THE SONG OF HIAWATHA

ON the shore of the Big-Sea-Water, in the sunny morning, Hiawatha stood in the doorway of his wigwam, gazing out over the shining lake. The sky was bright and blue above him, the pebbles sparkled on the beaches, and the still water reflected the great pine-trees of the forest. Every trace of sorrow was gone from Hiawatha's face, and with a smile of joy he lifted his open hands toward the blazing sun to shade his eyes. He was watching something that floated far out on the water—some image which he could not plainly see, but which was drawing nearer and nearer to the village. At last he saw that it was a birch canoe, with paddles flashing as they rose and fell; and in it came the white-faced people from the Land of Sunrise, led by a bearded chief in a black robe, who wore a cross upon his breast.

The canoe grated on the pebbles, and Hiawatha, with his hands stretched outward as a sign of friendship, called to them in welcome.

"The sun is fair to look upon, O strangers," cried out Hiawatha. "Our town waits for you in peace, and the doors of all our wigwams stand open to receive you. Our tobacco never was so sweet and pleasant, and our wavingcornfields never seemed so beautiful to behold as this morning, when you visit us from far-off lands." And the chief of the strange people, the bearded man in the black robe, answered, stammering a little, for the language of the Indians was strange to him: "May the peace of Christ be with you and your people, Hiawatha!"

Then the noble-hearted Hiawatha led them to his wigwam, where he seated them on skins of bison and ermine, while Nokomis brought them water in cups of birch-bark and food in bowls of polished basswood; and when they were done with eating, peace-pipes were filled with willow-bark and lighted for them to smoke.

All the warriors, and old men, and the magicians of the village came to welcome the great strangers, and they sat around the doorway of Hiawatha's wigwam in a large circle, smoking their pipes and waiting for the strangers to come forth and to speak to them. The black-robed chief went out of the wigwam and greeted all the Indians, while they said to him: "O Brother, it is well that you have come so far to see us!"

Then the bearded man in the black robe commenced to speak, showing them the cross that he wore upon his breast, and he told them about Christ and the Virgin Mary and how the wicked tribe, the Jews, had taken Christ and crucified him long ago, and the Indians smoked on in silence, listening to his words.

"It is well," they said when he had finished; "we will think upon your words of wisdom. We are pleased."

Then they rose and went home to their wigwams, where they told the young men and women all about the strangers who had been sent by the Great Manito; and in Hiawatha's lodge the strangers, weary from their journey and the summer heat, stretched themselves upon the robes of ermine and went fast asleep.

Slowly a coolness fell upon the air, and the rays of sunset gilded every thicket of the forest, when Hiawatha rose from his seat and whispered to Nokomis, saying: "O Nokomis, I am going on a long journey to the Land of Sunset and the home of the North-west wind. See that no harm comes to these guests, whom I leave here in your care. See that fear and danger or want of food and shelter never come near them in the lodge of Hiawatha."

Forth went Hiawatha into the village, and he bade farewell to all the warriors and to all the young men, saying to them: "My people, I am going on a distant journey, and many winters will have passed before I come once more among you. Listen to the truth my guests will tell you, for the Great Manito has sent them, and I leave them in your care. And now, farewell!" cried Hiawatha.

On the shore of the Big-Sea-Water for the last time Hiawatha launched his birch canoe, pushed it out from among the rushes and whispered to it, "Westward! Westward!"It darted forward like an arrow, and the rays of the setting sun shot a long and fiery pathway over the smooth waters of the lake.

Down this path of light sailed Hiawatha in his birch canoe right into the flaming sunset, and the Indians on the shore saw him moving on and on until he became a tiny speck against the splendor of the clouds. With a final lift and fall his canoe rose upon a sunbeam, and as it disappeared within the crimson sky the Indians all cried out: "Farewell, farewell, O Hiawatha!" And the trees in the forest, the waves on the edges of the lake and every living creature that ran or swam or flew took up the cry: "Farewell, Hiawatha!" For Hiawatha had disappeared forever in the kingdom of the North-west wind and the Islands of the Blessed.

