To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,Saying, "Help me clear this riverOf its sunken logs and sand-bars."Straight into the river KwasindPlunged as if he were an otter,Dived as if he were a beaver,Stood up to his waist in water,To his arm-pits in the river,Swam and scouted in the river,Tugged at sunken logs and branches,With his hands he scooped the sand-bars,With his feet the ooze and tangle.And thus sailed my HiawathaDown the rushing Taquamenaw,Sailed through all its bends and windings,Sailed through all its deeps and shallows,While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind,Swam the deeps, the shallows waded.Up and down the river went they,In and out among its islands,Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar,Dragged the dead trees from its channel,Made its passage safe and certain,Made a pathway for the people,From its springs among the mountains,To the waters of Pauwating,To the bay of Taquamenaw.

Forth upon the Gitche Gumee,On the shining Big-Sea-Water,With his fishing-line of cedar,Of the twisted bark of cedar,Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,In his birch canoe exultingAll alone went Hiawatha.Through the clear, transparent waterHe could see the fishes swimmingFar down in the depths below him;See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,Like a sunbeam in the water,See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,Like a spider on the bottom,On the white and sandy bottom.At the stern sat Hiawatha,With his fishing-line of cedar;In his plumes the breeze of morningPlayed as in the hemlock branches;On the bows, with tail erected,Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;In his fur the breeze of morningPlayed as in the prairie grasses.On the white sand of the bottomLay the monster Mishe-Nahma,Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;Through his gills he breathed the water,With his fins he fanned and winnowed,With his tail he swept the sand-floor.There he lay in all his armor;On each side a shield to guard him,Plates of bone upon his forehead,Down his sides and back and shouldersPlates of bone with spines projectingPainted was he with his war-paints,Stripes of yellow, red, and azure,Spots of brown and spots of sable;And he lay there on the bottom,Fanning with his fins of purple,As above him HiawathaIn his birch canoe came sailing,With his fishing-line of cedar."Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,Down into the depths beneath him,"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!Come up from below the water,Let us see which is the stronger!"And he dropped his line of cedarThrough the clear, transparent water,Waited vainly for an answer,Long sat waiting for an answer,And repeating loud and louder,"Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,Fanning slowly in the water,Looking up at Hiawatha,Listening to his call and clamor,His unnecessary tumult,Till he wearied of the shouting;And he said to the Kenozha,To the pike, the Maskenozha,"Take the bait of this rude fellow,Break the line of Hiawatha!"In his fingers HiawathaFelt the loose line jerk and tighten;As he drew it in, it tugged soThat the birch canoe stood endwise,Like a birch log in the water,With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Perched and frisking on the summit.Full of scorn was HiawathaWhen he saw the fish rise upward,Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,Coming nearer, nearer to him,And he shouted through the water,"Esa! esa! shame upon you!You are but the pike, Kenozha,You are not the fish I wanted,You are not the King of Fishes!"Reeling downward to the bottomSank the pike in great confusion,And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,To the bream, with scales of crimson,"Take the bait of this great boaster,Break the line of Hiawatha!"Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,Seized the line of Hiawatha,Swung with all his weight upon it,Made a whirlpool in the water,Whirled the birch canoe in circles,Round and round in gurgling eddies,Till the circles in the waterReached the far-off sandy beaches,Till the water-flags and rushesNodded on the distant margins.But when Hiawatha saw himSlowly rising through the water,Lifting up his disk refulgent,Loud he shouted in derision,"Esa! esa! shame upon you!You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,You are not the fish I wanted,You are not the King of Fishes!"Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,And again the sturgeon, Nahma,Heard the shout of Hiawatha,Heard his challenge of defiance,The unnecessary tumult,Ringing far across the water.From the white sand of the bottomUp he rose with angry gesture,Quivering in each nerve and fibre,Clashing all his plates of armor,Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;In his wrath he darted upward,Flashing leaped into the sunshine,Opened his great jaws, and swallowedBoth canoe and Hiawatha.Down into that darksome cavernPlunged the headlong Hiawatha,As a log on some black riverShoots and plunges down the rapids,Found himself in utter darkness,Groped about in helpless wonder,Till he felt a great heart beating,Throbbing in that utter darkness.And he smote it in his anger,With his fist, the heart of Nahma,Felt the mighty King of FishesShudder through each nerve and fibre,Heard the water gurgle round himAs he leaped and staggered through it,Sick at heart, and faint and weary.Crosswise then did HiawathaDrag his birch-canoe for safety,Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,In the turmoil and confusion,Forth he might be hurled and perish.And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Frisked and chatted very gayly,Toiled and tugged with HiawathaTill the labor was completed.Then said Hiawatha to him,"O my little friend, the squirrel,Bravely have you toiled to help me;Take the thanks of Hiawatha,And the name which now he gives you;For hereafter and foreverBoys shall call you Adjidaumo,Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"And again the sturgeon, Nahma,Gasped and quivered in the water,Then was still, and drifted landwardTill he grated on the pebbles,Till the listening HiawathaHeard him grate upon the margin,Felt him strand upon the pebbles,Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,Lay there dead upon the margin.Then he heard a clang and flapping,As of many wings assembling,Heard a screaming and confusion,As of birds of prey contending,Saw a gleam of light above him,Shining through the ribs of Nahma,Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,Gazing at him through the opening,Heard them saying to each other,"'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"And he shouted from below them,Cried exulting from the caverns:"O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;Make the rifts a little larger,With your claws the openings widen,Set me free from this dark prison,And henceforward and foreverMen shall speak of your achievements,Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"And the wild and clamorous sea-gullsToiled with beak and claws together,Made the rifts and openings widerIn the mighty ribs of Nahma,And from peril and from prison,From the body of the sturgeon,From the peril of the water,They released my Hiawatha.He was standing near his wigwam,On the margin of the water,And he called to old Nokomis,Called and beckoned to Nokomis,Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,Lying lifeless on the pebbles,With the sea-gulls feeding on him."I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;"Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;Drive them not away, Nokomis,They have saved me from great perilIn the body of the sturgeon,Wait until their meal is ended,Till their craws are full with feasting,Till they homeward fly, at sunset,To their nests among the marshes;Then bring all your pots and kettles,And make oil for us in Winter."And she waited till the sun set,Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,Rose above the tranquil water,Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,From their banquet rose with clamor,And across the fiery sunsetWinged their way to far-off islands,To their nests among the rushes.To his sleep went Hiawatha,And Nokomis to her labor,Toiling patient in the moonlight,Till the sun and moon changed places,Till the sky was red with sunrise,And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,Came back from the reedy islands,Clamorous for their morning banquet.Three whole days and nights alternateOld Nokomis and the sea-gullsStripped the oily flesh of Nahma,Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,Till the sea-gulls came no longer,And upon the sands lay nothingBut the skeleton of Nahma.

