XV

IN those days said Hiawatha,"Lo! how all things fade and perish!From the memory of the old menFade away the great traditions,The achievements of the warriors,The adventures of the hunters,All the wisdom of the Medas,All the craft of the Wabenos,All the marvelous dreams and visionsOf the Jossakeeds, the Prophets!"Great men die and are forgotten,Wise men speak; their words of wisdomPerish in the ears that hear them,Do not reach the generationsThat, as yet unborn, are waitingIn the great, mysterious darknessOf the speechless days that shall be!"On the grave-posts of our fathersAre no signs, no figures painted;Who are in those graves we know not,Only know they are our fathers.Of what kith they are and kindred,From what old, ancestral Totem,Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver,They descended, this we know not,Only know they are our fathers."Face to face we speak together,But we cannot speak when absent,Cannot send our voices from usTo the friends that dwell afar off;Cannot send a secret message,But the bearer learns our secret,May pervert it, may betray it,May reveal it unto others."Thus said Hiawatha, walkingIn the solitary forest,Pondering, musing in the forest,On the welfare of his people.From his pouch he took his colors,Took his paints of different colors,On the smooth bark of a birch-treePainted many shapes and figures,Wonderful and mystic figures,

"AND EACH FIGURE HAD A MEANING"—Page 236"AND EACH FIGURE HAD A MEANING"—Page 236

And each figure had a meaning,Each some word or thought suggested.Gitche Manito the Mighty,He, the Master of Life, was paintedAs an egg, with points projectingTo the four winds of the heavens.Everywhere is the Great Spirit,Was the meaning of this symbol.Mitche Manito the Mighty,He the dreadful Spirit of Evil,As a serpent was depicted,As Kenabeek, the great serpent.Very crafty, very cunning,Is the creeping Spirit of Evil,Was the meaning of this symbol.Life and Death he drew as circles,Life was white, but Death was darkened;Sun and moon and stars he painted,Man and beast, and fish and reptile,Forests, mountains, lakes, and rivers.For the earth he drew a straight line,For the sky a bow above it;White the space between for day-time,Filled with little stars for night-time;On the left a point for sunrise,On the right a point for sunset,On the top a point for noontide,And for rain and cloudy weatherWaving lines descending from it.Footprints pointing towards a wigwamWere a sign of invitation,Were a sign of guests assembling:Bloody hands with palms upliftedWere a symbol of destruction,Were a hostile sign and symbol.All these things did HiawathaShow unto his wondering people,And interpreted their meaning,And he said: "Behold, your gravepostsHave no mark, no sign, nor symbol.Go and paint them all with figures;Each one with its household symbol,With its own ancestral Totem,So that those who follow afterMay distinguish them and know them."And they painted on the gravepostsOf the graves yet unforgotten,Each his own ancestral Totem,Each the symbol of his household;Figures of the Bear and Reindeer,Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver,Each inverted as a tokenThat the owner was departed,That the chief who bore the symbolLay beneath in dust and ashes.And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets,The Wabenos, the Magicians,And the Medicine-men, the Medas,Painted upon bark and deer-skinFigures for the songs they chanted,For each song a separate symbol,Figures mystical and awful,Figures strange and brightly colored;And each figure had its meaning,Each some magic song suggested.The Great Spirit, the Creator,Flashing light through all the heaven;The Great Serpent, the Kenabeek,With his bloody crest erected,Creeping, looking into heaven;In the sky the sun, that listens,And the moon eclipsed and dying;Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk,And the cormorant, bird of magic;Headless men, that walk the heavens,Bodies lying pierced with arrows,Bloody hands of death uplifted,Flags on graves, and great war-captainsGrasping both the earth and heaven!Such as these the shapes they paintedOn the birch-bark and the deer-skin;Songs of war and songs of hunting,Songs of medicine and of magic,All were written in these figures,For each figure had its meaning,Each its separate song recorded.Nor forgotten was the Love-Song,The most subtle of all medicines,The most potent spell of magic,Dangerous more than war or hunting!Thus