SHOULD you ask me, whence these stories?Whence these legends and traditions,With the odors of the forest,With the dew and damp of meadows,With the curling smoke of wigwams,With the rushing of great rivers,With their frequent repetitions,And their wild reverberations,As of thunder in the mountains?I should answer, I should tell you,"From the forests and the prairies,From the great lakes of the Northland,From the land of the Ojibways,From the land of the Dacotahs,From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands,Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,Feeds among the reeds and rushes.I repeat them as I heard themFrom the lips of Nawadaha,The musician, the sweet-singer."Should you ask where NawadahaFound these songs, so wild and wayward,Found these legends and traditions,I should answer, I should tell you,"In the bird's-nests of the forest,In the lodges of the beaver,In the hoof-prints of the bison,In the eyry of the eagle!"All the wild-fowl sang them to him,In the moorlands and the fen-lands,In the melancholy marshes;Chetowaik, the plover, sang them,Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa,The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!"If still further you should ask me,Saying, "Who was Nawadaha?Tell us of this Nawadaha,"I should answer your inquiriesStraightway in such words as follow."In the Vale of Tawasentha,In the green and silent valley,By the pleasant water-courses,Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.Round about the Indian villageSpread the meadows and the cornfields,And beyond them stood the forest,Stood the groves of singing pine-trees,Green in Summer, white in Winter,Ever sighing, ever singing."And the pleasant water-courses,You could trace them through the valley,By the rushing in the Spring-time,By the alders in the Summer,By the white fog in the Autumn,By the black line in the Winter;And beside them dwelt the singer,In the Vale of Tawasentha,In the green and silent valley."There he sang of Hiawatha,Sang the song of Hiawatha,Sang his wondrous birth and being,How he prayed and how he fasted,How he lived, and toiled, and suffered,That the tribes of men might prosper,That he might advance his people!"Ye who love the haunts of Nature,Love the sunshine of the meadow,Love the shadow of the forest,Love the wind among the branches,And the rain-shower and the snow-storm,And the rushing of great riversThrough their palisades of pine-trees,And the thunder in the mountains,Whose innumerable echoesFlap like eagles in their eyries;—Listen to these wild traditions,To this Song of Hiawatha!Ye who love a nation's legends,Love the ballads of a people,That like voices from afar offCall to us to pause and listen,Speak in tones so plain and childlikeScarcely can the ear distinguishWhether they are sung or spoken;—Listen to this Indian Legend,To this song of Hiawatha!Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple,Who have faith in God and Nature,Who believe, that in all agesEvery human heart is human,That in even savage bosomsThere are longings, yearnings, strivingsFor the good they comprehend not,That the feeble hands and helpless,Groping blindly in the darkness,Touch God's right hand in that darknessAnd are lifted up and strengthened;—Listen to this simple story,To this song of Hiawatha!Ye, who sometimes in your ramblesThrough the green lanes of the country,Where the tangled barberry-bushesHang their tufts of crimson berriesOver stone walls gray with mosses,Pause by some neglected graveyard,For a while to muse, and ponderOn a half-effaced inscription,Written with little skill of song-craft,Homely phrases, but each letterFull of hope, and yet of heart-break,Full of all the tender pathosOf the Here and the Hereafter;—Stay and read this rude inscription,Read this song of Hiawatha!