On the shores of Gitche Gumee,Of the shining Big-Sea-Water,Stood Nokomis, the old woman,Pointing with her finger westward,O'er the water pointing westward,To the purple clouds of sunset.Fiercely the red sun descendingBurned his way along the heavens,Set the sky on fire behind him,As war-parties, when retreating,Burn the prairies on their war-trail;And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward,Suddenly starting from his ambush,Followed fast those bloody footprints,Followed in that fiery war-trail,With its glare upon his features.And Nokomis, the old woman,Pointing with her finger westward,Spake these words to Hiawatha:"Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather,Megissogwon, the Magician,Manito of Wealth and Wampum,Guarded by his fiery serpents,Guarded by the black pitch-water.You can see his fiery serpents,The Kenabeek, the great serpents,Coiling, playing in the water;You can see the black pitch-waterStretching far away beyond them,To the purple clouds of sunset!"He it was who slew my father,By his wicked wiles and cunning,When he from the moon descended,When he came on earth to seek me.He, the mightiest of Magicians,Sends the fever from the marshes,Sends the pestilential vapors,Sends the poisonous exhalations,Sends the white fog from the fen-lands,Sends disease and death among us!"Take your bow, O Hiawatha,Take your arrows, jasper-headed,Take your war-club, Puggawaugun,And your mittens, Minjekahwun,And your birch-canoe for sailing,And the oil of Mishe-Nahma,So to smear its sides, that swiftlyYou may pass the black pitch-water;Slay this merciless magician,Save the people from the feverThat he breathes across the fen-lands,And avenge my father's murder!"Straightway then my HiawathaArmed himself with all his war-gear,Launched his birch-canoe for sailing;With his palm its sides he patted,Said with glee, "Cheemaun, my darling,O my Birch-canoe! leap forward,Where you see the fiery serpents,Where you see the black pitch-water!"Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting,And the noble HiawathaSang his war-song wild and woful,And above him the war-eagle,The Keneu, the great war-eagle,Master of all fowls with feathers,Screamed and hurtled through the heavens.Soon he reached the fiery serpents,The Kenabeek, the great serpents,Lying huge upon the water,Sparkling, rippling in the water,Lying coiled across the passage,With their blazing crests uplifted,Breathing fiery fogs and vapors,So that none could pass beyond them.But the fearless HiawathaCried aloud, and spake in this wise:"Let me pass my way, Kenabeek,Let me go upon my journey!"And they answered, hissing fiercely,With their fiery breath made answer:"Back, go back! O Shaugodaya!Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!"Then the angry HiawathaRaised his mighty bow of ash-tree,Seized his arrows, jasper-headed,Shot them fast among the serpents;Every twanging of the bow-stringWas a war-cry and a death-cry,Every whizzing of an arrowWas a death-song of Kenabeek.Weltering in the bloody water,Dead lay all the fiery serpents,And among them HiawathaHarmless sailed, and cried exulting:"Onward, O Cheemaun, my darling!Onward to the black pitch-water!"Then he took the oil of Nahma,And the bows and sides anointed,Smeared them well with oil, that swiftlyHe might pass the black pitch-water.All night long he sailed upon it,Sailed upon that sluggish water,Covered with its mould of ages,Black with rotting water-rushes,Rank with flags and leaves of lilies,Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal,Lighted by the shimmering moonlight,And by will-o'-the-wisps illumined,Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled,In their weary night-encampments.All the air was white with moonlight,All the water black with shadow,And around him the Suggema,The mosquito, sang his war-song,And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee,Waved their torches to mislead him;And the bull-frog, the Dahinda,Thrust his head into the moonlight,Fixed his yellow eyes upon him,Sobbed and sank beneath the surface;And anon a thousand whistles,Answered over all the fen-lands,And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,Far off on the reedy margin,Heralded the hero's coming.Westward thus fared Hiawatha,Toward the realm of Megissogwon,Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather,Till the level moon stared at him,In his face stared pale and haggard,Till the sun was hot behind him,Till it burned upon his shoulders,And before him on the uplandHe could see the Shining WigwamOf the Manito of Wampum,Of the mightiest of Magicians.Then once more Cheemaun he patted,To his birch-canoe said, "Onward!"And it stirred in all its fibres,And with one great bound of triumphLeaped across the water-lilies,Leaped through tangled flags and rushes,And upon the beach beyond themDry-shod landed Hiawatha.Straight he took his bow of ash-tree,On the sand one end he rested,With his knee he