Far and wide among the nationsSpread the name and fame of Kwasind;No man dared to strive with Kwasind,No man could compete with Kwasind.But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies,They the envious Little People,They the fairies and the pygmies,Plotted and conspired against him."If this hateful Kwasind," said they,"If this great, outrageous fellowGoes on thus a little longer,Tearing everything he touches,Rending everything to pieces,Filling all the world with wonder,What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies?Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies?He will tread us down like mushrooms,Drive us all into the water,Give our bodies to be eatenBy the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs,By the Spirits of the water!So the angry Little PeopleAll conspired against the Strong Man,All conspired to murder Kwasind,Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind,The audacious, overbearing,Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind!Now this wondrous strength of KwasindIn his crown alone was seated;In his crown too was his weakness;There alone could he be wounded,Nowhere else could weapon pierce him,Nowhere else could weapon harm him.Even there the only weaponThat could wound him, that could slay him,Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree,Was the blue cone of the fir-tree.This was Kwasind's fatal secret,Known to no man among mortals;But the cunning Little People,The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret,Knew the only way to kill him.So they gathered cones together,Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree,Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree,In the woods by Taquamenaw,Brought them to the river's margin,Heaped them in great piles together,Where the red rocks from the marginJutting overhang the river.There they lay in wait for Kwasind,The malicious Little People.'T was an afternoon in Summer;Very hot and still the air was,Very smooth the gliding river,Motionless the sleeping shadows:Insects glistened in the sunshine,Insects skated on the water,Filled the drowsy air with buzzing,With a far resounding war-cry.Down the river came the Strong Man,In his birch canoe came Kwasind,Floating slowly down the currentOf the sluggish Taquamenaw,Very languid with the weather,Very sleepy with the silence.From the overhanging branches,From the tassels of the birch-trees,Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended;By his airy hosts surrounded,His invisible attendants,Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin;Like a burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she,Like a dragon-fly, he hoveredO'er the drowsy head of Kwasind.To his ear there came a murmurAs of waves upon a sea-shore,As of far-off tumbling waters,As of winds among the pine-trees;And he felt upon his foreheadBlows of little airy war-clubs,Wielded by the slumbrous legionsOf the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,As of some one breathing on him.At the first blow of their war-clubs,Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind;At the second blow they smote him,Motionless his paddle rested;At the third, before his visionReeled the landscape into darkness,Very sound asleep was Kwasind.So he floated down the river,Like a blind man seated upright,Floated down the Taquamenaw,Underneath the trembling birch-trees,Underneath the wooded headlands,Underneath the war encampmentOf the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies.There they stood, all armed and waiting,Hurled the pine-cones down upon him,Struck him on his brawny shoulders,On his crown defenceless struck him."Death to Kwasind!" was the suddenWar-cry of the Little People.And he sideways swayed and tumbled,Sideways fell into the river,Plunged beneath the sluggish waterHeadlong, as an otter plunges;And the birch canoe, abandoned,Drifted empty down the river,Bottom upward swerved and drifted:Nothing more was seen of Kwasind.But the memory of the Strong ManLingered long among the people,And whenever through the forestRaged and roared the wintry tempest,And the branches, tossed and troubled,Creaked and groaned and split asunder,"Kwasind!" cried they; "that is Kwasind!He is gathering in his fire-wood!"XIXTHE GHOSTSNever stoops the soaring vultureOn his quarry in the desert,On the sick or wounded bison,But another vulture, watchingFrom his high aerial look-out,Sees the downward plunge, and follows;And a third pursues the second,Coming from the invisible ether,First a speck, and then a vulture,Till the air is dark with pinions.So disasters come not singly;But as if they watched and waited,Scanning one another's motions,When the first descends, the othersFollow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded,First a shadow, then a sorrow,Till the air is dark with anguish.Now, o'er all the dreary North-land,Mighty Peboan, the Winter,Breathing on the lakes and rivers,Into stone had changed their waters.From his hair he shook the snow-flakes,Till the plains were strewn with whiteness,One uninterrupted level,As if, stooping, the CreatorWith his hand had smoothed them over.Through the forest, wide and wailing,Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes;In the village worked the women,Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin;And the young men played togetherOn the ice the noisy ball-play,On the plain the dance of snow-shoes.One dark evening, after sundown,In her wigwam Laughing WaterSat with old Nokomis, waitingFor the steps of HiawathaHomeward from the hunt returning.On their faces gleamed the firelight,Painting them with streaks of crimson,In the eyes of old NokomisGlimmered like the watery moonlight,In the eyes of Laughing WaterGlistened like the sun in water;And behind them crouched their shadowsIn the corners of the wigwam,And the smoke in wreaths above themClimbed and crowded through the smoke-flue.Then the curtain of the doorwayFrom without was slowly lifted;Brighter glowed the fire a moment,And a moment swerved the smoke-wreath,As two women entered softly,Passed the doorway uninvited,Without word of salutation,Without sign of recognition,Sat down in the farthest corner,Crouching low among the shadows.From their aspect and their garments,Strangers seemed they in the village;Very pale and haggard were they,As they sat there sad and silent,Trembling, cowering with the shadows.Was it the wind above the smoke-flue,Muttering down into the wigwam?Was it the owl, the Koko-koho,Hooting from the dismal forest?Sure a voice said in the silence:"These are corpses clad in garments,These are ghosts that come to haunt you,From the kingdom of Ponemah,From the land of the Hereafter!"Homeward now came HiawathaFrom his hunting in the forest,With the snow upon his tresses,And the red deer on his shoulders.At the feet of Laughing WaterDown he threw his lifeless burden;Nobler, handsomer she thought him,Than when first he came to woo her,First threw down the deer before her,As a token of his wishes,As a promise of the future.Then he turned and saw the strangers,Cowering, crouching with the shadows;Said within himself, "Who are they?What strange guests has Minnehaha?"But he questioned not the strangers,Only spake to bid them welcomeTo his lodge, his food, his fireside.When the evening meal was ready,And the deer had been divided,Both the pallid guests, the strangers,Springing from among the shadows,Seized upon the choicest portions,Seized the white fat of the roebuck,Set apart for Laughing Water,For the wife of Hiawatha;Without asking, without thanking,Eagerly devoured the morsels,Flitted back among the shadowsIn the corner of the wigwam.Not a word spake Hiawatha,Not a motion made Nokomis,Not a gesture Laughing Water;Not a change came o'er their features;Only Minnehaha softlyWhispered, saying, "They are famished;Let them do what best delights them;Let them eat, for they are famished."Many a daylight dawned and darkened,Many a night shook off the daylightAs the pine shakes off the snow-flakesFrom the midnight of its branches;Day by day the guests unmovingSat there silent in the wigwam;But by night, in storm or starlight,Forth they went into the forest,Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam,Bringing pine-cones for the burning,Always sad and always silent.And whenever HiawathaCame from fishing or from hunting,When the evening meal was ready,And the food had been divided,Gliding from their darksome corner,Came the pallid guests, the strangers,Seized upon the choicest portionsSet aside for Laughing Water,And without rebuke or questionFlitted back among the shadows.Never once had HiawathaBy a word or look reproved them;Never once had old NokomisMade a gesture of impatience;Never once had Laughing WaterShown resentment at the outrage.All had they endured in silence,That the rights of guest and stranger,That the virtue of free-giving,By a look might not be lessened,By a word might not be broken.Once at midnight Hiawatha,Ever wakeful, ever watchful,In the wigwam, dimly lightedBy the brands that still were burning,By the glimmering, flickering firelightHeard a sighing, oft repeated,Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow.From his couch rose Hiawatha,From his shaggy hides of bison,Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain,Saw the pallid guests, the shadows,Sitting upright on their couches,Weeping in the silent midnight.And he said: "O guests! why is itThat your hearts are so afflicted,That you sob so in the midnight?Has perchance the old Nokomis,Has my wife, my Minnehaha,Wronged or grieved you by unkindness,Failed in hospitable duties?"Then the shadows ceased from weeping,Ceased from sobbing and lamenting,And they said, with gentle voices:"We are ghosts of the departed,Souls of those who once were with you.From the realms of ChibiabosHither have we come to try you,Hither have we come to warn you."Cries of grief and lamentationReach us in the Blessed Islands;Cries of anguish from the living,Calling back their friends departed,Sadden us with useless sorrow.Therefore have we come to try you;No one knows us, no one heeds us.We are but a burden to you,And we see that the departedHave no place among the living."Think of this, O Hiawatha!Speak of it to all the people,That henceforward and foreverThey no more with lamentationsSadden the souls of the departedIn the Islands of the Blessed."Do not lay such heavy burdensIn the graves of those you bury,Not such weight of furs and wampum,Not such weight of pots and kettles,For the spirits faint beneath them.Only give them food to carry,Only give them fire to light them."Four days is the spirit's journeyTo the land of ghosts and shadows,Four its lonely night encampments;Four times must their fires be lighted.Therefore, when the dead are buried,Let a fire, as night approaches,Four times on the grave be kindled,That the soul upon its journeyMay not lack the cheerful firelight,May not grope about in darkness."Farewell, noble Hiawatha!We have put you to the trial,To the proof have put your patience,By the insult of our presence,By the outrage of our actions.We have found you great and noble.Fail not in the greater trial,Faint not in the harder struggle."When they ceased, a sudden darknessFell and filled the silent wigwam.Hiawatha heard a rustleAs of garments trailing by him,Heard the curtain of the doorwayLifted by a hand he saw not,Felt the cold breath of the night air,For a moment saw the starlight;But he saw the ghosts no longer,Saw no more the wandering spiritsFrom the kingdom of Ponemah,From the land of the Hereafter.XXTHE FAMINEOh the long and dreary Winter!Oh the cold and cruel Winter!Ever thicker, thicker, thickerFroze the ice on lake and river,Ever deeper, deeper, deeperFell the snow o'er all the landscape,Fell the covering snow, and driftedThrough the forest, round the village.Hardly from his buried wigwamCould the hunter force a passage;With his mittens and his snow-shoesVainly walked he through the forest,Sought for bird or beast and found none,Saw no track of deer or rabbit,In the snow beheld no footprints,In the ghastly, gleaming forestFell, and could not rise from weakness,Perished there from cold and hunger.Oh the famine and the fever!Oh the wasting of the famine!Oh the blasting of the fever!Oh the wailing of the children!Oh the anguish of the women!All the earth was sick and famished;Hungry was the air around them,Hungry was the sky above them,And the hungry stars in heavenLike the eyes of wolves glared at them!Into Hiawatha's wigwamCame two other guests, as silentAs the ghosts were, and as gloomy,Waited not to be invitedDid not parley at the doorwaySat there without word of welcomeIn the seat of Laughing Water;Looked with haggard eyes and hollowAt the face of Laughing Water.And the foremost said: "Behold me!I am Famine, Bukadawin!"And the other said: "Behold me!I am Fever, Ahkosewin!"And the lovely MinnehahaShuddered as they looked upon her,Shuddered at the words they uttered,Lay down on her bed in silence,Hid her face, but made no answer;Lay there trembling, freezing, burningAt the looks they cast upon her,At the fearful words they uttered.Forth into the empty forestRushed the maddened Hiawatha;In his heart was deadly sorrow,In his face a stony firmness;On his brow the sweat of anguishStarted, but it froze and fell not.Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting,With his mighty bow of ash-tree,With his quiver full of arrows,With his mittens, Minjekahwun,Into the vast and vacant forestOn his snow-shoes strode he forward."Gitche Manito, the Mighty!"Cried he with his face upliftedIn that bitter hour of anguish,"Give your children food, O father!Give us food, or we must perish!Give me food for Minnehaha,For my dying Minnehaha!"Through the far-resounding forest,Through the forest vast and vacantRang that cry of desolation,But there came no other answerThan the echo of his crying,Than the echo of the woodlands,"Minnehaha! Minnehaha!"All day long roved HiawathaIn that melancholy forest,Through the shadow of whose thickets,In the pleasant days of Summer,Of that ne'er forgotten Summer,He had brought his young wife homewardFrom the land of the Dacotahs;When the birds sang in the thickets,And the streamlets laughed and glistened,And the air was full of fragrance,And the lovely Laughing WaterSaid with voice that did not tremble,"I will follow you, my husband!"In the wigwam with Nokomis,With those gloomy guests that watched her,With the Famine and the Fever,She was lying, the Beloved,She, the dying Minnehaha."Hark!" she said; "I hear a rushing,Hear a roaring and a rushing,Hear the Falls of MinnehahaCalling to me from a distance!""No, my child!" said old Nokomis,"'T is the night-wind in the pine-trees!""Look!" she said; "I see my fatherStanding lonely at his doorway,Beckoning to me from his wigwamIn the land of the Dacotahs!""No, my child!" said old Nokomis."'T is the smoke, that waves and beckons!""Ah!" said she, "the eyes of PaugukGlare upon me in the darkness,I can feel his icy fingersClasping mine amid the darkness!Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"And the desolate Hiawatha,Far away amid the forest,Miles away among the mountains,Heard that sudden cry of anguish,Heard the voice of MinnehahaCalling to him in the darkness,"Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"Over snow-fields waste and pathless,Under snow-encumbered branches,Homeward hurried Hiawatha,Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing:"Wahonowin! Wahonowin!Would that I had perished for you,Would that I were dead as you are!Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"And he rushed into the wigwam,Saw the old Nokomis slowlyRocking to and fro and moaning,Saw his lovely MinnehahaLying dead and cold before him,And his bursting heart within himUttered such a cry of anguish,That the forest moaned and shuddered,That the very stars in heavenShook and trembled with his anguish.Then he sat down, still and speechless,On the bed of Minnehaha,At the feet of Laughing Water,At those willing feet, that neverMore would lightly run to meet him,Never more would lightly follow.With both hands his face he covered,Seven long days and nights he sat there,As if in a swoon he sat there,Speechless, motionless, unconsciousOf the daylight or the darkness.Then they buried Minnehaha;In the snow a grave they made herIn the forest deep and darksomeUnderneath the moaning hemlocks;Clothed her in her richest garmentsWrapped her in her robes of ermine,Covered her with snow, like ermine;Thus they buried Minnehaha.And at night a fire was lighted,On her grave four times was kindled,For her soul upon its journeyTo the Islands of the Blessed.From his doorway HiawathaSaw it burning in the forest,Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks;From his sleepless bed uprising,From the bed of Minnehaha,Stood and watched it at the doorway,That it might not be extinguished,Might not leave her in the darkness."Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha!Farewell, O my Laughing Water!All my heart is buried with you,All my thoughts go onward with you!Come not back again to labor,Come not back again to suffer,Where the Famine and the FeverWear the heart and waste the body.Soon my task will be completed,Soon your footsteps I shall followTo the Islands of the Blessed,To the Kingdom of Ponemah,To the Land of the Hereafter!"XXITHE WHITE MAN'S FOOTIn his lodge beside a river,Close beside a frozen river,Sat an old man, sad and lonely.White his hair was as a snow-drift;Dull and low his fire was burning,And the old man shook and trembled,Folded in his Waubewyon,In his tattered white-skin-wrapper,Hearing nothing but the tempestAs it roared along the forest,Seeing nothing but the snow-storm,As it whirled and hissed and drifted.All the coals were white with ashes,And the fire was slowly dying,As a young man, walking lightly,At the open doorway entered.Red with blood of youth his cheeks were,Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time,Bound his forehead was with grasses;Bound and plumed with scented grasses,On his lips a smile of beauty,Filling all the lodge with sunshine,In his hand a bunch of blossomsFilling all the lodge with sweetness."Ah, my son!" exclaimed the old man,"Happy are my eyes to see you.Sit here on the mat beside me,Sit here by the dying embers,Let us pass the night together,Tell me of your strange adventures,Of the lands where you have travelled;I will tell you of my prowess,Of my many deeds of wonder."From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe,Very old and strangely fashioned;Made of red stone was the pipe-head,And the stem a reed with feathers;Filled the pipe with bark of willow,Placed a burning coal upon it,Gave it to his guest, the stranger,And began to speak in this wise:"When I blow my breath about me,When I breathe upon the landscape,Motionless are all the rivers,Hard as stone becomes the water!"And the young man answered, smiling:"When I blow my breath about me,When I breathe upon the landscape,Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows,Singing, onward rush the rivers!""When I shake my hoary tresses,"Said the old man darkly frowning,"All the land with snow is covered;All the leaves from all the branchesFall and fade and die and wither,For I breathe, and lo! they are not.From the waters and the marshes,Rise the wild goose and the heron,Fly away to distant regions,For I speak, and lo! they are not.And where'er my footsteps wander,All the wild beasts of the forestHide themselves in holes and caverns,And the earth becomes as flintstone!""When I shake my flowing ringlets,"Said the young man, softly laughing,"Showers of rain fall warm and welcome,Plants lift up their heads rejoicing,Back into their lakes and marshesCome the wild goose and the heron,Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow,Sing the bluebird and the robin,And where'er my footsteps wander,All the meadows wave with blossoms,All the woodlands ring with music,All the trees are dark with foliage!"While they spake, the night departed:From the distant realms of Wabun,From his shining lodge of silver,Like a warrior robed and painted,Came the sun, and said, "Behold meGheezis, the great sun, behold me!"Then the old man's tongue was speechlessAnd the air grew warm and pleasant,And upon the wigwam sweetlySang the bluebird and the robin,And the stream began to murmur,And a scent of growing grassesThrough the lodge was gently wafted.And Segwun, the youthful stranger,More distinctly in the daylightSaw the icy face before him;It was Peboan, the Winter!From his eyes the tears were flowing,As from melting lakes the streamlets,And his body shrunk and dwindledAs the shouting sun ascended,Till into the air it faded,Till into the ground it vanished,And the young man saw before him,On the hearth-stone of the wigwam,Where the fire had smoked and smouldered,Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time,Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time,Saw the Miskodeed in blossom.Thus it was that in the North-landAfter that unheard-of coldness,That intolerable Winter,Came the Spring with all its splendor,All its birds and all its blossoms,All its flowers and leaves and grasses.Sailing on the wind to northward,Flying in great flocks, like arrows,Like huge arrows shot through heaven,Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee,Speaking almost as a man speaks;And in long lines waving, bendingLike a bow-string snapped asunder,Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa;And in pairs, or singly flying,Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions,The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,And the grouse, the Mushkodasa.In the thickets and the meadowsPiped the bluebird, the Owaissa,On the summit of the lodgesSang the robin, the Opechee,In the covert of the pine-treesCooed the pigeon, the Omemee;And the sorrowing Hiawatha,Speechless in his infinite sorrow,Heard their voices calling to him,Went forth from his gloomy doorway,Stood and gazed into the heaven,Gazed upon the earth and waters.From his wanderings far to eastward,From the regions of the morning,From the shining land of Wabun,Homeward now returned Iagoo,The great traveller, the great boaster,Full of new and strange adventures,Marvels many and many wonders.And the people of the villageListened to him as he told themOf his marvellous adventures,Laughing answered him in this wise:"Ugh! it is indeed Iagoo!No one else beholds such wonders!"He had seen, he said, a waterBigger than the Big-Sea-Water,Broader than the Gitche Gumee,Bitter so that none could drink it!At each other looked the warriors,Looked the women at each other,Smiled, and said, "It cannot be so!"Kaw!" they said, it cannot be so!"O'er it, said he, o'er this waterCame a great canoe with pinions,A canoe with wings came flying,Bigger than a grove of pine-trees,Taller than the tallest tree-tops!And the old men and the womenLooked and tittered at each other;"Kaw!" they said, "we don't believe it!"From its mouth, he said, to greet him,Came Waywassimo, the lightning,Came the thunder, Annemeekee!And the warriors and the womenLaughed aloud at poor Iagoo;"Kaw!" they said, "what tales you tell us!"In it, said he, came a people,In the great canoe with pinionsCame, he said, a hundred warriors;Painted white were all their facesAnd with hair their chins were covered!And the warriors and the womenLaughed and shouted in derision,Like the ravens on the tree-tops,Like the crows upon the hemlocks."Kaw!" they said, "what lies you tell us!Do not think that we believe them!"Only Hiawatha laughed not,But he gravely spake and answeredTo their jeering and their jesting:"True is all Iagoo tells us;I have seen it in a vision,Seen the great canoe with pinions,Seen the people with white faces,Seen the coming of this beardedPeople of the wooden vesselFrom the regions of the morning,From the shining land of Wabun."Gitche Manito, the Mighty,The Great Spirit, the Creator,Sends them hither on his errand.Sends them to us with his message.Wheresoe'er they move, before themSwarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo,Swarms the bee, the honey-maker;Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath themSprings a flower unknown among us,Springs the White-man's Foot in blossom."Let us welcome, then, the strangers,Hail them as our friends and brothers,And the heart's right hand of friendshipGive them when they come to see us.Gitche Manito, the Mighty,Said this to me in my vision."I beheld, too, in that