ON the Mountains of the Prairie,On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,Gitche Manito, the mighty,He the Master of Life, descending,On the red crags of the quarryStood erect, and called the nations,Called the tribes of men together.From his footprints flowed a river,Leaped into the light of morning,O'er the precipice plunging downwardGleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet.And the Spirit, stooping earthward,With his finger on the meadowTraced a winding pathway for it,Saying to it, "Run in this way!"From the red stone of the quarryWith his hand he broke a fragment,Molded it into a pipe-head,Shaped and fashioned it with figures;From the margin of the riverTook a long reed for a pipe-stem,With its dark green leaves upon it;Filled the pipe with bark of willow,With the bark of the red willow;Breathed upon the neighboring forest,Made its great boughs chafe together,Till in flame they burst and kindled;And erect upon the mountains,Gitche Manito, the mighty,Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe,As a signal to the nations.And the smoke rose slowly, slowly,Through the tranquil air of morning,First a single line of darkness,Then a denser, bluer vapor,Then a snow-white cloud unfolding,Like the tree-tops of the forest,Ever rising, rising, rising,Till it touched the top of heaven,Till it broke against the heaven,And rolled outward all around it.From the Vale of Tawasentha,From the Valley of Wyoming,From the groves of Tuscaloosa,From the far-off Rocky Mountains,From the Northern lakes and riversAll the tribes beheld the signal,Saw the distant smoke ascendingThe Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe.And the Prophets of the nationsSaid: "Behold it, the Pukwana,By this signal from afar off,Bending like a wand of willow,Waving like a hand that beckons,Gitche Manito, the mighty,Calls the tribes of men together,Calls the warriors to his council!"Down the rivers, o'er the prairies,Came the warriors of the nations,Came the Delawares and Mohawks,Came the Choctaws and Comanches,Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet,Came the Pawnees and Omahas,Came the Mandans and Dacotahs,Came the Hurons and Ojibways,All the warriors drawn togetherBy the signal of the Peace-Pipe,To the Mountains of the Prairie,To the Great Red Pipe-stone Quarry.And they stood there on the meadowWith their weapons and their war-gearPainted like the leaves of Autumn,Painted like the sky of morning,Wildly glaring at each other;In their faces stern defiance,In their hearts the feuds of ages,The hereditary hatred,The ancestral thirst of vengeance.Gitche Manito, the mighty,The creator of the nations,Looked upon them with compassion,With paternal love and pity;Looked upon their wrath and wrangling,But as quarrels among children,But as feuds and fights of children!Over them he stretched his right hand,To subdue their stubborn natures,To allay their thirst and fever,By the shadow of his right hand;Spake to them with voice majesticAs the sound of far-off waters,Falling into deep abysses,Warning, chiding, spake in this wise:—"O my children! my poor children!Listen to the words of wisdom,Listen to the words of warning,From the lips of the Great Spirit,From the Master of Life, who made you:"I have given you lands to hunt in,I have given you streams to fish in,I have given you bear and bison,I have given you roe and reindeer,I have given you brant and beaver,Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl,Filled the rivers full of fishes;Why then are you not contented?Why then will you hunt each other?"I am weary of your quarrels,Weary of your wars and bloodshed.Weary of your prayers for vengeance,Of your wranglings and dissensions;All your strength is in your union,All your danger is in discord;Therefore be at peace henceforward,And as brothers live together."I will send a Prophet to you,A Deliverer of the nations,Who shall guide you and shall teach you,Who shall toil and suffer with you.If you listen to his counsels,You will multiply and prosper;If his warnings pass unheeded,You will fade away and perish!"Bathe now in the stream before you,Wash the war-paint from your faces,Wash the blood-stains from your fingers,Bury your war-clubs and your weapons,Break the red stone from this quarry,Mold and make it into Peace-Pipes,Take the reeds that grow beside you,Deck them with your brightest feathers,Smoke the calumet together,And as brothers live henceforward!"Then upon the ground the warriorsThrew their cloaks and shirts of deerskin,Threw their weapons and their war-gear,Leaped into the rushing river,Washed the war-paint from their facesClear above them flowed the water,Clear and limpid from the footprintsOf the Master of Life descending;Dark below them flowed the water,Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson,As if blood were mingled with it!From the river came the warriors,Clean and washed from all their war-paint;On the banks their clubs they buried,Buried all their warlike weapons.Gitche Manito, the mighty,The Great Spirit, the creator,Smiled upon his helpless children!And in silence all the warriorsBroke the red stone of the quarry,Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes,Broke the long reeds by the river,Decked them with their brightest feathers,And departed each one homeward,While the Master of Life, ascending,Through the opening of cloud-curtains,Through the doorways of the heaven,Vanished from before their faces,In the smoke that rolled around him,The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe!