the Love-Song was recorded,Symbol and interpretation.First a human figure standing,Painted in the brightest scarlet;'Tis the lover, the musician,And the meaning is, "My paintingMakes me powerful over others."Then the figure seated, singing,Playing on a drum of magic,And the interpretation, "Listen!'Tis my voice you hear, my singing!"Then the same red figure seatedIn the shelter of a wigwam,And the meaning of the symbol,"I will come and sit beside youIn the mystery of my passion!"Then two figures, man and woman,Standing hand in hand togetherWith their hands so clasped togetherThat they seem in one united,And the words thus representedAre, "I see your heart within you,And your cheeks are red with blushes!"Next the maiden on an island,In the centre of an island;And the song this shape suggestedWas, "Though you were at a distance,Were upon some far-off island,Such the spell I cast upon you,Such the magic power of passion,I could straightway draw you to me!"Then the figure of the maidenSleeping, and the lover near her,Whispering to her in her slumbers,Saying, "Though you were far from meIn the land of Sleep and Silence,Still the voice of love would reach you!"And the last of all the figuresWas a heart within a circle,Drawn within a magic circle;And the image had this meaning:"Naked lies your heart before me,To your naked heart I whisper!"Thus it was that Hiawatha,In his wisdom, taught the peopleAll the mysteries of painting,All the art of Picture-Writing,On the smooth bark of the birch-tree,On the white skin of the reindeer,On the grave-posts of the village.

IN those days the Evil Spirits,All the Manitos of mischief,Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom,And his love for Chibiabos,Jealous of their faithful friendship,And their noble words and actions,Made at length a league against them,To molest them and destroy them.Hiawatha, wise and wary,Often said to Chibiabos,"O my brother! do not leave me,Lest the Evil Spirits harm you!"Chibiabos, young and heedless,Laughing shook his coal-black tresses,Answered ever sweet and childlike,"Do not fear for me, O brother!Harm and evil come not near me!"Once when Peboan, the Winter,Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water,When the snow-flakes, whirling downward,Hissed among the withered oak-leaves,Changed the pine-trees into wigwams,Covered all the earth with silence,—Armed with arrows, shod with snow-shoes,Heeding not his brother's warning,Fearing not the Evil Spirits,Forth to hunt the deer with antlersAll alone went Chibiabos.Right across the Big-Sea-WaterSprang with speed the deer before him.With the wind and snow he followed,O'er the treacherous ice he followed,Wild with all the fierce commotionAnd the rapture of the hunting.But beneath, the Evil SpiritsLay in ambush, waiting for him,Broke the treacherous ice beneath him,Dragged him downward to the bottom,Buried in the sand his body,Unktahee, the god of water,He, the god of the Dacotahs,Drowned him in the deep abyssesOf the lake of Gitche Gumee.From the headlands HiawathaSent forth such a wail of anguish,Such a fearful lamentation,That the bison paused to listen,And the wolves howled from the prairies,And the thunder in the distanceWoke and answered "Baim-wawa!"Then his face with black he painted,With his robe his head he covered,In his wigwam sat lamenting,Seven long weeks he sat lamenting,Uttering still this moan of sorrow:—"He is dead, the sweet musician!He, the sweetest of all singers!He has gone from us forever,He has moved a little nearerTo the Master of all music,To the Master of all singing!O my brother, Chibiabos!"And the melancholy fir-treesWaved their dark green fans above him,Waved their purple cones above him,Sighing with him to console him,Mingling with his lamentationTheir complaining, their lamenting.Came the Spring, and all the forestLooked in vain for Chibiabos;Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha,Sighed the rushes in the meadow.From the tree-tops sang the bluebird,Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,"Chibiabos! Chibiabos!He is dead, the sweet musician!"From the wigwam sang the robin,Sang the Opechee, the robin,"Chibiabos! Chibiabos!He is dead, the sweetest singer!"And at night, through all the forestWent the whippoorwill complaining,Wailing went the Wawonaissa,"Chibiabos! Chibiabos!He is dead, the sweet musician!He the sweetest of all singers!"Then the medicine-men, the Medas,The magicians, the Wabenos,And