pressed the middle,Stretched the faithful bow-string tighter,Took an arrow, jasper-headed,Shot it at the Shining Wigwam,Sent it singing as a herald,As a bearer of his message,Of his challenge loud and lofty:"Come forth from your lodge, Pearl-Feather!Hiawatha waits your coming!"Straightway from the Shining WigwamCame the mighty Megissogwon,Tall of stature, broad of shoulder,Dark and terrible in aspect,Clad from head to foot in wampum,Armed with all his warlike weapons,Painted like the sky of morning,Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow,Crested with great eagle-feathers,Streaming upward, streaming outward."Well I know you, Hiawatha!"Cried he in a voice of thunder,In a tone of loud derision."Hasten back, O Shaugodaya!Hasten back among the women,Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!I will slay you as you stand there,As of old I slew her father!"But my Hiawatha answered,Nothing daunted, fearing nothing:"Big words do not smite like war-clubs,Boastful breath is not a bow-string,Taunts are not so sharp as arrows,Deeds are better things than words are,Actions mightier than boastings!"Then began the greatest battleThat the sun had ever looked on,That the war-birds ever witnessed.All a Summer's day it lasted,From the sunrise to the sunset;For the shafts of HiawathaHarmless hit the shirt of wampum,Harmless fell the blows he dealt itWith his mittens, Minjekahwun,Harmless fell the heavy war-club;It could dash the rocks asunder,But it could not break the meshesOf that magic shirt of wampum.Till at sunset Hiawatha,Leaning on his bow of ash-tree,Wounded, weary, and desponding,With his mighty war-club broken,With his mittens torn and tattered,And three useless arrows only,Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree,From whose branches trailed the mosses,And whose trunk was coated overWith the Dead-man's Moccasin-leather,With the fungus white and yellow.Suddenly from the boughs above himSang the Mama, the woodpecker:"Aim your arrows, Hiawatha,At the head of Megissogwon,Strike the tuft of hair upon it,At their roots the long black tresses;There alone can he be wounded!"Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper,Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow,Just as Megissogwon, stooping,Raised a heavy stone to throw it.Full upon the crown it struck him,At the roots of his long tresses,And he reeled and staggered forward,Plunging like a wounded bison,Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison,When the snow is on the prairie.Swifter flew the second arrow,In the pathway of the other,Piercing deeper than the other,Wounding sorer than the other;And the knees of MegissogwonShook like windy reeds beneath him,Bent and trembled like the rushes.But the third and latest arrowSwiftest flew, and wounded sorest,And the mighty MegissogwonSaw the fiery eyes of Pauguk,Saw the eyes of Death glare at him,Heard his voice call in the darkness;At the feet of HiawathaLifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather,Lay the mightiest of Magicians.Then the grateful HiawathaCalled the Mama, the woodpecker,From his perch among the branchesOf the melancholy pine-tree,And, in honor of his service,Stained with blood the tuft of feathersOn the little head of Mama;Even to this day he wears it,Wears the tuft of crimson feathers,As a symbol of his service.Then he stripped the shirt of wampumFrom the back of Megissogwon,As a trophy of the battle,As a signal of his conquest.On the shore he left the body,Half on land and half in water,In the sand his feet were buried,And his face was in the water.And above him, wheeled and clamoredThe Keneu, the great war-eagle,Sailing round in narrower circles,Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer.From the wigwam HiawathaBore the wealth of Megissogwon,All his wealth of skins and wampum,Furs of bison and of beaver,Furs of sable and of ermine,Wampum belts and strings and pouches,Quivers wrought with beads of wampum,Filled with arrows, silver-headed.Homeward then he sailed exulting,Homeward through the black pitch-water,Homeward through the weltering serpents,With the trophies of the battle,With a shout and song of triumph.On the shore stood old Nokomis,On the shore stood Chibiabos,And the very strong man, Kwasind,Waiting for the hero's coming,Listening to his songs of triumph.And the people of the villageWelcomed him with songs and dances,Made a joyous feast, and shouted:"Honor be to Hiawatha!He has slain the great Pearl-Feather,Slain the mightiest of Magicians,Him, who sent the fiery fever,Sent the white fog from the fen-lands,Sent disease and death among us!"Ever dear to HiawathaWas the memory of Mama!And in token of his friendship,As a mark of his remembrance,He adorned and decked his pipe-stemWith the crimson tuft of feathers,With the blood-red crest of Mama.But the wealth of Megissogwon,All the trophies of the battle,He divided with his people,Shared it equally among them.