visionAll the secrets of the future,Of the distant days that shall be.I beheld the westward marchesOf the unknown, crowded nations.All the land was full of people,Restless, struggling, toiling, striving,Speaking many tongues, yet feelingBut one heart-beat in their bosoms.In the woodlands rang their axes,Smoked their towns in all the valleys,Over all the lakes and riversRushed their great canoes of thunder."Then a darker, drearier visionPassed before me, vague and cloud-like;I beheld our nation scattered,All forgetful of my counsels,Weakened, warring with each other;Saw the remnants of our peopleSweeping westward, wild and woful,Like the cloud-rack of a tempest,Like the withered leaves of Autumn!"XXIIHIAWATHA'S DEPARTUREBy the shore of Gitche Gumee,By the shining Big-Sea-Water,At the doorway of his wigwam,In the pleasant Summer morning,Hiawatha stood and waited.All the air was full of freshness,All the earth was bright and joyous,And before him, through the sunshine,Westward toward the neighboring forestPassed in golden swarms the Ahmo,Passed the bees, the honey-makers,Burning, singing in the sunshine.Bright above him shone the heavens,Level spread the lake before him;From its bosom leaped the sturgeon,Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine;On its margin the great forestStood reflected in the water,Every tree-top had its shadow,Motionless beneath the water.From the brow of HiawathaGone was every trace of sorrow,As the fog from off the water,As the mist from off the meadow.With a smile of joy and triumph,With a look of exultation,As of one who in a visionSees what is to be, but is not,Stood and waited Hiawatha.Toward the sun his hands were lifted,Both the palms spread out against it,And between the parted fingersFell the sunshine on his features,Flecked with light his naked shoulders,As it falls and flecks an oak-treeThrough the rifted leaves and branches.O'er the water floating, flying,Something in the hazy distance,Something in the mists of morning,Loomed and lifted from the water,Now seemed floating, now seemed flying,Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.Was it Shingebis the diver?Or the pelican, the Shada?Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah?Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa,With the water dripping, flashing,From its glossy neck and feathers?It was neither goose nor diver,Neither pelican nor heron,O'er the water floating, flying,Through the shining mist of morning,But a birch canoe with paddles,Rising, sinking on the water,Dripping, flashing in the sunshine;And within it came a peopleFrom the distant land of Wabun,From the farthest realms of morningCame the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet,He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face,With his guides and his companions.And the noble Hiawatha,With his hands aloft extended,Held aloft in sign of welcome,Waited, full of exultation,Till the birch canoe with paddlesGrated on the shining pebbles,Stranded on the sandy margin,Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,With the cross upon his bosom,Landed on the sandy margin.Then the joyous HiawathaCried aloud and spake in this wise:"Beautiful is the sun, O strangers,When you come so far to see us!All our town in peace awaits you,All our doors stand open for you;You shall enter all our wigwams,For the heart's right hand we give you."Never bloomed the earth so gayly,Never shone the sun so brightly,As to-day they shine and blossomWhen you come so far to see us!Never was our lake so tranquil,Nor so free from rocks, and sand-bars;For your birch canoe in passingHas removed both rock and sand-bar."Never before had our tobaccoSuch a sweet and pleasant flavor,Never the broad leaves of our cornfieldsWere so beautiful to look on,As they seem to us this morning,When you come so far to see us!'And the Black-Robe chief made answer,Stammered in his speech a little,Speaking words yet unfamiliar:"Peace be with you, Hiawatha,Peace be with you and your people,Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon,Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!"Then the generous HiawathaLed the strangers to his wigwam,Seated them on skins of bison,Seated them on skins of ermine,And the careful old NokomisBrought them food in bowls of basswood,Water brought in birchen dippers,And the calumet, the peace-pipe,Filled and lighted for their smoking.All the old men of the village,All the warriors of the nation,All the Jossakeeds, the Prophets,The magicians, the Wabenos,And the Medicine-men, the Medas,Came to bid the strangers welcome;"It is well", they said, "O brothers,That you come so far to see us!"In a circle round the doorway,With their pipes they sat in silence,Waiting to behold the strangers,Waiting to receive their message;Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,From the wigwam came to greet them,Stammering in his speech a little,Speaking words yet unfamiliar;"It is well," they said, "O brother,That you come so far to see us!"Then the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet,Told his message to the people,Told the purport of his mission,Told them of the Virgin Mary,And her blessed Son, the Saviour,How in distant lands and agesHe had lived on earth as we do;How he fasted, prayed, and labored;How the Jews, the tribe accursed,Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him;How he rose from where they laid him,Walked again with his disciples,And ascended into heaven.And the chiefs made answer, saying:"We have listened to your message,We have heard your words of wisdom,We will think on what you tell us.It is well for us, O brothers,That you come so far to see us!"Then they rose up and departedEach one homeward to his wigwam,To the young men and the womenTold the story of the strangersWhom the Master of Life had sent themFrom the shining land of Wabun.Heavy with the heat and silenceGrew the afternoon of Summer;With a drowsy sound the forestWhispered round the sultry wigwam,With a sound of sleep the waterRippled on the beach below it;From the cornfields shrill and ceaselessSang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena;And the guests of Hiawatha,Weary with the heat of Summer,Slumbered in the sultry wigwam.Slowly o'er the simmering landscapeFell the evening's dusk and coolness,And the long and level sunbeamsShot their spears into the forest,Breaking through its shields of shadow,Rushed into each secret ambush,Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow;Still the guests of HiawathaSlumbered in the silent wigwam.From his place rose Hiawatha,Bade farewell to old Nokomis,Spake in whispers, spake in this wise,Did not wake the guests, that slumbered."I am going, O Nokomis,On a long and distant journey,To the portals of the Sunset.To the regions of the home-wind,Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin.But these guests I leave behind me,In your watch and ward I leave them;See that never harm comes near them,See that never fear molests them,Never danger nor suspicion,Never want of food or shelter,In the lodge of Hiawatha!"Forth into the village went he,Bade farewell to all the warriors,Bade farewell to all the young men,Spake persuading, spake in this wise:"I am going, O my people,On a long and distant journey;Many moons and many wintersWill have come, and will have vanished,Ere I come again to see you.But my guests I leave behind me;Listen to their words of wisdom,Listen to the truth they tell you,For the Master of Life has sent themFrom the land of light and morning!"On the shore stood Hiawatha,Turned and waved his hand at parting;On the clear and luminous waterLaunched his birch canoe for sailing,From the pebbles of the marginShoved it forth into the water;Whispered to it, "Westward! westward!"And with speed it darted forward.And the evening sun descendingSet the clouds on fire with redness,Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,Left upon the level waterOne long track and trail of splendor,Down whose stream, as down a river,Westward, westward HiawathaSailed into the fiery sunset,Sailed into the purple vapors,Sailed into the dusk of evening:And the people from the marginWatched him floating, rising, sinking,Till the birch canoe seemed liftedHigh into that sea of splendor,Till it sank into the vaporsLike the new moon slowly, slowlySinking in the purple distance.And they said, "Farewell forever!"Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"And the forests, dark and lonely,Moved through all their depths of darkness,Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"And the waves upon the marginRising, rippling on the pebbles,Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,From her haunts among the fen-lands,Screamed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"Thus departed Hiawatha,Hiawatha the Beloved,In the glory of the sunset,.In the purple mists of evening,To the regions of the home-wind,Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin,To the Islands of the Blessed,To the Kingdom of Ponemah,To the Land of the Hereafter!NOTESTHE SONG OF HIAWATHA.This Indian Edda—if I may so call it—is founded on a tradition prevalent among the North American Indians, of a personage of miraculous birth, who was sent among them to clear their rivers, forests, and fishing-grounds, and to teach them the arts of peace.He was known among different tribes by the several names of Michabou, Chiabo, Manabozo, Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha. Mr. Schoolcraft gives an account of him in his Algic Researches, Vol. I. p. 134; and in his History, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes of the United States, Part III. p. 314, may be found the Iroquois form of the tradition, derived from the verbal narrations of an Onondaga chief.Into this old tradition I have woven other curious Indian legends, drawn chiefly from the various and valuable writings of Mr. Schoolcraft, to whom the literary world is greatly indebted for his indefatigable zeal in rescuing from oblivion so much of the legendary lore of the Indians.The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways on the southern shore of Lake Superior, in the region between the Pictured Rocks and the Grand Sable.VOCABULARYAdjidau'mo, the red squirrel.Ahdeek', the reindeer.Ahkose'win, fever.Ahmeek', the beaver.Algon'quin, Ojibway.Annemee'kee, the thunder.Apuk'wa. a bulrush.Baim-wa'wa, the sound of the thunder.Bemah'gut, the grapevine.Be'na, the pheasant.Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior.Bukada'win, famine.Chemaun', a birch canoe.Chetowaik', the plover.Chibia'bos, a musician; friend of Hiawatha; ruler in the Land of Spirits.Dahin'da, the bull frog.Dush-kwo-ne'she or Kwo-ne'she, the dragon fly.Esa, shame upon you.Ewa-yea', lullaby.Ghee'zis, the sun.Gitche Gu'mee, The Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior.Gitche Man'ito, the Great Spirit, the Master of Life.Gushkewau', the darkness.Hiawa'tha, the Wise Man, the Teacher, son of Mudjekeewis, theWestWind and Wenonah, daughter of Nokomis.Ia'goo, a great boaster and story-teller.Inin'ewug, men, or pawns in the Game of the Bowl.Ishkoodah', fire, a comet.Jee'bi, a ghost, a spirit.Joss'akeed, a prophet.Kabibonok'ka, the North-Wind.Kagh, the hedge-hog.Ka'go, do not.Kahgahgee', the raven.Kaw, no.Kaween', no indeed.Kayoshk', the sea-gull.Kee'go, a fish.Keeway'din, the Northwest wind, the Home-wind.Kena'beek, a serpent.Keneu', the great war-eagle.Keno'zha, the pickerel.Ko'ko-ko'ho, the owl.Kuntasoo', the Game of Plum-stones.Kwa'sind, the Strong Man.Kwo-ne'she, or Dush-kwo-ne'she, the dragon-fly.Mahnahbe'zee, the swan.Mahng, the loon.Mahn-go-tay'see, loon-hearted, brave.Mahnomo'nee, wild rice.Ma'ma, the woodpecker.Maskeno'zha, the pike.Me'da, a medicine-man.Meenah'ga, the blueberry.Megissog'won, the great Pearl-Feather, a magician, and the Manitoof Wealth.Meshinau'wa, a pipe-bearer.Minjekah'wun, Hiawatha's mittens.Minneha'ha, Laughing Water; wife of Hiawatha; a water-fall in astream running into the Mississippi between Fort Snelling and theFalls of St. Anthony.Minne-wa'wa, a pleasant sound, as of the wind in the trees.Mishe-Mo'kwa, the Great Bear.Mishe-Nah'ma, the Great Sturgeon.Miskodeed', the Spring-Beauty, the Claytonia Virginica.Monda'min, Indian corn.Moon of Bright Nights, April.Moon of Leaves, May.Moon of Strawberries, June.Moon of the Falling Leaves, September.Moon of Snow-shoes, November.Mudjekee'wis, the West-Wind; father of Hiawatha.Mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves on a shore.Mushkoda'sa, the grouse.Nah'ma, the sturgeon.Nah'ma-wusk, spearmint.Na'gow Wudj'oo, the Sand Dunes of Lake Superior.Nee-ba-naw'-baigs, water-spirits.Nenemoo'sha, sweetheart.Nepah'win, sleep.Noko'mis, a grandmother, mother of Wenonah.No'sa, my father.Nush'ka, look! look!Odah'min, the strawberry.Okahah'wis, the fresh-water herring.Ome'me, the pigeon.Ona'gon, a bowl.Onaway', awake.Ope'chee, the robin.Osse'o, Son of the Evening Star.Owais'sa, the bluebird.Oweenee', wife of Osseo.Ozawa'beek, a round piece of brass or copper in the Game of theBowl.Pah-puk-kee'na, the grasshopper.Pau'guk, death.Pau-Puk-Kee'wis, the handsome Yenadizze, the son of Storm Fool.Pauwa'ting, Saut Sainte Marie.Pe'boan, Winter.Pem'ican, meat of the deer or buffalo dried and pounded.Pezhekee', the bison.Pishnekuh', the brant.Pone'mah, hereafter.Pugasaing', Game of the Bowl.Puggawau'gun, a war-club.Puk-Wudj'ies, little wild men of the woods; pygmies.Sah-sah-je'wun, rapids.Sah'wa, the perch.Segwun', Spring.Sha'da, the pelican.Shahbo'min, the gooseberry.Shah-shah, long ago.Shaugoda'ya, a coward.Shawgashee', the craw-fish.Shawonda'see, the South-Wind.Shaw-shaw, the swallow.Shesh'ebwug, ducks; pieces in the Game of the Bowl.Shin'gebis, the diver, or grebe.Showain' neme'shin, pity me.Shuh-shuh'gah, the blue heron.Soan-ge-ta'ha, strong-hearted.Subbeka'she, the spider.Sugge'me, the mosquito.To'tem, family coat-of-arms.Ugh, yes.Ugudwash', the sun-fish.Unktahee', the God of Water.Wabas'so, the rabbit, the North.Wabe'no, a magician, a juggler.Wabe'no-wusk, yarrow.Wa'bun, the East-Wind.Wa'bun An'nung, the Star of the East, the Morning Star.Wahono'win, a cry of lamentation.Wah-wah-tay'see, the fire-fly.Wam'pum, beads of shell.Waubewy'on, a white skin wrapper.Wa'wa, the wild goose.Waw'beek, a rock.Waw-be-wa'wa, the white goose.Wawonais'sa, the whippoorwill.Way-muk-kwa'na, the caterpillar.Wen'digoes, giants.Weno'nah, Hiawatha's mother, daughter of Nokomis.Yenadiz'ze, an idler and gambler; an Indian dandy.In the Vale of Tawasentha.This valley, now called Norman's Kill; is in Albany County, New York.On the Mountains of the Prairie.Mr. Catlin, in his Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, andCondition of the North American Indians, Vol. II p. 160, gives an interesting account of the Coteau des Prairies, and the Red Pipestone Quarry. He says:—"Here (according to their traditions) happened the mysterious birth of the red pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace and war to the remotest corners of the continent; which has visited every warrior, and passed through its reddened stem the irrevocable oath of war and desolation. And here, also, the peace-breathing calumet was born, and fringed with the eagle's quills, which has shed its thrilling fumes over the land, and soothed the fury of the relentless savage."The Great Spirit at an ancient period here called the Indian nations together, and, standing on the precipice of the red pipe- stone rock, broke from its wall a piece, and made a huge pipe by turning it in his hand, which he smoked over them, and to the North, the South, the East, and the West, and told them that this stone was red,—that it was their flesh,—that they must use it for their pipes of peace,—that it belonged to them all, and that the war-club and scalping-knife must not be raised on its ground. At the last whiff of his pipe his head went into a great cloud, and the whole surface of the rock for several miles was melted and glazed; two great ovens were opened beneath, and two women (guardian spirits of the place) entered them in a blaze of fire; and they are heard there yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee aud Tso-me-cos-te-won-dee), answering to the invocations of the high-priests or medicine-men, who consult them when they are visitors to this sacred place."Hark you, Bear! you are a coward.This anecdote is from Heckewelder. In his account of the Indian Nations, he describes an Indian hunter as addressing a bear in nearly these words. "I was present," he says, "at the delivery of this curious invective; when the hunter had despatched the bear, I asked him how he thought that poor animal could understand what he said to it. 'O,' said he in answer, 'the bear understood me very well; did you not observe how ashamed he looked while I was upbraiding him?"'—Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, Vol. I. p. 240.Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!Heckewelder, in a letter published in the Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, Vol. IV. p. 260, speaks of this tradition as prevalent among the Mohicans and Delawares."Their reports," he says, "run thus: that among all animals that had been formerly in this country, this was the most ferocious; that it was much larger than the largest of the common bears, and remarkably long-bodied; all over (except a spot of hair on its back of a white color) naked. . . . ."The history of this animal used to be a subject of conversation among the Indians, especially when in the woods a hunting. I have also heard them say to their children when crying: 'Hush! the naked bear will hear you, be upon you, and devour you,'"Where the Falls of Minnehaha, etc."The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich in beauty. The Falls of St. Anthony are familiar to travellers, and to readers of Indian sketches. Between the fort and these falls are the 'Little Falls,' forty feet in height, on a stream that empties into the Mississippi. The Indians called them Mine-hah-hah, or 'laughing waters.'" — MRS. EASTMAN'S Dacotah, or Legends of the Sioux, Introd., p. ii.Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo.A description of the Grand Sable, or great sand-dunes of Lake Superior, is given in Foster and Whitney's Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior Land District, Part II. p. 131."The Grand Sable possesses a scenic interest little inferior to that of the Pictured Rocks. The explorer passes abruptly from a coast of consolidated sand to one of loose materials; and although in the one case the cliffs are less precipitous, yet in the other they attain a higher altitude. He sees before him a long reach of coast, resembling a vast sand-bank, more than three hundred and fifty feet in height, without a trace of vegetation. Ascending to the top, rounded hillocks of blown sand are observed, with occasional clumps of trees standing out like oases in the desert."Onaway! Awake, beloved!The original of this song may be found in Littell's Living Age, Vol. XXV. p. 45.On the Red Swan floating, flying.The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan may be found in Schoolcraft's Algic Researches, Vol. II. p. 9. Three brothers were hunting on a wager to see who would bring home the first game."They were to shoot no other animal," so the legend says, "but such as each was in the habit of killing. They set out different ways: Odjibwa, the youngest, had not gone far before he saw a bear, an animal he was not to kill, by the agreement. He followed him close, and drove an arrow through him, which brought him to the ground. Although contrary to the bet, he immediately commenced skinning him, when suddenly something red tinged all the air around him. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps deceived; but without effect, for the red hue continued. At length he heard a strange noise at a distance. It first appeared like a human voice, but after following the sound for some distance, he reached the shores of a lake, and soon saw the object he was looking for. At a distance out in the lake sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage glittered in the sun, and who would now and then make the same noise he had heard. He was within long bow-shot, and, pulling the arrow from the bowstring up to his ear, took deliberate aim and shot. The arrow took no effect; and he shot and shot again till his quiver was empty. Still the swan remained, moving round and round, stretching its long neck and dipping its bill into the water, as if heedless of the arrows shot at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got all his own and his brother's arrows and shot them all away. He then stood and gazed at the beautiful bird. While standing, he remembered his brother's saying that in their deceased father's medicine-sack were three magic arrows. Off he started, his anxiety to kill the swan overcoming all scruples. At any other time, he would have deemed it sacrilege to open his father's medicine-sack; but now he hastily seized the three arrows and ran back, leaving the other contents of the sack scattered over the lodge. The swan was still there. He shot the first arrow with great precision, and came very near to it. The second came still closer; as he took the last arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and, drawing it up with vigor, saw it pass through the neck of the swan a little above the breast. Still it did not prevent the bird from flying off, which it did, however, at first slowly, flapping its wings and rising gradually into the airs and teen flying off toward the sinking of the sun." — pp.10-12.When I think of my beloved.The original of this song may be found in Oneota, p. 15.Sing the mysteries of Mondamin. The Indians hold the maize, or Indian corn, in great veneration."They esteem it so important and divine a grain," says Schoolcraft, "that their story-tellers invented various tales, in which this idea is symbolized under the form of a special gift from the Great Spirit. The Odjibwa-Algonquins, who call it Mon-da-min, that is, the Spirit's grain or berry, have a pretty story of this kind, in which the stalk in full tassel is represented as descending from the sky, under the guise of a handsome youth, in answer to the prayers of a young man at his fast of virility, or coming to manhood."It is well known that corn-planting and corn-gathering, at least among all the still uncolonized tribes, are left entirely to the females and children, and a few superannuated old men. It is not generally known, perhaps, that this labor is not compulsory, and that it is assumed by the females as a just equivalent, in their view, for the onerous and continuous labor of the other sex, in providing meats, and skins for clothing, by the chase, and in defending their villages against their enemies, and keeping intruders off their territories. A good Indian housewife deems this a part of her prerogative, and prides herself to have a store of corn to exercise her hospitality, or duly honor her husband's hospitality, in the entertainment of the lodge guests." — Oneota, p. 82.Thus the fields shall be more fruitful."A singular proof of this belief, in both sexes, of the mysterious influence of the steps of a woman on the vegetable and in sect creation, is found in an ancient custom, which was related to me, respecting corn-planting. It was the practice of the hunter's wife, when the field of corn had been planted, to choose the first dark or overclouded evening to perform a secret circuit, sans habillement, around the field. For this purpose she slipped out of the lodge in the evening, unobserved, to some obscure nook, where she completely disrobed. Then, taking her matchecota, or principal garment, in one hand, she dragged it around the field. This was thought to insure a prolific crop, and to prevent the assaults of insects and worms upon the grain. It was supposed they could not creep over the charmed line." — Oneota, p. 83.With his prisoner-string he bound him."These cords," says Mr. Tanner "are made of the bark of the elm- tree, by boiling and then immersing it in cold water. . . . The leader of a war party commonly carries several fastened about his waist, and if, in the course of the fight, any one of his young men take a prisoner, it is his duty to bring him immediately to the chief, to be tied, and the latter is responsible for his safe keeping." — Narrative of Captivity and Adventures, p. 412.