the Jossakeeds, the prophets,Came to visit Hiawatha;Built a Sacred Lodge beside him,To appease him, to console him,Walked in silent, grave procession,Bearing each a pouch of healing,Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter,Filled with magic roots and simples,Filled with very potent medicines.When he heard their steps approaching,Hiawatha ceased lamenting,Called no more on Chibiabos;Naught he questioned, naught he answered,But his mournful head uncovered,From his face the mourning colorsWashed he slowly and in silence,Slowly and in silence followedOnward to the Sacred Wigwam.There a magic drink they gave him,Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint,And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow,Roots of power, and herbs of healing;Beat their drums, and shook their rattles;Chanted singly and in chorus,Mystic songs like these, they chanted."I myself, myself! behold me!'Tis the great Gray Eagle talking;Come, ye white crows, come and hear him!The loud-speaking thunder helps me;All the unseen spirits help me;I can hear their voices calling,All around the sky I hear them!I can blow you strong, my brother,I can heal you, Hiawatha!""Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus,"Way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus."Friends of mine are all the serpents!Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk!Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him;I can shoot your heart and kill it!I can blow you strong, my brother,I can heal you, Hiawatha!""Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus,"Way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus."I myself, myself! the prophet!When I speak the wigwam trembles,Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror,Hands unseen begin to shake it!When I walk, the sky I tread onBends and makes a noise beneath me!I can blow you strong, my brother!Rise and speak, O Hiawatha!""Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus,"Way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus.Then they shook their medicine-pouchesO'er the head of Hiawatha,Danced their medicine-dance around him;And upstarting wild and haggard,Like a man from dreams awakened,He was healed of all his madness.As the clouds are swept from heaven,Straightway from his brain departedAll his moody melancholy;As the ice is swept from rivers,Straightway from his heart departedAll his sorrow and affliction.Then they summoned ChibiabosFrom his grave beneath the waters,From the sands of Gitche GumeeSummoned Hiawatha's brother.And so mighty was the magicOf that cry and invocation,That he heard it as he lay thereUnderneath the Big-Sea-Water;From the sand he rose and listened,Heard the music and the singing,Came, obedient to the summons,To the doorway of the wigwam,But to enter they forbade him.Through a chink a coal they gave him,Through the door a burning fire-brand;Ruler in the Land of Spirits,Ruler o'er the dead, they made him,Telling him a fire to kindleFor all those that died thereafter,Camp-fires for their night encampmentsOn their solitary journeyTo the kingdom of Ponemah,To the land of the Hereafter.From the village of his childhood,From the homes of those who knew him,Passing silent through the forest,Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways,Slowly vanished Chibiabos!Where he passed, the branches moved not,Where he trod the grasses bent not,And the fallen leaves of last yearMade no sound beneath his footsteps.Four whole days he journeyed onwardDown the pathway of the dead men;On the dead-man's strawberry feasted,Crossed the melancholy river,On the swinging log he crossed it,Came unto the Lake of Silver.In the Stone Canoe was carriedTo the Islands of the Blessed,To the land of ghosts and shadows.On that journey, moving slowly,Many weary spirits saw he,Panting under heavy burdens,Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows,Robes of fur, and pots and kettles,And with food that friends had givenFor that solitary journey."Aye! why do the living," said they,"Lay such heavy burdens on us!Better were it to go naked,Better were it to go fasting,Than to bear such heavy burdensOn our long and weary journey!"Forth then issued Hiawatha,Wandered eastward, wandered westward,Teaching men the use of simplesAnd the antidotes for poisons,And the cure of all diseases.Thus was first made known to mortalsAll the mystery of Medamin,All the sacred art of healing.