"As unto the bow the cord is,So unto the man is woman;Though she bends him, she obeys him,Though she draws him, yet she follows,Useless each without the other!"Thus the youthful HiawathaSaid within himself and pondered,Much perplexed by various feelings,Listless, longing, hoping, fearing,Dreaming still of Minnehaha,Of the lovely Laughing Water,In the land of the Dacotahs."Wed a maiden of your people,"Warning said the old Nokomis;"Go not eastward, go not westward,For a stranger, whom we know not!Like a fire upon the hearth-stoneIs a neighbor's homely daughter,Like the starlight or the moonlightIs the handsomest of strangers!"Thus dissuading spake Nokomis,And my Hiawatha answeredOnly this: "Dear old Nokomis,Very pleasant is the firelight,But I like the starlight better,Better do I like the moonlight!"Gravely then said old Nokomis:"Bring not here an idle maiden,Bring not here a useless woman,Hands unskilful, feet unwilling;Bring a wife with nimble fingers,Heart and hand that move together,Feet that run on willing errands!"Smiling answered Hiawatha:"In the land of the DacotahsLives the Arrow-maker's daughter,Minnehaha, Laughing Water,Handsomest of all the women.I will bring her to your wigwam,She shall run upon your errands,Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight,Be the sunlight of my people!"Still dissuading said Nokomis:"Bring not to my lodge a strangerFrom the land of the Dacotahs!Very fierce are the Dacotahs,Often is there war between us,There are feuds yet unforgotten,Wounds that ache and still may open!"Laughing answered Hiawatha:"For that reason, if no other,Would I wed the fair Dacotah,That our tribes might be united,That old feuds might be forgotten,And old wounds be healed forever!"Thus departed HiawathaTo the land of the Dacotahs,To the land of handsome women;Striding over moor and meadow,Through interminable forests,Through uninterrupted silence.With his moccasins of magic,At each stride a mile he measured;Yet the way seemed long before him,And his heart outran his footsteps;And he journeyed without resting,Till he heard the cataract's laughter,Heard the Falls of MinnehahaCalling to him through the silence."Pleasant is the sound!" he murmured,"Pleasant is the voice that calls me!"On the outskirts of the forests,'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine,Herds of fallow deer were feeding,But they saw not Hiawatha;To his bow he whispered, "Fail not!"To his arrow whispered, "Swerve not!"Sent it singing on its errand,To the red heart of the roebuck;Threw the deer across his shoulder,And sped forward without pausing.At the doorway of his wigwamSat the ancient Arrow-maker,In the land of the Dacotahs,Making arrow-heads of jasper,Arrow-heads of chalcedony.At his side, in all her beauty,Sat the lovely Minnehaha,Sat his daughter, Laughing Water,Plaiting mats of flags and rushesOf the past the old man's thoughts were,And the maiden's of the future.He was thinking, as he sat there,Of the days when with such arrowsHe had struck the deer and bison,On the Muskoday, the meadow;Shot the wild goose, flying southwardOn the wing, the clamorous Wawa;Thinking of the great war-parties,How they came to buy his arrows,Could not fight without his arrows.Ah, no more such noble warriorsCould be found on earth as they were!Now the men were all like women,Only used their tongues for weapons!She was thinking of a hunter,From another tribe and country,Young and tall and very handsome,Who one morning, in the Spring-time,Came to buy her father's arrows,Sat and rested in the wigwam,Lingered long about the doorway,Looking back as he departed.She had heard her father praise him,Praise his courage and his wisdom;Would he come again for arrowsTo the Falls of Minnehaha?On the mat her hands lay idle,And her eyes were very dreamy.Through their thoughts they heard a footstep,Heard a rustling in the branches,And with glowing cheek and forehead,With the deer upon his shoulders,Suddenly from out the woodlandsHiawatha stood before them.Straight the ancient Arrow-makerLooked up gravely from his labor,Laid aside the unfinished arrow,Bade him enter at the doorway,Saying, as he rose to meet him,'Hiawatha, you are welcome!"At the feet of Laughing WaterHiawatha laid his burden,Threw the red deer from his shoulders;And the maiden looked up at him,Looked up from her mat of rushes,Said with gentle look and accent,"You are welcome, Hiawatha!"Very spacious was the wigwam,Made of deer-skins dressed and whitened,With the Gods of the DacotahsDrawn and painted on its curtains,And so tall the doorway, hardlyHiawatha stooped to enter,Hardly