Far and wide among the nationsSpread the name and fame of Kwasind;No man dared to strive with Kwasind,No man could compete with Kwasind.But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies,They the envious Little People,They the fairies and the pygmies,Plotted and conspired against him."If this hateful Kwasind," said they,"If this great, outrageous fellowGoes on thus a little longer,Tearing everything he touches,Rending everything to pieces,Filling all the world with wonder,What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies?Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies?He will tread us down like mushrooms,Drive us all into the water,Give our bodies to be eatenBy the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs,By the Spirits of the water!So the angry Little PeopleAll conspired against the Strong Man,All conspired to murder Kwasind,Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind,The audacious, overbearing,Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind!Now this wondrous strength of KwasindIn his crown alone was seated;In his crown too was his weakness;There alone could he be wounded,Nowhere else could weapon pierce him,Nowhere else could weapon harm him.Even there the only weaponThat could wound him, that could slay him,Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree,Was the blue cone of the fir-tree.This was Kwasind's fatal secret,Known to no man among mortals;But the cunning Little People,The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret,Knew the only way to kill him.So they gathered cones together,Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree,Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree,In the woods by Taquamenaw,Brought them to the river's margin,Heaped them in great piles together,Where the red rocks from the marginJutting overhang the river.There they lay in wait for Kwasind,The malicious Little People.'T was an afternoon in Summer;Very hot and still the air was,Very smooth the gliding river,Motionless the sleeping shadows:Insects glistened in the sunshine,Insects skated on the water,Filled the drowsy air with buzzing,With a far resounding war-cry.Down the river came the Strong Man,In his birch canoe came Kwasind,Floating slowly down the currentOf the sluggish Taquamenaw,Very languid with the weather,Very sleepy with the silence.From the overhanging branches,From the tassels of the birch-trees,Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended;By his airy hosts surrounded,His invisible attendants,Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin;Like a burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she,Like a dragon-fly, he hoveredO'er the drowsy head of Kwasind.To his ear there came a murmurAs of waves upon a sea-shore,As of far-off tumbling waters,As of winds among the pine-trees;And he felt upon his foreheadBlows of little airy war-clubs,Wielded by the slumbrous legionsOf the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,As of some one breathing on him.At the first blow of their war-clubs,Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind;At the second blow they smote him,Motionless his paddle rested;At the third, before his visionReeled the landscape into darkness,Very sound asleep was Kwasind.So he floated down the river,Like a blind man seated upright,Floated down the Taquamenaw,Underneath the trembling birch-trees,Underneath the wooded headlands,Underneath the war encampmentOf the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies.There they stood, all armed and waiting,Hurled the pine-cones down upon him,Struck him on his brawny shoulders,On his crown defenceless struck him."Death to Kwasind!" was the suddenWar-cry of the Little People.And he sideways swayed and tumbled,Sideways fell into the river,Plunged beneath the sluggish waterHeadlong, as an otter plunges;And the birch canoe, abandoned,Drifted empty down the river,Bottom upward swerved and drifted:Nothing more was seen of Kwasind.But the memory of the Strong ManLingered long among the people,And whenever through the forestRaged and roared the wintry tempest,And the branches, tossed and troubled,Creaked and groaned and split asunder,"Kwasind!" cried they; "that is Kwasind!He is gathering in his fire-wood!"
Never stoops the soaring vultureOn his quarry in the desert,On the sick or wounded bison,But another vulture, watchingFrom his high aerial look-out,Sees the downward plunge, and follows;And a third pursues the second,Coming from the invisible ether,First a speck, and then a vulture,Till the air is dark with pinions.So disasters come not singly;But as if they watched and waited,Scanning one another's motions,When the first descends, the othersFollow, follow, gathering flock-wiseRound their victim, sick and wounded,First a shadow, then a sorrow,Till the air is dark with anguish.Now, o'er all the dreary North-land,Mighty Peboan, the Winter,Breathing on the lakes and rivers,Into stone had changed their waters.From his hair he shook the snow-flakes,Till the plains were strewn with whiteness,One uninterrupted level,As if, stooping, the CreatorWith his hand had smoothed them over.Through the forest, wide and wailing,Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes;In the village worked the women,Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin;And the young men played togetherOn the ice the noisy ball-play,On the plain the dance of snow-shoes.One dark evening, after sundown,In her wigwam Laughing WaterSat with old Nokomis, waitingFor the steps of HiawathaHomeward from the hunt returning.On their faces gleamed the firelight,Painting them with streaks of crimson,In the eyes of old NokomisGlimmered like the watery moonlight,In the eyes of Laughing WaterGlistened like the sun in water;And behind them crouched their shadowsIn the corners of the wigwam,And the smoke in wreaths above themClimbed and crowded through the smoke-flue.Then the curtain of the doorwayFrom without was slowly lifted;Brighter glowed the fire a moment,And a moment swerved the smoke-wreath,As two women entered softly,Passed the doorway uninvited,Without word of salutation,Without sign of recognition,Sat down in the farthest corner,Crouching low among the shadows.From their aspect and their garments,Strangers seemed they in the village;Very pale and haggard were they,As they sat there sad and silent,Trembling, cowering with the shadows.Was it the wind above the smoke-flue,Muttering down into the wigwam?Was it the owl, the Koko-koho,Hooting from the dismal forest?Sure a voice said in the silence:"These are corpses clad in garments,These are ghosts that come to haunt you,From the kingdom of Ponemah,From the land of the Hereafter!"Homeward now came HiawathaFrom his hunting in the forest,With the snow upon his tresses,And the red deer on his shoulders.At the feet of Laughing WaterDown he threw his lifeless burden;Nobler, handsomer she thought him,Than when first he came to woo her,First threw down the deer before her,As a token of his wishes,As a promise of the future.Then he turned and saw the strangers,Cowering, crouching with the shadows;Said within himself, "Who are they?What strange guests has Minnehaha?"But he questioned not the strangers,Only spake to bid them welcomeTo his lodge, his food, his fireside.When the evening meal was ready,And the deer had been divided,Both the pallid guests, the strangers,Springing from among the shadows,Seized upon the choicest portions,Seized the white fat of the roebuck,Set apart for Laughing Water,For the wife of Hiawatha;Without asking, without thanking,Eagerly devoured the morsels,Flitted back among the shadowsIn the corner of the wigwam.Not a word spake Hiawatha,Not a motion made Nokomis,Not a gesture Laughing Water;Not a change came o'er their features;Only Minnehaha softlyWhispered, saying, "They are famished;Let them do what best delights them;Let them eat, for they are famished."Many a daylight dawned and darkened,Many a night shook off the daylightAs the pine shakes off the snow-flakesFrom the midnight of its branches;Day by day the guests unmovingSat there silent in the wigwam;But by night, in storm or starlight,Forth they went into the forest,Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam,Bringing pine-cones for the burning,Always sad and always silent.And whenever HiawathaCame from fishing or from hunting,When the evening meal was ready,And the food had been divided,Gliding from their darksome corner,Came the pallid guests, the strangers,Seized upon the choicest portionsSet aside for Laughing Water,And without rebuke or questionFlitted back among the shadows.Never once had HiawathaBy a word or look reproved them;Never once had old NokomisMade a gesture of impatience;Never once had Laughing WaterShown resentment at the outrage.All had they endured in silence,That the rights of guest and stranger,That the virtue of free-giving,By a look might not be lessened,By a word might not be broken.Once at midnight Hiawatha,Ever wakeful, ever watchful,In the wigwam, dimly lightedBy the brands that still were burning,By the glimmering, flickering firelightHeard a sighing, oft repeated,Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow.From his couch rose Hiawatha,From his shaggy hides of bison,Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain,Saw the pallid guests, the shadows,Sitting upright on their couches,Weeping in the silent midnight.And he said: "O guests! why is itThat your hearts are so afflicted,That you sob so in the midnight?Has perchance the old Nokomis,Has my wife, my Minnehaha,Wronged or grieved you by unkindness,Failed in hospitable duties?"Then the shadows ceased from weeping,Ceased from sobbing and lamenting,And they said, with gentle voices:"We are ghosts of the departed,Souls of those who once were with you.From the realms of ChibiabosHither have we come to try you,Hither have we come to warn you."Cries of grief and lamentationReach us in the Blessed Islands;Cries of anguish from the living,Calling back their friends departed,Sadden us with useless sorrow.Therefore have we come to try you;No one knows us, no one heeds us.We are but a burden to you,And we see that the departedHave no place among the living."Think of this, O Hiawatha!Speak of it to all the people,That henceforward and foreverThey no more with lamentationsSadden the souls of the departedIn the Islands of the Blessed."Do not lay such heavy burdensIn the graves of those you bury,Not such weight of furs and wampum,Not such weight of pots and kettles,For the spirits faint beneath them.Only give them food to carry,Only give them fire to light them."Four days is the spirit's journeyTo the land of ghosts and shadows,Four its lonely night encampments;Four times must their fires be lighted.Therefore, when the dead are buried,Let a fire, as night approaches,Four times on the grave be kindled,That the soul upon its journeyMay not lack the cheerful firelight,May not grope about in darkness."Farewell, noble Hiawatha!We have put you to the trial,To the proof have put your patience,By the insult of our presence,By the outrage of our actions.We have found you great and noble.Fail not in the greater trial,Faint not in the harder struggle."When they ceased, a sudden darknessFell and filled the silent wigwam.Hiawatha heard a rustleAs of garments trailing by him,Heard the curtain of the doorwayLifted by a hand he saw not,Felt the cold breath of the night air,For a moment saw the starlight;But he saw the ghosts no longer,Saw no more the wandering spiritsFrom the kingdom of Ponemah,From the land of the Hereafter.