YOU shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis,He, the handsome Yenadizze,Whom the people called the Storm Fool,Vexed the village with disturbance;You shall hear of all his mischief,And his flight from Hiawatha,And his wondrous transmigrations,And the end of his adventures.On the shores of Gitche Gumee,On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo,By the shining Big-Sea-WaterStood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis.It was he who in his frenzyWhirled these drifting sands together,On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo,When, among the guests assembled,He so merrily and madlyDanced at Hiawatha's wedding,Danced the Beggars' Dance to please them.Now, in search of new adventures,From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis,Came with speed into the village,Found the young men all assembledIn the lodge of old Iagoo,Listening to his monstrous stories,To his wonderful adventures.He was telling them the storyOf Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker,How he made a hole in heaven,How he climbed up into heaven,And let out the summer-weather,The perpetual, pleasant Summer;How the Otter first essayed it;How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badger,Tried in turn the great achievement,From the summit of the mountainSmote their fists against the heavens,Smote against the sky their foreheads,Cracked the sky, but could not break it,How the Wolverine, uprising,Made him ready for the encounter,Bent his knees down, like a squirrel,Drew his arms back, like a cricket."Once he leaped," said old Iagoo,"Once he leaped, and lo! above himBent the sky, as ice in riversWhen the waters rise beneath it;Twice he leaped, and lo! above himCracked the sky, as ice in riversWhen the freshet is at highest!Thrice he leaped, and lo! above himBroke the shattered sky asunder,And he disappeared within it,And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel,With a bound went in behind him!""Hark you!" shouted Pau-Puk-KeewisAs he entered at the doorway;"I am tired of all this talking,Tired of old Iagoo's stories,Tired of Hiawatha's wisdom.Here is something to amuse you,Better than this endless talking."Then from out his pouch of wolf-skinForth he drew, with solemn manner,All the game of Bowl and Counters,Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces.White on one side were they painted,And vermilion on the other;Two Kenabeeks or great serpents,Two Ininewug or wedge-men,One great war-club, Pugamaugun,And one slender fish, the Keego,Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks,And three Sheshebwug or ducklings.All were made of bone and painted,All except the Ozawabeeks;These were brass, on one side burnished,And were black upon the other.In a wooden bowl he placed them,Shook and jostled them together,Threw them on the ground before him.Thus exclaiming and explaining:"Red side up are all the pieces,And one great Kenabeek standingOn the bright side of a brass piece,On a burnished Ozawabeek;Thirteen tens and eight are counted."Then again he shook the pieces,Shook and jostled them together,Threw them on the ground before him,Still exclaiming and explaining:"White are both the great Kenabeeks,White the Ininewug, the wedge-men,Red are all the other pieces;Five tens and an eight are counted."Thus he taught the game of hazard,Thus displayed it and explained it,Running through its various chances,Various changes, various meanings:Twenty curious eyes stared at him,Full of eagerness stared at him."Many games," said old Iagoo,"Many games of skill and hazardHave I seen in different nations,Have I played in different countries.He who plays with old IagooMust have very nimble fingers;Though you think yourself so skillfulI can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis,I can even give you lessonsIn your game of Bowl and Counters!"So they sat and played together,All the old men and the young men,Played for dresses, weapons, wampum,Played till midnight, played till morning,Played until the Yenadizze,Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis,Of their treasures had despoiled them,Of the best of all their dresses,Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine,Belts of wampum, crests of feathers,Warlike weapons, pipes and pouches.Twenty eyes glared wildly at him,Like the eyes of wolves glared at him.Said the lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis:"In my wigwam I am lonely,In my wanderings and adventuresI have need of a companion,Fain would have a Meshinauwa,An attendant