touched his eagle-feathersAs he entered at the doorway.Then uprose the Laughing Water,From the ground fair Minnehaha,Laid aside her mat unfinished,Brought forth food and set before them,Water brought them from the brooklet,Gave them food in earthen vessels,Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood,Listened while the guest was speaking,Listened while her father answered,But not once her lips she opened,Not a single word she uttered.Yes, as in a dream she listenedTo the words of Hiawatha,As he talked of old Nokomis,Who had nursed him in his childhood,As he told of his companions,Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind,And of happiness and plentyIn the land of the Ojibways,In the pleasant land and peaceful."After many years of warfare,Many years of strife and bloodshed,There is peace between the OjibwaysAnd the tribe of the Dacotahs."Thus continued Hiawatha,And then added, speaking slowly,"That this peace may last forever,And our hands be clasped more closely,And our hearts be more united,Give me as my wife this maiden,Minnehaha, Laughing Water,Loveliest of Dacotah women!"And the ancient Arrow-makerPaused a moment ere he answered,Smoked a little while in silence,Looked at Hiawatha proudly,Fondly looked at Laughing Water,And made answer very gravely:"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes;Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!"And the lovely Laughing WaterSeemed more lovely as she stood there,Neither willing nor reluctant,As she went to Hiawatha,Softly took the seat beside him,While she said, and blushed to say it,"I will follow you, my husband!"This was Hiawatha's wooing!Thus it was he won the daughterOf the ancient Arrow-maker,In the land of the Dacotahs!From the wigwam he departed,Leading with him Laughing Water;Hand in hand they went together,Through the woodland and the meadow,Left the old man standing lonelyAt the doorway of his wigwam,Heard the Falls of MinnehahaCalling to them from the distance,Crying to them from afar off,"Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!"And the ancient Arrow-makerTurned again unto his labor,Sat down by his sunny doorway,Murmuring to himself, and saying:"Thus it is our daughters leave us,Those we love, and those who love us!Just when they have learned to help us,When we are old and lean upon them,Comes a youth with flaunting feathers,With his flute of reeds, a strangerWanders piping through the village,Beckons to the fairest maiden,And she follows where he leads her,Leaving all things for the stranger!"Pleasant was the journey homeward,Through interminable forests,Over meadow, over mountain,Over river, hill, and hollow.Short it seemed to Hiawatha,Though they journeyed very slowly,Though his pace he checked and slackenedTo the steps of Laughing Water.Over wide and rushing riversIn his arms he bore the maiden;Light he thought her as a feather,As the plume upon his head-gear;Cleared the tangled pathway for her,Bent aside the swaying branches,Made at night a lodge of branches,And a bed with boughs of hemlock,And a fire before the doorwayWith the dry cones of the pine-tree.All the travelling winds went with them,O'er the meadows, through the forest;All the stars of night looked at them,Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber;From his ambush in the oak-treePeeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Watched with eager eyes the lovers;And the rabbit, the Wabasso,Scampered from the path before them,Peering, peeping from his burrow,Sat erect upon his haunches,Watched with curious eyes the lovers.Pleasant was the journey homeward!All the birds sang loud and sweetlySongs of happiness and heart's-ease;Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,"Happy are you, Hiawatha,Having such a wife to love you!"Sang the robin, the Opechee,"Happy are you, Laughing Water,Having such a noble husband!"From the sky the sun benignantLooked upon them through the branches,Saying to them, "O my children,Love is sunshine, hate is shadow,Life is checkered shade and sunshine,Rule by love, O Hiawatha!"From the sky the moon looked at them,Filled the lodge with mystic splendors,Whispered to them, "O my children,Day is restless, night is quiet,Man imperious, woman feeble;Half is mine, although I follow;Rule by patience, Laughing Water!"Thus it was they journeyed homeward;Thus it was that HiawathaTo the lodge of old NokomisBrought the moonlight, starlight, firelight,Brought the sunshine of his people,Minnehaha, Laughing Water,Handsomest of all the womenIn the land of the Dacotahs,In the land of handsome women.