Oh the long and dreary Winter!Oh the cold and cruel Winter!Ever thicker, thicker, thickerFroze the ice on lake and river,Ever deeper, deeper, deeperFell the snow o'er all the landscape,Fell the covering snow, and driftedThrough the forest, round the village.Hardly from his buried wigwamCould the hunter force a passage;With his mittens and his snow-shoesVainly walked he through the forest,Sought for bird or beast and found none,Saw no track of deer or rabbit,In the snow beheld no footprints,In the ghastly, gleaming forestFell, and could not rise from weakness,Perished there from cold and hunger.Oh the famine and the fever!Oh the wasting of the famine!Oh the blasting of the fever!Oh the wailing of the children!Oh the anguish of the women!All the earth was sick and famished;Hungry was the air around them,Hungry was the sky above them,And the hungry stars in heavenLike the eyes of wolves glared at them!Into Hiawatha's wigwamCame two other guests, as silentAs the ghosts were, and as gloomy,Waited not to be invitedDid not parley at the doorwaySat there without word of welcomeIn the seat of Laughing Water;Looked with haggard eyes and hollowAt the face of Laughing Water.And the foremost said: "Behold me!I am Famine, Bukadawin!"And the other said: "Behold me!I am Fever, Ahkosewin!"And the lovely MinnehahaShuddered as they looked upon her,Shuddered at the words they uttered,Lay down on her bed in silence,Hid her face, but made no answer;Lay there trembling, freezing, burningAt the looks they cast upon her,At the fearful words they uttered.Forth into the empty forestRushed the maddened Hiawatha;In his heart was deadly sorrow,In his face a stony firmness;On his brow the sweat of anguishStarted, but it froze and fell not.Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting,With his mighty bow of ash-tree,With his quiver full of arrows,With his mittens, Minjekahwun,Into the vast and vacant forestOn his snow-shoes strode he forward."Gitche Manito, the Mighty!"Cried he with his face upliftedIn that bitter hour of anguish,"Give your children food, O father!Give us food, or we must perish!Give me food for Minnehaha,For my dying Minnehaha!"Through the far-resounding forest,Through the forest vast and vacantRang that cry of desolation,But there came no other answerThan the echo of his crying,Than the echo of the woodlands,"Minnehaha! Minnehaha!"All day long roved HiawathaIn that melancholy forest,Through the shadow of whose thickets,In the pleasant days of Summer,Of that ne'er forgotten Summer,He had brought his young wife homewardFrom the land of the Dacotahs;When the birds sang in the thickets,And the streamlets laughed and glistened,And the air was full of fragrance,And the lovely Laughing WaterSaid with voice that did not tremble,"I will follow you, my husband!"In the wigwam with Nokomis,With those gloomy guests that watched her,With the Famine and the Fever,She was lying, the Beloved,She, the dying Minnehaha."Hark!" she said; "I hear a rushing,Hear a roaring and a rushing,Hear the Falls of MinnehahaCalling to me from a distance!""No, my child!" said old Nokomis,"'T is the night-wind in the pine-trees!""Look!" she said; "I see my fatherStanding lonely at his doorway,Beckoning to me from his wigwamIn the land of the Dacotahs!""No, my child!" said old Nokomis."'T is the smoke, that waves and beckons!""Ah!" said she, "the eyes of PaugukGlare upon me in the darkness,I can feel his icy fingersClasping mine amid the darkness!Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"And the desolate Hiawatha,Far away amid the forest,Miles away among the mountains,Heard that sudden cry of anguish,Heard the voice of MinnehahaCalling to him in the darkness,"Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"Over snow-fields waste and pathless,Under snow-encumbered branches,Homeward hurried Hiawatha,Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing:"Wahonowin! Wahonowin!Would that I had perished for you,Would that I were dead as you are!Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"And he rushed into the wigwam,Saw the old Nokomis slowlyRocking to and fro and moaning,Saw his lovely MinnehahaLying dead and cold before him,And his bursting heart within himUttered such a cry of anguish,That the forest moaned and shuddered,That the very stars in heavenShook and trembled with his anguish.Then he sat down, still and speechless,On the bed of Minnehaha,At the feet of Laughing Water,At those willing feet, that neverMore would lightly run to meet him,Never more would lightly follow.With both hands his face he covered,Seven long days and nights he sat there,As if in a swoon he sat there,Speechless, motionless, unconsciousOf the daylight or the darkness.Then they buried Minnehaha;In the snow a grave they made herIn the forest deep and darksomeUnderneath the moaning hemlocks;Clothed her in her richest garmentsWrapped her in her robes of ermine,Covered her with snow, like ermine;Thus they buried Minnehaha.And at night a fire was lighted,On her grave four times was kindled,For her soul upon its journeyTo the Islands of the Blessed.From his doorway HiawathaSaw it burning in the forest,Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks;From his sleepless bed uprising,From the bed of Minnehaha,Stood and watched it at the doorway,That it might not be extinguished,Might not leave her in the darkness."Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha!Farewell, O my Laughing Water!All my heart is buried with you,All my thoughts go onward with you!Come not back again to labor,Come not back again to suffer,Where the Famine and the FeverWear the heart and waste the body.Soon my task will be completed,Soon your footsteps I shall followTo the Islands of the Blessed,To the Kingdom of Ponemah,To the Land of the Hereafter!"
In his lodge beside a river,Close beside a frozen river,Sat an old man, sad and lonely.White his hair was as a snow-drift;Dull and low his fire was burning,And the old man shook and trembled,Folded in his Waubewyon,In his tattered white-skin-wrapper,Hearing nothing but the tempestAs it roared along the forest,Seeing nothing but the snow-storm,As it whirled and hissed and drifted.All the coals were white with ashes,And the fire was slowly dying,As a young man, walking lightly,At the open doorway entered.Red with blood of youth his cheeks were,Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time,Bound his forehead was with grasses;Bound and plumed with scented grasses,On his lips a smile of beauty,Filling all the lodge with sunshine,In his hand a bunch of blossomsFilling all the lodge with sweetness."Ah, my son!" exclaimed the old man,"Happy are my eyes to see you.Sit here on the mat beside me,Sit here by the dying embers,Let us pass the night together,Tell me of your strange adventures,Of the lands where you have travelled;I will tell you of my prowess,Of my many deeds of wonder."From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe,Very old and strangely fashioned;Made of red stone was the pipe-head,And the stem a reed with feathers;Filled the pipe with bark of willow,Placed a burning coal upon it,Gave it to his guest, the stranger,And began to speak in this wise:"When I blow my breath about me,When I breathe upon the landscape,Motionless are all the rivers,Hard as stone becomes the water!"And the young man answered, smiling:"When I blow my breath about me,When I breathe upon the landscape,Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows,Singing, onward rush the rivers!""When I shake my hoary tresses,"Said the old man darkly frowning,"All the land with snow is covered;All the leaves from all the branchesFall and fade and die and wither,For I breathe, and lo! they are not.From the waters and the marshes,Rise the wild goose and the heron,Fly away to distant regions,For I speak, and lo! they are not.And where'er my footsteps wander,All the wild beasts of the forestHide themselves in holes and caverns,And the earth becomes as flintstone!""When I shake my flowing ringlets,"Said the young man, softly laughing,"Showers of rain fall warm and welcome,Plants lift up their heads rejoicing,Back into their lakes and marshesCome the wild goose and the heron,Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow,Sing the bluebird and the robin,And where'er my footsteps wander,All the meadows wave with blossoms,All the woodlands ring with music,All the trees are dark with foliage!"While they spake, the night departed:From the distant realms of Wabun,From his shining lodge of silver,Like a warrior robed and painted,Came the sun, and said, "Behold meGheezis, the great sun, behold me!"Then the old man's tongue was speechlessAnd the air grew warm and pleasant,And upon the wigwam sweetlySang the bluebird and the robin,And the stream began to murmur,And a scent of growing grassesThrough the lodge was gently wafted.And Segwun, the youthful stranger,More distinctly in the daylightSaw the icy face before him;It was Peboan, the Winter!From his eyes the tears were flowing,As from melting lakes the streamlets,And his body shrunk and dwindledAs the shouting sun ascended,Till into the air it faded,Till into the ground it vanished,And the young man saw before him,On the hearth-stone of the wigwam,Where the fire had smoked and smouldered,Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time,Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time,Saw the Miskodeed in blossom.Thus it was that in the North-landAfter that unheard-of coldness,That intolerable Winter,Came the Spring with all its splendor,All its birds and all its blossoms,All its flowers and leaves and grasses.Sailing on the wind to northward,Flying in great flocks, like arrows,Like huge arrows shot through heaven,Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee,Speaking almost as a man speaks;And in long lines waving, bendingLike a bow-string snapped asunder,Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa;And in pairs, or singly flying,Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions,The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,And the grouse, the Mushkodasa.In the thickets and the meadowsPiped the bluebird, the Owaissa,On the summit of the lodgesSang the robin, the Opechee,In the covert of the pine-treesCooed the pigeon, the Omemee;And the sorrowing Hiawatha,Speechless in his infinite sorrow,Heard their voices calling to him,Went forth from his gloomy doorway,Stood and gazed into the heaven,Gazed upon the earth and waters.From his wanderings far to eastward,From the regions of the morning,From the shining land of Wabun,Homeward now returned Iagoo,The great traveller, the great boaster,Full of new and strange adventures,Marvels many and many wonders.And the people of the villageListened to him as he told themOf his marvellous adventures,Laughing answered him in this wise:"Ugh! it is indeed Iagoo!No one else beholds such wonders!"He had seen, he said, a waterBigger than the Big-Sea-Water,Broader than the Gitche Gumee,Bitter so that none could drink it!At each other looked the warriors,Looked the women at each other,Smiled, and said, "It cannot be so!"Kaw!" they said, it cannot be so!"O'er it, said he, o'er this waterCame a great canoe with pinions,A canoe with wings came flying,Bigger than a grove of pine-trees,Taller than the tallest tree-tops!And the old men and the womenLooked and tittered at each other;"Kaw!" they said, "we don't believe it!"From its mouth, he said, to greet him,Came Waywassimo, the lightning,Came the thunder, Annemeekee!And the warriors and the womenLaughed aloud at poor Iagoo;"Kaw!" they said, "what tales you tell us!"In it, said he, came a people,In the great canoe with pinionsCame, he said, a hundred warriors;Painted white were all their facesAnd with hair their chins were covered!And the warriors and the womenLaughed and shouted in derision,Like the ravens on the tree-tops,Like the crows upon the hemlocks."Kaw!" they said, "what lies you tell us!Do not think that we believe them!"Only Hiawatha laughed not,But he gravely spake and answeredTo their jeering and their jesting:"True is all Iagoo tells us;I have seen it in a vision,Seen the great canoe with pinions,Seen the people with white faces,Seen the coming of this beardedPeople of the wooden vesselFrom the regions of the morning,From the shining land of Wabun."Gitche Manito, the Mighty,The Great Spirit, the Creator,Sends them hither on his errand.Sends them to us with his message.Wheresoe'er they move, before themSwarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo,Swarms the bee, the honey-maker;Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath themSprings a flower unknown among us,Springs the White-man's Foot in blossom."Let us welcome, then, the strangers,Hail them as our friends and brothers,And the heart's right hand of friendshipGive them when they come to see us.Gitche Manito, the Mighty,Said this to me in my vision."I beheld, too, in that visionAll the secrets of the future,Of the distant days that shall be.I beheld the westward marchesOf the unknown, crowded nations.All the land was full of people,Restless, struggling, toiling, striving,Speaking many tongues, yet feelingBut one heart-beat in their bosoms.In the woodlands rang their axes,Smoked their towns in all the valleys,Over all the lakes and riversRushed their great canoes of thunder."Then a darker, drearier visionPassed before me, vague and cloud-like;I beheld our nation scattered,All forgetful of my counsels,Weakened, warring with each other;Saw the remnants of our peopleSweeping westward, wild and woful,Like the cloud-rack of a tempest,Like the withered leaves of Autumn!"