and pipe-bearer.I will venture all these winnings,All these garments heaped about me,All this wampum, all these feathers,On a single throw will ventureAll against the young man yonder!"'Twas a youth of sixteen summers,'Twas a nephew of Iagoo;Face-in-a-Mist, the people called him.As the fire burns in a pipe-headDusky red beneath the ashes,So beneath his shaggy eyebrowsGlowed the eyes of old Iagoo."Ugh!" he answered very fiercely:"Ugh!" they answered all and each one.Seized the wooden bowl the old man,Closely in his bony fingersClutched the fatal bowl, Onagon,Shook it fiercely and with fury,Made the pieces ring togetherAs he threw them down before him.Red were both the great Kenabeeks,Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men.Red the Sheshebwug, the ducklings,Black the four brass Ozawabeeks,White alone the fish, the Keego;Only five the pieces counted!Then the smiling Pau-Puk-KeewisShook the bowl and threw the pieces;Lightly in the air he tossed them,And they fell about him scattered;Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks,Red and white the other pieces,And upright among the othersOne Ininewug was standing,Even as crafty Pau-Puk-KeewisStood alone among the players,Saying, "Five tens! mine the game is!"Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely,Like the eyes of wolves glared at him,As he turned and left the wigwam,Followed by his Meshinauwa,By the nephew of Iagoo,By the tall and graceful stripling,Bearing in his arms the winnings,Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine,Belts of wampum, pipes and weapons."Carry them," said Pau-Puk-Keewis,Pointing with his fan of feathers,"To my wigwam far to eastward,On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo!"Hot and red with smoke and gamblingWere the eyes of Pau-Puk-KeewisAs he came forth to the freshnessOf the pleasant summer morning.All the birds were singing gayly,All the streamlets flowing swiftly,And the heart of Pau-Puk-KeewisSang with pleasure as the birds sing,Beat with triumph like the streamlets,As he wandered through the village,In the early gray of morning,With his fan of turkey-feathers,With his plumes and tufts of swan's down,Till he reached the farthest wigwam,Reached the lodge of Hiawatha.Silent was it and deserted;No one met him at the doorway,No one came to bid him welcome.But the birds were singing round it,In and out and round the doorway,Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding,—And aloft upon the ridge-poleKahgahgee, the King of Ravens,Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming,Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Keewis,"All are gone! the lodge is empty!"Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Keewis,In his heart resolving mischief;"Gone is wary Hiawatha,Gone the silly Laughing Water,Gone Nokomis, the old woman,And the lodge is left unguarded!"By the neck he seized the raven,Whirled it round him like a rattle,Like a medicine-pouch he shook it,Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven,From the ridge-pole of the wigwamLeft its lifeless body hanging,As an insult to its master,As a taunt to Hiawatha.With a stealthy step he entered,Round the lodge in wild disorderThrew the household things about him,Piled together in confusionBowls of wood and earthen kettles,Robes of buffalo and beaver,Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine,As an insult to Nokomis,As a taunt to Minnehaha.Then departed Pau-Puk-Keewis,Whistling, singing through the forest,Whistling gayly to the squirrels,Who from hollow boughs above himDropped their acorn-shells upon him,Singing gayly to the wood birds,Who from out the leafy darknessAnswered with a song as merry.Then he climbed the rocky headlands,Looking o'er the Gitche Gumee,Perched himself upon their summit,Waiting full of mirth and mischiefThe return of Hiawatha.Stretched upon his back he lay there;Far below him plashed the waters,Plashed and washed the dreamy waters;Far above him swam the heavens,Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens;Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled,Hiawatha's mountain chickens,Flock-wise swept and wheeled about him,Almost brushed him with their pinions.And he killed them as he lay there,Slaughtered them by tens and twenties,Threw their bodies down the headland,Threw them on the beach below him,Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull,Perched upon a crag above them,Shouted: "It is Pau-Puk-Keewis!He is slaying us by hundreds!Send a message to our brother,Tidings send to Hiawatha!"