"HONOR be to Mudjekeewis!"Cried the warriors, cried the old men,When he came in triumph homewardWith the sacred Belt of Wampum,From the regions of the North-Wind,From the kingdom of Wabasso,From the land of the White Rabbit.He had stolen the Belt of WampumFrom the neck of Mishe-Mokwa,From the Great Bear of the mountains,From the terror of the nations,As he lay asleep and cumbrousOn the summit of the mountains,Like a rock with mosses on it,Spotted brown and gray with mosses.Silently he stole upon him,Till the red nails of the monsterAlmost touched him, almost scared him,Till the hot breath of his nostrilsWarmed the hands of Mudjekeewis,As he drew the Belt of WampumOver the round ears, that heard not,Over the small eyes, that saw not,Over the long nose and nostrils,The black muzzle of the nostrils,Out of which the heavy breathingWarmed the hands of Mudjekeewis.Then he swung aloft his war-club,Shouted loud and long his war-cry,Smote the mighty Mishe-MokwaIn the middle of the forehead,Right between the eyes he smote him.With the heavy blow bewildered,Rose the Great Bear of the Mountains;But his knees beneath him trembled,And he whimpered like a woman,As he reeled and staggered forward,As he sat upon his haunches;And the mighty Mudjekeewis,Standing fearlessly before him,Taunted him in loud derision,Spake disdainfully in this wise:—"Hark you, Bear! you are a coward,And no Brave, as you pretended;Else you would not cry and whimperLike a miserable woman!Bear! you know our tribes are hostile,Long have been at war together;Now you find that we are strongest,You go sneaking in the forest,You go hiding in the mountains!Had you conquered me in battleNot a groan would I have uttered;But you, Bear! sit here and whimper,And disgrace your tribe by crying,Like a wretched Shaugodaya,Like a cowardly old woman!"Then again he raised his war-club,Smote again the Mishe-MokwaIn the middle of his forehead,Broke his skull as ice is brokenWhen one goes to fish in Winter.Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa,He the Great Bear of the mountains,He the terror of the nations."Honor be to Mudjekeewis!"With a shout exclaimed the people,"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind,And hereafter and foreverShall he hold supreme dominionOver all the winds of heaven,Call him no more Mudjekeewis,Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind!"Thus was Mudjekeewis chosenFather of the Winds of Heaven.For himself he kept the West-Wind,Gave the others to his children;Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind,Gave the South to Shawondasee,And the North-Wind, wild and cruel,To the fierce Kabibonokka.Young and beautiful was Wabun;He it was who brought the morning,He it was whose silver arrowsChased the dark o'er hill and valley;He it was whose cheeks were paintedWith the brightest streaks of crimson,And whose voice awoke the village,Called the deer and called the hunter.Lonely in the sky was Wabun;Though the birds sang gayly to him,Though the wild-flowers of the meadowFilled the air with odors for him,Though the forests and the riversSang and shouted at his coming,Still his heart was sad within him,For he was alone in heaven.But one morning, gazing earthward,While the village still was sleeping,And the fog lay on the river,Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise,He beheld a maiden walkingAll alone upon a meadow,Gathering water-flags and rushesBy a river in the meadow.Every morning gazing earthward,Still the first thing he beheld thereWas her blue eyes looking at him,Two blue lakes among the rushes.And he loved the lonely maiden,Who thus waited for his coming;For they both were solitary,She on earth and he in heaven.And he wooed her with caresses,Wooed her with his smile of sunshine,With his flattering words he wooed herWith his sighing and his singing,Gentlest whispers in the branches,Softest music, sweetest odors,Till he drew her to his bosom,Folded in his robes of crimson,Till into a star he changed her,Trembling still upon his bosom;And forever in the heavensThey are seen together walking,Wabun and the Wabun-Annung,Wabun and the Star of Morning.But the fierce KabibonokkaHad his dwelling among icebergs,In the everlasting snow-drifts,In the kingdom of Wabasso,In the land of the White Rabbit.He it was whose hand in AutumnPainted all the trees with scarlet,Stained the leaves with red and yellow;He it was who sent the snow-flakes,Sifting, hissing through the forest,Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers,Drove the loon and sea-gull southward,Drove the cormorant and curlewTo their nests of sedge and sea-tangIn the realms of Shawondasee.Once the fierce KabibonokkaIssued from his lodge of snow-drifts,From his home among the icebergs,And his hair, with snow besprinkled,Streamed behind him like a river,Like a black and wintry river,As he howled and hurried southward,Over frozen lakes and moorlands.There among the reeds and rushesFound he Shingebis, the diver,Trailing strings of fish