By the shore of Gitche Gumee,By the shining Big-Sea-Water,At the doorway of his wigwam,In the pleasant Summer morning,Hiawatha stood and waited.All the air was full of freshness,All the earth was bright and joyous,And before him, through the sunshine,Westward toward the neighboring forestPassed in golden swarms the Ahmo,Passed the bees, the honey-makers,Burning, singing in the sunshine.Bright above him shone the heavens,Level spread the lake before him;From its bosom leaped the sturgeon,Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine;On its margin the great forestStood reflected in the water,Every tree-top had its shadow,Motionless beneath the water.From the brow of HiawathaGone was every trace of sorrow,As the fog from off the water,As the mist from off the meadow.With a smile of joy and triumph,With a look of exultation,As of one who in a visionSees what is to be, but is not,Stood and waited Hiawatha.Toward the sun his hands were lifted,Both the palms spread out against it,And between the parted fingersFell the sunshine on his features,Flecked with light his naked shoulders,As it falls and flecks an oak-treeThrough the rifted leaves and branches.O'er the water floating, flying,Something in the hazy distance,Something in the mists of morning,Loomed and lifted from the water,Now seemed floating, now seemed flying,Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.Was it Shingebis the diver?Or the pelican, the Shada?Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah?Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa,With the water dripping, flashing,From its glossy neck and feathers?It was neither goose nor diver,Neither pelican nor heron,O'er the water floating, flying,Through the shining mist of morning,But a birch canoe with paddles,Rising, sinking on the water,Dripping, flashing in the sunshine;And within it came a peopleFrom the distant land of Wabun,From the farthest realms of morningCame the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet,He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face,With his guides and his companions.And the noble Hiawatha,With his hands aloft extended,Held aloft in sign of welcome,Waited, full of exultation,Till the birch canoe with paddlesGrated on the shining pebbles,Stranded on the sandy margin,Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,With the cross upon his bosom,Landed on the sandy margin.Then the joyous HiawathaCried aloud and spake in this wise:"Beautiful is the sun, O strangers,When you come so far to see us!All our town in peace awaits you,All our doors stand open for you;You shall enter all our wigwams,For the heart's right hand we give you."Never bloomed the earth so gayly,Never shone the sun so brightly,As to-day they shine and blossomWhen you come so far to see us!Never was our lake so tranquil,Nor so free from rocks, and sand-bars;For your birch canoe in passingHas removed both rock and sand-bar."Never before had our tobaccoSuch a sweet and pleasant flavor,Never the broad leaves of our cornfieldsWere so beautiful to look on,As they seem to us this morning,When you come so far to see us!'And the Black-Robe chief made answer,Stammered in his speech a little,Speaking words yet unfamiliar:"Peace be with you, Hiawatha,Peace be with you and your people,Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon,Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!"Then the generous HiawathaLed the strangers to his wigwam,Seated them on skins of bison,Seated them on skins of ermine,And the careful old NokomisBrought them food in bowls of basswood,Water brought in birchen dippers,And the calumet, the peace-pipe,Filled and lighted for their smoking.All the old men of the village,All the warriors of the nation,All the Jossakeeds, the Prophets,The magicians, the Wabenos,And the Medicine-men, the Medas,Came to bid the strangers welcome;"It is well", they said, "O brothers,That you come so far to see us!"In a circle round the doorway,With their pipes they sat in silence,Waiting to behold the strangers,Waiting to receive their message;Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,From the wigwam came to greet them,Stammering in his speech a little,Speaking words yet unfamiliar;"It is well," they said, "O brother,That you come so far to see us!"Then the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet,Told his message to the people,Told the purport of his mission,Told them of the Virgin Mary,And her blessed Son, the Saviour,How in distant lands and agesHe had lived on earth as we do;How he fasted, prayed, and labored;How the Jews, the tribe accursed,Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him;How he rose from where they laid him,Walked again with his disciples,And ascended into heaven.And the chiefs made answer, saying:"We have listened to your message,We have heard your words of wisdom,We will think on what you tell us.It is well for us, O brothers,That you come so far to see us!"Then they rose up and departedEach one homeward to his wigwam,To the young men and the womenTold the story of the strangersWhom the Master of Life had sent themFrom the shining land of Wabun.Heavy with the heat and silenceGrew the afternoon of Summer;With a drowsy sound the forestWhispered round the sultry wigwam,With a sound of sleep the waterRippled on the beach below it;From the cornfields shrill and ceaselessSang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena;And the guests of Hiawatha,Weary with the heat of Summer,Slumbered in the sultry wigwam.Slowly o'er the simmering landscapeFell the evening's dusk and coolness,And the long and level sunbeamsShot their spears into the forest,Breaking through its shields of shadow,Rushed into each secret ambush,Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow;Still the guests of HiawathaSlumbered in the silent wigwam.From his place rose Hiawatha,Bade farewell to old Nokomis,Spake in whispers, spake in this wise,Did not wake the guests, that slumbered."I am going, O Nokomis,On a long and distant journey,To the portals of the Sunset.To the regions of the home-wind,Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin.But these guests I leave behind me,In your watch and ward I leave them;See that never harm comes near them,See that never fear molests them,Never danger nor suspicion,Never want of food or shelter,In the lodge of Hiawatha!"Forth into the village went he,Bade farewell to all the warriors,Bade farewell to all the young men,Spake persuading, spake in this wise:"I am going, O my people,On a long and distant journey;Many moons and many wintersWill have come, and will have vanished,Ere I come again to see you.But my guests I leave behind me;Listen to their words of wisdom,Listen to the truth they tell you,For the Master of Life has sent themFrom the land of light and morning!"On the shore stood Hiawatha,Turned and waved his hand at parting;On the clear and luminous waterLaunched his birch canoe for sailing,From the pebbles of the marginShoved it forth into the water;Whispered to it, "Westward! westward!"And with speed it darted forward.And the evening sun descendingSet the clouds on fire with redness,Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,Left upon the level waterOne long track and trail of splendor,Down whose stream, as down a river,Westward, westward HiawathaSailed into the fiery sunset,Sailed into the purple vapors,Sailed into the dusk of evening:And the people from the marginWatched him floating, rising, sinking,Till the birch canoe seemed liftedHigh into that sea of splendor,Till it sank into the vaporsLike the new moon slowly, slowlySinking in the purple distance.And they said, "Farewell forever!"Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"And the forests, dark and lonely,Moved through all their depths of darkness,Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"And the waves upon the marginRising, rippling on the pebbles,Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,From her haunts among the fen-lands,Screamed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"Thus departed Hiawatha,Hiawatha the Beloved,In the glory of the sunset,.In the purple mists of evening,To the regions of the home-wind,Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin,To the Islands of the Blessed,To the Kingdom of Ponemah,To the Land of the Hereafter!
This Indian Edda—if I may so call it—is founded on a tradition prevalent among the North American Indians, of a personage of miraculous birth, who was sent among them to clear their rivers, forests, and fishing-grounds, and to teach them the arts of peace.
He was known among different tribes by the several names of Michabou, Chiabo, Manabozo, Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha. Mr. Schoolcraft gives an account of him in his Algic Researches, Vol. I. p. 134; and in his History, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes of the United States, Part III. p. 314, may be found the Iroquois form of the tradition, derived from the verbal narrations of an Onondaga chief.
Into this old tradition I have woven other curious Indian legends, drawn chiefly from the various and valuable writings of Mr. Schoolcraft, to whom the literary world is greatly indebted for his indefatigable zeal in rescuing from oblivion so much of the legendary lore of the Indians.
The scene of the poem is among the Ojibways on the southern shore of Lake Superior, in the region between the Pictured Rocks and the Grand Sable.