FULL of wrath was HiawathaWhen he came into the village,Found the people in confusion,Heard of all the misdemeanors,All the malice and the mischief,Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis.Hard his breath came through his nostrils,Through his teeth he buzzed and mutteredWords of anger and resentment,Hot and humming like a hornet,"I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis,Slay this mischief-maker!" said he."Not so long and wide the world is,Not so rude and rough the way is,That my wrath shall not attain him,That my vengeance shall not reach him!"Then in swift pursuit departed,Hiawatha and the huntersOn the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis,Through the forest, where he passed it,To the headlands where he rested;But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis,Only in the trampled grasses,In the whortleberry bushes,Found the couch where he had rested,Found the impress of his body.From the lowlands far beneath them,From the Muskoday, the meadow,Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward,Made a gesture of defiance,Made a gesture of derision;And aloud cried Hiawatha,From the summit of the mountain:"Not so long and wide the world is,Not so rude and rough the way is,But my wrath shall overtake you,And my vengeance shall attain you!"Over rock and over river,Through bush, and break, and forest,Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis;Like an antelope he bounded,Till he came into a streamletIn the middle of the forest,To a streamlet still and tranquil,That had overflowed its margin,To a dam made by the beavers,To a pond of quiet waters,Where knee-deep the trees were standing,Where the water-lilies floated,Where the rushes waved and whispered.On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,On the dam of trunks and branches,Through whose chinks the water spouted,O'er whose summit flowed the streamlet.From the bottom rose the beaver,Looked with two great eyes of wonder,Eyes that seemed to ask a question,At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis.On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet,Flowed the bright and silvery water,And he spake unto the beaver,With a smile he spake in this wise:"O my friend Ahmeek, the beaver,Cool and pleasant is the water;Let me dive into the water,Let me rest there in your lodges;Change me, too, into a beaver!"Cautiously replied the beaver,With reserve he thus made answer:"Let me first consult the others,Let me ask the other beavers."Down he sank into the water,Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks,Down among the leaves and branches,Brown and matted at the bottom.On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis,O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet,Spouted through the chinks below him,Dashed upon the stones beneath him,Spread serene and calm before him,And the sunshine and the shadowsFell in flecks and gleams upon him,Fell in little shining patches,Through the waving, rustling branches.From the bottom rose the beavers,Silently above the surfaceRose one head and then another,Till the pond seemed full of beavers,Full of black and shining faces.To the beavers Pau-Puk-KeewisSpake entreating, said in this wise:"Very pleasant is your dwelling,O my friends! and safe from danger;Can you not with all your cunning,All your wisdom and contrivance,Change me, too, into a beaver?""Yes!" replied Ahmeek, the beaver,He the King of all the beavers,"Let yourself slide down among us,Down into the tranquil water."Down into the pond among themSilently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis;Black became his shirt of deer-skin,Black his moccasins and leggings,In a broad black tail behind himSpread his fox-tail and his fringes;He was changed into a beaver."Make me large," said Pau-Puk-Keewis,"Make me large and make me larger,Larger than the other beavers.""Yes," the beaver chief responded,"When our lodge below you enter,In our wigwam we will make youTen times larger than the others."Thus into the clear brown waterSilently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis;Found the bottom covered overWith the trunks of trees and branches,Hoards of food against the winter,Piles and heaps against the famine;Found the lodge with arching doorway,Leading into spacious chambers.Here they made him large and larger,Made him largest of the beavers,Ten times larger than the others."You shall be our ruler," said they;"Chief and King of all the beavers."But not long had Pau-Puk-KeewisSat in state among the beaversWhen there came a voice of warningFrom the watchman at his stationIn the water-flags and lilies,Saying, "Here is Hiawatha!Hiawatha with his hunters!"Then they heard a cry above them,Heard a shouting and a tramping,Heard a crashing and a rushing,And the water round and o'er themSank and sucked away in eddies,And they knew their dam