behind him,O'er the frozen fens and moorlands,Lingering still among the moorlands,Though his tribe had long departedTo the land of Shawondasee.Cried the fierce Kabibonokka,"Who is this that dares to brave me?Dares to stay in my dominions,When the Wawa has departed,When the wild-goose has gone southward,And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,Long ago departed southward?I will go into his wigwam,I will put his smouldering fire out!"And at night KabibonokkaTo the lodge came wild and wailing,Heaped the snow in drifts about it,Shouted down into the smoke-flue,Shook the lodge-poles in his fury,Flapped the curtain of the doorway.Shingebis, the diver, feared not,Shingebis, the diver, cared not;Four great logs had he for firewood,One for each moon of the winter,And for food the fishes served him.By his blazing fire he sat there,Warm and merry, eating, laughing,Singing "O Kabibonokka,You are but my fellow-mortal!"Then Kabibonokka entered,And though Shingebis, the diver,Felt his presence by the coldness,Felt his icy breath upon him,Still he did not cease his singing,Still he did not leave his laughing,Only turned the log a little,Only made the fire burn brighter,Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue.From Kabibonokka's forehead,From his snow-besprinkled tresses,Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy,Making dints upon the ashes,As along the eves of lodges,As from drooping boughs of hemlock,Drips the melting snow in springtime,Making hollows in the snow-drifts.Till at last he rose defeated,Could not bear the heat and laughter,Could not bear the merry singing,But rushed headlong through the doorway,Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts,Stamped upon the lakes and rivers,Made the snow upon them harder,Made the ice upon them thicker,Challenged Shingebis, the diver,To come forth and wrestle with him,To come forth and wrestle nakedOn the frozen fens and moorlands.Forth went Shingebis, the diver,Wrestled all night with the North-Wind,Wrestled naked on the moorlandsWith the fierce Kabibonokka,Till his panting breath grew fainter,Till his frozen grasp grew feebler,Till he reeled and staggered backward,And retreated, baffled, beaten,To the kingdom of Wabasso,To the land of the White Rabbit,Hearing still the gusty laughter,Hearing Shingebis, the diver,Singing, "O Kabibonokka,You are but my fellow-mortal!"Shawondasee, fat and lazy,Had his dwelling far to southward,In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine,In the never-ending Summer.He it was who sent the wood-birds,Sent the Opechee, the robin,Sent the blue bird, the Owaissa,Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow,Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward,Sent the melons and tobacco,And the grapes in purple clusters.From his pipe the smoke ascendingFilled the sky with haze and vapor,Filled the air with dreamy softness,Gave a twinkle to the water,Touched the rugged hills with smoothness,Brought the tender Indian SummerTo the melancholy North-land,In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes.Listless, careless Shawondasee!In his life he had one shadow,In his heart one sorrow had he.Once, as he was gazing northward,Far away upon a prairieHe beheld a maiden standing,Saw a tall and slender maidenAll alone upon a prairie;Brightest green were all her garmentsAnd her hair was like the sunshine.Day by day he gazed upon her,Day by day he sighed with passion,Day by day his heart within himGrew more hot with love and longingFor the maid with yellow tresses.But he was too fat and lazyTo bestir himself and woo her;Yes, too indolent and easyTo pursue her and persuade her,So he only gazed upon her,Only sat and sighed with passionFor the maiden of the prairie.Till one morning, looking northward,He beheld her yellow tressesChanged and covered o'er with whiteness,Covered as with whitest snow-flakes."Ah! my brother from the North-land,From the kingdom of Wabasso,From the land of the White Rabbit!You have stolen the maiden from me,You have laid your hand upon her,You have wooed and won my maiden,With your stories of the North-land!"Thus the wretched ShawondaseeBreathed into the air his sorrow;And the South-Wind o'er the prairieWandered warm with sighs of passionWith the sighs of Shawondasee,Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes,Full of thistle-down the prairie,And the maid with hair like sunshineVanished from his sight forever;Never more did ShawondaseeSee the maid with yellow tresses!Poor, deluded Shawondasee!'Twas no woman that you gazed at,'Twas no maiden that you sighed for,'Twas the prairie dandelionThat through all the dreamy SummerYou had gazed at with such longing,You had sighed for with such passion,And had puffed away forever,Blown into the air with sighing.Ah! deluded Shawondasee!Thus the Four Winds were divided;Thus the sons of MudjekeewisHad their stations in the heavens,At the corners of the heavens;For himself the West-Wind onlyKept the mighty Mudjekeewis.