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis,How the handsome YenadizzeDanced at Hiawatha's wedding;How the gentle Chibiabos,He the sweetest of musicians,Sang his songs of love and longing;How Iagoo, the great boaster,He the marvellous story-teller,Told his tales of strange adventure,That the feast might be more joyous,That the time might pass more gayly,And the guests be more contented.Sumptuous was the feast NokomisMade at Hiawatha's wedding;All the bowls were made of bass-wood,White and polished very smoothly,All the spoons of horn of bison,Black and polished very smoothly.She had sent through all the villageMessengers with wands of willow,As a sign of invitation,As a token of the feasting;And the wedding guests assembled,Clad in all their richest raiment,Robes of fur and belts of wampum,Splendid with their paint and plumage,Beautiful with beads and tassels.First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma,And the pike, the Maskenozha,Caught and cooked by old Nokomis;Then on pemican they feasted,Pemican and buffalo marrow,Haunch of deer and hump of bison,Yellow cakes of the Mondamin,And the wild rice of the river.But the gracious Hiawatha,And the lovely Laughing Water,And the careful old Nokomis,Tasted not the food before them,Only waited on the othersOnly served their guests in silence.And when all the guests had finished,Old Nokomis, brisk and busy,From an ample pouch of otter,Filled the red-stone pipes for smokingWith tobacco from the South-land,Mixed with bark of the red willow,And with herbs and leaves of fragrance.Then she said, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis,Dance for us your merry dances,Dance the Beggar's Dance to please us,That the feast may be more joyous,That the time may pass more gayly,And our guests be more contented!"Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis,He the idle Yenadizze,He the merry mischief-maker,Whom the people called the Storm-Fool,Rose among the guests assembled.Skilled was he in sports and pastimes,In the merry dance of snow-shoes,In the play of quoits and ball-play;Skilled was he in games of hazard,In all games of skill and hazard,Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters,Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones.Though the warriors called him Faint-Heart,Called him coward, Shaugodaya,Idler, gambler, Yenadizze,Little heeded he their jesting,Little cared he for their insults,For the women and the maidensLoved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis.He was dressed in shirt of doeskin,White and soft, and fringed with ermine,All inwrought with beads of wampum;He was dressed in deer-skin leggings,Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine,And in moccasins of buck-skin,Thick with quills and beads embroidered.On his head were plumes of swan's down,On his heels were tails of foxes,In one hand a fan of feathers,And a pipe was in the other.Barred with streaks of red and yellow,Streaks of blue and bright vermilion,Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis.From his forehead fell his tresses,Smooth, and parted like a woman's,Shining bright with oil, and plaited,Hung with braids of scented grasses,As among the guests assembled,To the sound of flutes and singing,To the sound of drums and voices,Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis,And began his mystic dances.First he danced a solemn measure,Very slow in step and gesture,In and out among the pine-trees,Through the shadows and the sunshine,Treading softly like a panther.Then more swiftly and still swifter,Whirling, spinning round in circles,Leaping o'er the guests assembled,Eddying round and round the wigwam,Till the leaves went whirling with him,Till the dust and wind togetherSwept in eddies round about him.Then along the sandy marginOf the lake, the Big-Sea-Water,On he sped with frenzied gestures,Stamped upon the sand, and tossed itWildly in the air around him;Till the wind became a whirlwind,Till the sand was blown and siftedLike great snowdrifts