Adjidau'mo, the red squirrel.Ahdeek', the reindeer.Ahkose'win, fever.Ahmeek', the beaver.Algon'quin, Ojibway.Annemee'kee, the thunder.Apuk'wa. a bulrush.Baim-wa'wa, the sound of the thunder.Bemah'gut, the grapevine.Be'na, the pheasant.Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior.Bukada'win, famine.Chemaun', a birch canoe.Chetowaik', the plover.Chibia'bos, a musician; friend of Hiawatha; ruler in the Land of Spirits.Dahin'da, the bull frog.Dush-kwo-ne'she or Kwo-ne'she, the dragon fly.Esa, shame upon you.Ewa-yea', lullaby.Ghee'zis, the sun.Gitche Gu'mee, The Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior.Gitche Man'ito, the Great Spirit, the Master of Life.Gushkewau', the darkness.Hiawa'tha, the Wise Man, the Teacher, son of Mudjekeewis, theWestWind and Wenonah, daughter of Nokomis.Ia'goo, a great boaster and story-teller.Inin'ewug, men, or pawns in the Game of the Bowl.Ishkoodah', fire, a comet.Jee'bi, a ghost, a spirit.Joss'akeed, a prophet.Kabibonok'ka, the North-Wind.Kagh, the hedge-hog.Ka'go, do not.Kahgahgee', the raven.Kaw, no.Kaween', no indeed.Kayoshk', the sea-gull.Kee'go, a fish.Keeway'din, the Northwest wind, the Home-wind.Kena'beek, a serpent.Keneu', the great war-eagle.Keno'zha, the pickerel.Ko'ko-ko'ho, the owl.Kuntasoo', the Game of Plum-stones.Kwa'sind, the Strong Man.Kwo-ne'she, or Dush-kwo-ne'she, the dragon-fly.Mahnahbe'zee, the swan.Mahng, the loon.Mahn-go-tay'see, loon-hearted, brave.Mahnomo'nee, wild rice.Ma'ma, the woodpecker.Maskeno'zha, the pike.Me'da, a medicine-man.Meenah'ga, the blueberry.Megissog'won, the great Pearl-Feather, a magician, and the Manitoof Wealth.Meshinau'wa, a pipe-bearer.Minjekah'wun, Hiawatha's mittens.Minneha'ha, Laughing Water; wife of Hiawatha; a water-fall in astream running into the Mississippi between Fort Snelling and theFalls of St. Anthony.Minne-wa'wa, a pleasant sound, as of the wind in the trees.Mishe-Mo'kwa, the Great Bear.Mishe-Nah'ma, the Great Sturgeon.Miskodeed', the Spring-Beauty, the Claytonia Virginica.Monda'min, Indian corn.Moon of Bright Nights, April.Moon of Leaves, May.Moon of Strawberries, June.Moon of the Falling Leaves, September.Moon of Snow-shoes, November.Mudjekee'wis, the West-Wind; father of Hiawatha.Mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves on a shore.Mushkoda'sa, the grouse.Nah'ma, the sturgeon.Nah'ma-wusk, spearmint.Na'gow Wudj'oo, the Sand Dunes of Lake Superior.Nee-ba-naw'-baigs, water-spirits.Nenemoo'sha, sweetheart.Nepah'win, sleep.Noko'mis, a grandmother, mother of Wenonah.No'sa, my father.Nush'ka, look! look!Odah'min, the strawberry.Okahah'wis, the fresh-water herring.Ome'me, the pigeon.Ona'gon, a bowl.Onaway', awake.Ope'chee, the robin.Osse'o, Son of the Evening Star.Owais'sa, the bluebird.Oweenee', wife of Osseo.Ozawa'beek, a round piece of brass or copper in the Game of theBowl.Pah-puk-kee'na, the grasshopper.Pau'guk, death.Pau-Puk-Kee'wis, the handsome Yenadizze, the son of Storm Fool.Pauwa'ting, Saut Sainte Marie.Pe'boan, Winter.Pem'ican, meat of the deer or buffalo dried and pounded.Pezhekee', the bison.Pishnekuh', the brant.Pone'mah, hereafter.Pugasaing', Game of the Bowl.Puggawau'gun, a war-club.Puk-Wudj'ies, little wild men of the woods; pygmies.Sah-sah-je'wun, rapids.Sah'wa, the perch.Segwun', Spring.Sha'da, the pelican.Shahbo'min, the gooseberry.Shah-shah, long ago.Shaugoda'ya, a coward.Shawgashee', the craw-fish.Shawonda'see, the South-Wind.Shaw-shaw, the swallow.Shesh'ebwug, ducks; pieces in the Game of the Bowl.Shin'gebis, the diver, or grebe.Showain' neme'shin, pity me.Shuh-shuh'gah, the blue heron.Soan-ge-ta'ha, strong-hearted.Subbeka'she, the spider.Sugge'me, the mosquito.To'tem, family coat-of-arms.Ugh, yes.Ugudwash', the sun-fish.Unktahee', the God of Water.Wabas'so, the rabbit, the North.Wabe'no, a magician, a juggler.Wabe'no-wusk, yarrow.Wa'bun, the East-Wind.Wa'bun An'nung, the Star of the East, the Morning Star.Wahono'win, a cry of lamentation.Wah-wah-tay'see, the fire-fly.Wam'pum, beads of shell.Waubewy'on, a white skin wrapper.Wa'wa, the wild goose.Waw'beek, a rock.Waw-be-wa'wa, the white goose.Wawonais'sa, the whippoorwill.Way-muk-kwa'na, the caterpillar.Wen'digoes, giants.Weno'nah, Hiawatha's mother, daughter of Nokomis.Yenadiz'ze, an idler and gambler; an Indian dandy.
In the Vale of Tawasentha.
This valley, now called Norman's Kill; is in Albany County, New York.
On the Mountains of the Prairie.
Mr. Catlin, in his Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and
Condition of the North American Indians, Vol. II p. 160, gives an interesting account of the Coteau des Prairies, and the Red Pipestone Quarry. He says:—
"Here (according to their traditions) happened the mysterious birth of the red pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace and war to the remotest corners of the continent; which has visited every warrior, and passed through its reddened stem the irrevocable oath of war and desolation. And here, also, the peace-breathing calumet was born, and fringed with the eagle's quills, which has shed its thrilling fumes over the land, and soothed the fury of the relentless savage.
"The Great Spirit at an ancient period here called the Indian nations together, and, standing on the precipice of the red pipe- stone rock, broke from its wall a piece, and made a huge pipe by turning it in his hand, which he smoked over them, and to the North, the South, the East, and the West, and told them that this stone was red,—that it was their flesh,—that they must use it for their pipes of peace,—that it belonged to them all, and that the war-club and scalping-knife must not be raised on its ground. At the last whiff of his pipe his head went into a great cloud, and the whole surface of the rock for several miles was melted and glazed; two great ovens were opened beneath, and two women (guardian spirits of the place) entered them in a blaze of fire; and they are heard there yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee aud Tso-me-cos-te-won-dee), answering to the invocations of the high-priests or medicine-men, who consult them when they are visitors to this sacred place."
Hark you, Bear! you are a coward.
This anecdote is from Heckewelder. In his account of the Indian Nations, he describes an Indian hunter as addressing a bear in nearly these words. "I was present," he says, "at the delivery of this curious invective; when the hunter had despatched the bear, I asked him how he thought that poor animal could understand what he said to it. 'O,' said he in answer, 'the bear understood me very well; did you not observe how ashamed he looked while I was upbraiding him?"'—Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, Vol. I. p. 240.
Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!
Heckewelder, in a letter published in the Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, Vol. IV. p. 260, speaks of this tradition as prevalent among the Mohicans and Delawares.
"Their reports," he says, "run thus: that among all animals that had been formerly in this country, this was the most ferocious; that it was much larger than the largest of the common bears, and remarkably long-bodied; all over (except a spot of hair on its back of a white color) naked. . . . .
"The history of this animal used to be a subject of conversation among the Indians, especially when in the woods a hunting. I have also heard them say to their children when crying: 'Hush! the naked bear will hear you, be upon you, and devour you,'"
Where the Falls of Minnehaha, etc.
"The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich in beauty. The Falls of St. Anthony are familiar to travellers, and to readers of Indian sketches. Between the fort and these falls are the 'Little Falls,' forty feet in height, on a stream that empties into the Mississippi. The Indians called them Mine-hah-hah, or 'laughing waters.'" — MRS. EASTMAN'S Dacotah, or Legends of the Sioux, Introd., p. ii.
Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo.
A description of the Grand Sable, or great sand-dunes of Lake Superior, is given in Foster and Whitney's Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior Land District, Part II. p. 131.
"The Grand Sable possesses a scenic interest little inferior to that of the Pictured Rocks. The explorer passes abruptly from a coast of consolidated sand to one of loose materials; and although in the one case the cliffs are less precipitous, yet in the other they attain a higher altitude. He sees before him a long reach of coast, resembling a vast sand-bank, more than three hundred and fifty feet in height, without a trace of vegetation. Ascending to the top, rounded hillocks of blown sand are observed, with occasional clumps of trees standing out like oases in the desert."
Onaway! Awake, beloved!
The original of this song may be found in Littell's Living Age, Vol. XXV. p. 45.
On the Red Swan floating, flying.
The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan may be found in Schoolcraft's Algic Researches, Vol. II. p. 9. Three brothers were hunting on a wager to see who would bring home the first game.
"They were to shoot no other animal," so the legend says, "but such as each was in the habit of killing. They set out different ways: Odjibwa, the youngest, had not gone far before he saw a bear, an animal he was not to kill, by the agreement. He followed him close, and drove an arrow through him, which brought him to the ground. Although contrary to the bet, he immediately commenced skinning him, when suddenly something red tinged all the air around him. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps deceived; but without effect, for the red hue continued. At length he heard a strange noise at a distance. It first appeared like a human voice, but after following the sound for some distance, he reached the shores of a lake, and soon saw the object he was looking for. At a distance out in the lake sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage glittered in the sun, and who would now and then make the same noise he had heard. He was within long bow-shot, and, pulling the arrow from the bowstring up to his ear, took deliberate aim and shot. The arrow took no effect; and he shot and shot again till his quiver was empty. Still the swan remained, moving round and round, stretching its long neck and dipping its bill into the water, as if heedless of the arrows shot at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got all his own and his brother's arrows and shot them all away. He then stood and gazed at the beautiful bird. While standing, he remembered his brother's saying that in their deceased father's medicine-sack were three magic arrows. Off he started, his anxiety to kill the swan overcoming all scruples. At any other time, he would have deemed it sacrilege to open his father's medicine-sack; but now he hastily seized the three arrows and ran back, leaving the other contents of the sack scattered over the lodge. The swan was still there. He shot the first arrow with great precision, and came very near to it. The second came still closer; as he took the last arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and, drawing it up with vigor, saw it pass through the neck of the swan a little above the breast. Still it did not prevent the bird from flying off, which it did, however, at first slowly, flapping its wings and rising gradually into the airs and teen flying off toward the sinking of the sun." — pp.10-12.
When I think of my beloved.
The original of this song may be found in Oneota, p. 15.
Sing the mysteries of Mondamin. The Indians hold the maize, or Indian corn, in great veneration.
"They esteem it so important and divine a grain," says Schoolcraft, "that their story-tellers invented various tales, in which this idea is symbolized under the form of a special gift from the Great Spirit. The Odjibwa-Algonquins, who call it Mon-da-min, that is, the Spirit's grain or berry, have a pretty story of this kind, in which the stalk in full tassel is represented as descending from the sky, under the guise of a handsome youth, in answer to the prayers of a young man at his fast of virility, or coming to manhood.
"It is well known that corn-planting and corn-gathering, at least among all the still uncolonized tribes, are left entirely to the females and children, and a few superannuated old men. It is not generally known, perhaps, that this labor is not compulsory, and that it is assumed by the females as a just equivalent, in their view, for the onerous and continuous labor of the other sex, in providing meats, and skins for clothing, by the chase, and in defending their villages against their enemies, and keeping intruders off their territories. A good Indian housewife deems this a part of her prerogative, and prides herself to have a store of corn to exercise her hospitality, or duly honor her husband's hospitality, in the entertainment of the lodge guests." — Oneota, p. 82.
Thus the fields shall be more fruitful.
"A singular proof of this belief, in both sexes, of the mysterious influence of the steps of a woman on the vegetable and in sect creation, is found in an ancient custom, which was related to me, respecting corn-planting. It was the practice of the hunter's wife, when the field of corn had been planted, to choose the first dark or overclouded evening to perform a secret circuit, sans habillement, around the field. For this purpose she slipped out of the lodge in the evening, unobserved, to some obscure nook, where she completely disrobed. Then, taking her matchecota, or principal garment, in one hand, she dragged it around the field. This was thought to insure a prolific crop, and to prevent the assaults of insects and worms upon the grain. It was supposed they could not creep over the charmed line." — Oneota, p. 83.
With his prisoner-string he bound him.
"These cords," says Mr. Tanner "are made of the bark of the elm- tree, by boiling and then immersing it in cold water. . . . The leader of a war party commonly carries several fastened about his waist, and if, in the course of the fight, any one of his young men take a prisoner, it is his duty to bring him immediately to the chief, to be tied, and the latter is responsible for his safe keeping." — Narrative of Captivity and Adventures, p. 412.