DOWNWARD through the evening twilight,In the days that are forgotten,In the unremembered ages,From the full moon fell Nokomis,Fell the beautiful Nokomis.She a wife, but not a mother.She was sporting with her women,Swinging in a swing of grape-vines,When her rival, the rejected,Full of jealousy and hatred,Cut the leafy swing asunder,Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines,And Nokomis fell affrightedDownward through the evening twilight,On the Muskoday, the meadow,On the prairie full of blossoms."See! a star falls!" said the people;"From the sky a star is falling!"There among the ferns and mosses,There among the prairie lilies,On the Muskoday, the meadow,In the moonlight, and the starlight,Fair Nokomis bore a daughter.And she called her name Wenonah,As the first-born of her daughters.And the daughter of NokomisGrew up like the prairie lilies,Grew a tall and slender maiden,With the beauty of the moonlight,With the beauty of the starlight.And Nokomis warned her often,Saying oft, and oft repeating,"O, beware of Mudjekeewis,Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis;Listen not to what he tells you;Lie not down upon the meadow,Stoop not down among the lilies,Lest the West-Wind come and harm you!"But she heeded not the warning,Heeded not those words of wisdom,And the West-Wind came at evening,Walking lightly o'er the prairie,Whispering to the leaves and blossoms,Bending low the flowers and grasses,Found the beautiful Wenonah,Lying there among the lilies,Wooed her with his words of sweetness,Wooed her with his soft caresses,Till she bore a son in sorrow,Bore a son of love and sorrow.Thus was born my Hiawatha,Thus was born the child of wonder;But the daughter of Nokomis,Hiawatha's gentle mother,In her anguish died desertedBy the West-Wind, false and faithless,By the heartless Mudjekeewis.For her daughter, long and loudlyWailed and wept the sad Nokomis;"O that I were dead!" she murmured,"O that I were dead, as thou art!No more work, and no more weeping,Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"By the shores of Gitche Gumee,By the shining Big-Sea-Water,Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.Dark behind it rose the forest,Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees,Rose the firs with cones upon them;Bright before it beat the water,Beat the clear and sunny water,Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.There the wrinkled, old NokomisNursed the little Hiawatha,Rocked him in his linden cradle,Bedded soft in moss and rushes,Safely bound with reindeer sinews;Stilled his fretful wail by saying,"Hush! the Naked Bear will get thee!"Lulled him into slumber, singing,"Ewa-yea! my little owlet!Who is this, that lights the wigwam?With his great eyes lights the wigwam?Ewa-yea! my little owlet!"Many things Nokomis taught himOf the stars that shine in heaven;Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet,Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses;Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits,Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs,Flaring far away to northwardIn the frosty nights of Winter;Showed the broad, white road in heaven,Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows,Running straight across the heavens,Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows.At the door on summer eveningsSat the little Hiawatha;Heard the whispering of the pine-trees,Heard the lapping of the water,Sounds of music, words of wonder;"Minne-wawa!" said the pine-trees,"Mudway aushka!" said the water.Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee,Flitting through the dusk of evening,With the twinkle of its candleLighting up the brakes and bushes,And he sang the song of children,Sang the song Nokomis taught him;"Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly,Little, flitting, white-fire insect,Little, dancing, white-fire creature,Light me with your little candle,Ere upon my bed I lay me,Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!"Saw the moon rise from the waterRippling, rounding from the water,Saw the flecks and shadows on it,Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?'And the good Nokomis answered:"Once a warrior, very angry,Seized his grandmother, and threw herUp into the sky at midnight;Right against the moon he threw her;'Tis her body that you see there."Saw the rainbow in the heaven,In the eastern sky, the rainbow,Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?"And the good Nokomis answered:"'Tis the heaven of flowers you see there;All the wild-flowers of the forest,All the lilies of the prairie,When on earth they fade and perish,Blossom in that heaven above us."When he heard the owls at midnight,Hooting, laughing in the forest,"What is that?" he cried in terror;"What is that?" he said, "Nokomis?"And the good Nokomis answered:"That is but the owl and owlet,Talking in their native language,Talking, scolding at each other."Then the little HiawathaLearned of every bird its language,Learned their names and all their secrets,How they built their nests in Summer,Where they hid themselves in Winter,Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens."Of all beasts he learned the language,Learned their names and all their secrets,How the beavers built their lodges,Where the squirrels hid their acorns,How the reindeer ran so swiftly,Why the rabbit was so timid,Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers."Then Iagoo, the great boaster,He the marvellous story-teller,He the traveller and the talker,He the friend of old Nokomis,Made a bow for Hiawatha;From a branch of ash he made it,From an oak-bough made the arrows,Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers,And the cord he made of deer-skin.Then he said to Hiawatha:"Go, my son, into the forest,Where the red deer herd together,Kill for us a famous roebuck,Kill for us a deer with antlers!"Forth into the forest straightwayAll alone walked HiawathaProudly, with his bow and arrows;And the birds sang round him, o'er him,"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"Sang the Opechee, the robin,Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"Up the oak-tree, close beside him,Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,In and out among the branches,Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree,Laughed, and said between his laughing,"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"And the rabbit from his pathwayLeaped aside, and at a distanceSat erect upon his haunches,Half in fear and half in frolic,Saying to the little hunter,"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"But he heeded not, nor heard them,For his thoughts were with the red deer;On their tracks his eyes were fastened,Leading downward to the river,To the ford across the river,And as one in slumber walked he.Hidden in the alder-bushes,There he waited till the deer came,Till he saw two antlers lifted,Saw two eyes look from the thicket,Saw two nostrils point to windward,And a deer came down the pathway,Flecked with leafy light and shadow.And his heart within him fluttered,Trembled like the leaves above him,Like the birch-leaf palpitated,As the deer came down the pathway.Then upon one knee uprising,Hiawatha aimed an arrow;Scarce a twig moved with his motion,Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled,But the wary roebuck started,Stamped with all his hoofs together,Listened with one foot uplifted,Leaped as if to meet the arrow;Ah! the singing, fatal arrow,Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him!Dead he lay there in the forest,By the ford across the river;Beat his timid heart no longer,But the heart of HiawathaThrobbed and shouted and exulted,As he bore the red deer homeward,And Iagoo and NokomisHailed his coming with applauses.From the red deer's hide NokomisMade a cloak for Hiawatha,From the red deer's flesh NokomisMade a banquet in his honor.All the village came and feasted,All the guests praised Hiawatha,Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-taha!Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!