o'er the landscape,Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes,Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo!Thus the merry Pau-Puk-KeewisDanced his Beggar's Dance to please them,And, returning, sat down laughingThere among the guests assembled,Sat and fanned himself serenelyWith his fan of turkey-feathers.Then they said to Chibiabos,To the friend of Hiawatha,To the sweetest of all singers,To the best of all musicians,"Sing to us, O Chibiabos!Songs of love and songs of longing,That the feast may be more joyous,That the time may pass more gayly,And our guests be more contented!"And the gentle ChibiabosSang in accents sweet and tender,Sang in tones of deep emotion,Songs of love and songs of longing;Looking still at Hiawatha,Looking at fair Laughing Water,Sang he softly, sang in this wise:"Onaway!  Awake, beloved!Thou the wild-flower of the forest!Thou the wild-bird of the prairie!Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like!"If thou only lookest at me,I am happy, I am happy,As the lilies of the prairie,When they feel the dew upon them!"Sweet thy breath is as the fragranceOf the wild-flowers in the morning,As their fragrance is at evening,In the Moon when leaves are falling."Does not all the blood within meLeap to meet thee, leap to meet thee,As the springs to meet the sunshine,In the Moon when nights are brightest?"Onaway! my heart sings to thee,Sings with joy when thou art near me,As the sighing, singing branchesIn the pleasant Moon of Strawberries!"When thou art not pleased, beloved,Then my heart is sad and darkened,As the shining river darkensWhen the clouds drop shadows on it!"When thou smilest, my beloved,Then my troubled heart is brightened,As in sunshine gleam the ripplesThat the cold wind makes in rivers."Smiles the earth, and smile the waters,Smile the cloudless skies above us,But I lose the way of smilingWhen thou art no longer near me!"I myself, myself! behold me!Blood of my beating heart, behold me!Oh awake, awake, beloved!Onaway! awake, beloved!"Thus the gentle ChibiabosSang his song of love and longing;And Iagoo, the great boaster,He the marvellous story-teller,He the friend of old Nokomis,Jealous of the sweet musician,Jealous of the applause they gave him,Saw in all the eyes around him,Saw in all their looks and gestures,That the wedding guests assembledLonged to hear his pleasant stories,His immeasurable falsehoods.Very boastful was Iagoo;Never heard he an adventureBut himself had met a greater;Never any deed of daringBut himself had done a bolder;Never any marvellous storyBut himself could tell a stranger.Would you listen to his boasting,Would you only give him credence,No one ever shot an arrowHalf so far and high as he had;Ever caught so many fishes,Ever killed so many reindeer,Ever trapped so many beaver!None could run so fast as he could,None could dive so deep as he could,None could swim so far as he could;None had made so many journeys,None had seen so many wonders,As this wonderful Iagoo,As this marvellous story-teller!Thus his name became a by-wordAnd a jest among the people;And whene'er a boastful hunterPraised his own address too highly,Or a warrior, home returning,Talked too much of his achievements,All his hearers cried, "Iagoo!Here's Iagoo come among us!"He it was who carved the cradleOf the little Hiawatha,Carved its framework out of linden,Bound it strong with reindeer sinews;He it was who taught him laterHow to make his bows and arrows,How to make the bows of ash-tree,And the arrows of the oak-tree.So among the guests assembledAt my Hiawatha's weddingSat Iagoo, old and ugly,Sat the marvellous story-teller.And they said, "O good Iagoo,Tell us now a tale of wonder,Tell us of some strange adventure,That the feast may be more joyous,That the time may pass more gayly,And our guests be more contented!"And Iagoo answered straightway,"You shall hear a tale of wonder,You shall hear the strange adventuresOf Osseo, the Magician,From the Evening Star descending."

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