OUT of childhood into manhoodNow had grown my Hiawatha,Skilled in all the craft of hunters,Learned in all the lore of old men,In all youthful sports and pastimes,In all manly arts and labors.Swift of foot was Hiawatha;He could shoot an arrow from him,And run forward with such fleetnessThat the arrow fell behind him!Strong of arm was Hiawatha;He could shoot ten arrows upward,Shoot them with such strength and swiftness,That the tenth had left the bow-stringEre the first to earth had fallen!He had mittens, Minjekahwun,Magic mittens made of deer-skin;When upon his hands he wore them,He could smite the rocks asunder,He could grind them into powder.He had moccasins enchanted,Magic moccasins of deer-skin;When he bound them round his ankles,When upon his feet he tied them,At each stride a mile he measured!Much he questioned old NokomisOf his father Mudjekeewis;Learned from her the fatal secretOf the beauty of his mother,Of the falsehood of his father;And his heart was hot within him,Like a living coal his heart was.Then he said to old Nokomis,"I will go to Mudjekeewis,See how fares it with my father,At the door-ways of the West-Wind,At the portals of the Sunset!"From his lodge went Hiawatha,Dressed for travel, armed for hunting;Dressed in deer-skin shirt and leggings,Richly wrought with quills and wampum;On his head his eagle feathers,Round his waist his belt of wampum,In his hand his bow of ash-wood,Strung with sinews of the reindeer;In his quiver oaken arrows,Tipped with jasper, winged with feathers;With his mittens Minjekahwun,With his moccasins enchanted.Warning said the old Nokomis,"Go not forth, O Hiawatha!To the kingdom of the West-Wind,To the realms of Mudjekeewis,Lest he harm you with his magic,Lest he kill you with his cunning!"But the fearless HiawathaHeeded not her woman's warning;Forth he strode into the forest,At each stride a mile he measured;Lurid seemed the sky above him,Lurid seemed the earth beneath him,Hot and close the air around him,Filled with smoke and fiery vapors,As of burning woods and prairies,For his heart was hot within him,Like a living coal his heart was.So he journeyed westward, westward,Left the fleetest deer behind him,Left the antelope and bison;Crossed the rushing Escanaba,Crossed the mighty Mississippi,Passed the Mountains of the Prairie,Passed the land of Crows and Foxes,Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet,Came unto the Rocky Mountains,To the kingdom of the West-Wind,Where upon the gusty summitsSat the ancient Mudjekeewis,Ruler of the winds of heaven.Filled with awe was HiawathaAt the aspect of his fatherOn the air about him wildlyTossed and streamed the cloudy tresses,Gleamed like drifting snow his tresses,Glared like Ishkoodah, the comet,Like the star with fiery tresses.Filled with joy was MudjekeewisWhen he looked on Hiawatha,Saw his youth rise up before himIn the face of Hiawatha,Saw the beauty of WenonahFrom the grave rise up before him."Welcome!" said he, "Hiawatha,To the kingdom of the West-Wind!Long have I been waiting for you!Youth is lovely, age is lonely,Youth is fiery, age is frosty;You bring back the days departed,You bring back my youth of passion,And the beautiful Wenonah!"Many days they talked together,Questioned, listened, waited, answered;Much the mighty MudjekeewisBoasted of his ancient prowess,Of his perilous adventures,His indomitable courage,His invulnerable body.Patiently sat Hiawatha,Listening to his father's boasting;With a smile he sat and listened,Uttered neither threat nor menace,Neither word nor look betrayed him,But his heart was hot within him,Like a living coal his heart was.Then he said, "O Mudjekeewis,Is there nothing that can harm you?Nothing that you are afraid of?"And the mighty Mudjekeewis,Grand and gracious in his boasting,Answered saying, "There is nothing,Nothing but the black rock yonder,Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek?"And he looked at HiawathaWith a wise look and benignant,With a countenance paternal,Looked with pride upon the beautyOf his tall and graceful figure,Saying, "O my Hiawatha!Is there anything can harm you?Anything you are afraid of?"But the wary HiawathaPaused awhile, as if uncertain,Held his peace, as if resolving,And then answered, "There is nothing,Nothing but the bulrush yonder,Nothing but the great Apukwa!"And as Mudjekeewis, rising,Stretched his hand to pluck the bulrush,Hiawatha cried in terror,Cried in well-dissembled terror,"Kago! kago! do not touch it!""Ah, kaween!" said Mudjekeewis,"No indeed, I will not touch it!"Then they talked of other matters;First of Hiawatha's brothers,First of Wabun, of the East-Wind,Of the South-Wind, Shawondasee,Of the North Kabibonokka;Then of Hiawatha's mother,Of the beautiful Wenonah,Of her birth upon the meadow,Of her death, as old NokomisHad remembered and related.And he cried, "O Mudjekeewis,It was you who killed Wenonah,Took her young life and her beauty,Broke the Lily of the Prairie,Trampled it beneath your footsteps;You confess it! you confess it!"And the Mighty MudjekeewisTossed his gray hairs to the West-Wind,Bowed his hoary head in anguish,With a silent nod assented.Then up started Hiawatha,And with threatening look and gestureLaid his hand upon the black rock,On the fatal Wawbeek laid it,With his mittens, Minjekahwun,Rent the jutting crag asunder,Smote and crushed it into fragments,Hurled them madly at his father,The remorseful Mudjekeewis,For his heart was hot within him,Like a living coal his heart was.But the ruler of the West-WindBlew the fragments backward from him,With the breathing of his nostrils,With the tempest of his anger,Blew them back at his assailant;Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa,Dragged it with its roots and fibresFrom the margin of the meadow,From its ooze, the giant bulrush;Long and loud laughed Hiawatha!Then began the deadly conflict,Hand to hand among the mountainsFrom his eyry screamed the eagle,The Keneu, the great war-eagle,Sat upon the crags around them,Wheeling flapped his wings above them.Like a tall tree in the tempestBent and lashed the giant bulrush;And in masses huge and heavyCrashing fell the fatal Wawbeek;Till the earth shook with the tumultAnd confusion of the battle,And the air was full of shoutings,And the thunder of the mountains,Starting, answered, "Baim-wawa!"Back retreated Mudjekeewis,Rushing westward o'er the mountains,Stumbling westward down the mountains,Three whole days retreated fighting,Still pursued by HiawathaTo the door-ways of the West-Wind,To the portals of the Sunset,To the earth's remotest border,Where into the empty spacesSinks the sun, as a flamingoDrops into her nest at nightfall,In the melancholy marshes."Hold!" at length cried Mudjekeewis,"Hold, my son, my Hiawatha!'Tis impossible to kill me,For you cannot kill the immortal.I have put you to this trial,But to know and prove your courage;Now receive the prize of valor!"Go back to your home and people,Live among them, toil among them,Cleanse the earth from all that harms it,Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers,Slay all monsters and magicians,All the giants, the Wendigoes,All the serpents, the Kenabeeks,As I slew the Mishe-Mokwa.Slew the Great Bear of the mountains."And at last when Death draws near you,When the awful eyes of PaugukGlare upon you in the darkness,I will share my kingdom with you,Ruler shall you be henceforwardOf the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin,Of the home-wind, the Keewaydin."Thus was fought that famous battleIn the dreadful days of Shah-shah,In the days long since departed,In the kingdom of the West-Wind.Still the hunter sees its tracesScattered far o'er hill and valley;Sees the giant bulrush growingBy the ponds and water-courses,Sees the masses of the WawbeekLying still in every valley.Homeward now went Hiawatha;Pleasant was the landscape round him,Pleasant was the air above him,For the bitterness of angerHad departed wholly from him,From his brain the thought of vengeance,From his heart the burning fever.Only once his pace he slackened,Only once he paused or halted,Paused to purchase heads of arrowsOf the ancient Arrow-maker,In the land of the Dacotahs,Where the Falls of MinnehahaFlash and gleam among the oak-trees,Laugh and leap into the valley.There the ancient Arrow-makerMade his arrow-heads of sandstone,Arrow-heads of chalcedony,Arrow-heads of flint and jasper,Smoothed and sharpened at the edges,Hard and polished, keen and costly.With him dwelt his dark-eyed daughter,Wayward as the Minnehaha,With her moods of shade and sunshine,Eyes that smiled and frowned alternate,Feet as rapid as the river,Tresses flowing like the water,And as musical a laughter;And he named her from the river,From the water-fall he named her,Minnehaha, Laughing Water.Was it then for heads of arrows,Arrow-heads of chalcedony,Arrow-heads of flint and jasper,That my Hiawatha haltedIn the land of the Dacotahs?Was it not to see the maiden,See the face of Laughing Water,Peeping from behind the curtain,Hear the rustling of her garmentsFrom behind the waving curtain,As one sees the MinnehahaGleaming, glancing through the branches,As one hears the Laughing WaterFrom behind its screen of branches?Who shall say what thoughts and visionsFill the fiery brains of young men?Who shall say what dreams of beautyFilled the heart of Hiawatha?All he told to old Nokomis,When he reached the lodge at sunset,Was the meeting with his father,Was the fight with Mudjekeewis;Not a word he said of arrows,Not a word of Laughing Water.

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