was broken.On the lodge's roof the huntersLeaped, and broke it all asunder;Streamed the sunshine through the crevice,Sprang the beavers through the doorway,Hid themselves in deeper water,In the channel of the streamlet;But the mighty Pau-Puk-KeewisCould not pass beneath the doorway;He was puffed with pride and feeding,He was swollen like a bladder.Through the roof looked Hiawatha,Cried aloud, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis!Vain are all your craft and cunning,Vain your manifold disguises!Well I know you, Pau-Puk-Keewis!"With their clubs they beat and bruised him,Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-KeewisPounded him as maize is pounded,Till his skull was crushed to pieces.Six tall hunters, lithe and limber,Bore him home on poles and branches,Bore the body of the beaver;But the ghost, the Jeebi in him,Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis,Still lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis.And it fluttered, strove, and struggled,Waving hither, waving thither,As the curtains of a wigwamStruggle with their thongs of deer-skin,When the wintry wind is blowing;Till it drew itself together,Till it rose up from the body,Till it took the form and featuresOf the cunning Pau-Puk-KeewisVanishing into the forest.But the wary HiawathaSaw the figure ere it vanished,Saw the form of Pau-Puk-KeewisGlide into the soft blue shadowOf the pine-trees of the forest;Toward the squares of white beyond it,Toward an opening in the forest,Like a wind it rushed and panted,Bending all the boughs before it,And behind it, as the rain comes,Came the steps of Hiawatha.To a lake with many islandsCame the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis,Where among the water-liliesPishnekuh, the brant, were sailing;Through the tufts of rushes floating,Steering through the reedy islands,Now their broad black beaks they lifted,Now they plunged beneath the water,Now they darkened in the shadow,Now they brightened in the sunshine."Pishnekuh!" cried Pau-Puk-Keewis,"Pishnekuh! my brothers!" said he,"Change me to a brant with plumage,With a shining neck and feathers,Make me large, and make me larger,Ten times larger than the others."Straightway to a brant they changed him,With two huge and dusky pinions,With a bosom smooth and rounded,With a bill like two great paddles,Made him larger than the others,Ten times larger than the largest,Just as, shouting from the forest,On the shore stood Hiawatha.Up they rose with cry and clamor,With a whir and beat of pinions,Rose up from the reedy islands,From the water-flags and lilies.And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis:"In your flying, look not downward,Take good heed, and look not downward,Lest some strange mischance should happen,Lest some great mishap befall you!"Fast and far they fled to northward,Fast and far through mist and sunshine,Fed among the moors and fen-lands,Slept among the reeds and rushes.On the morrow as they journeyed,Buoyed and lifted by the South-wind,Wafted onward by the South-wind,Blowing fresh and strong behind them,Rose a sound of human voices,Rose a clamor from beneath them,From the lodges of a village,From the people miles beneath them.For the people of the villageSaw the flock of brant with wonder,Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-KeewisFlapping far up in the ether,Broader than two doorway curtains.Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shouting,Knew the voice of Hiawatha,Knew the outcry of Iagoo,And, forgetful of the warning,Drew his neck in, and looked downward,And the wind that blew behind himCaught his mighty fan of feathers,Sent him wheeling, whirling downward.All in vain did Pau-Puk-KeewisStruggle to regain his balance;Whirling round and round and downward,He beheld in turn the villageAnd in turn the flock above him,Saw the village coming nearer,And the flock receding farther,Heard the voices growing louder,Heard the shouting and the laughter;Saw no more the flock above him,Only saw the earth beneath him;Dead out of the empty heaven,Dead among the shouting people,With a heavy sound and sullen,Fell the brant with broken pinions.But his soul, his ghost, his shadow,Still survived as Pau-Puk-Keewis,Took again the form and featuresOf the handsome Yenadizze,And again went rushing onward,Followed fast by Hiawatha,Crying: "Not so wide the world is,Not so long and rough the way is,But my wrath shall overtake you,But my vengeance shall attain you!"And so near he came, so near him,That his hand was stretched to seize him,His right hand to seize and hold him,When the cunning Pau-Puk-KeewisWhirled and spun about in circles,Fanned the air into a whirlwind,Danced the dust and leaves about him,And amid the whirling eddiesSprang into a hollow oak-tree,Changed himself into a serpent,Gliding out through root and rubbish.With his right hand HiawathaSmote amain the hollow oak-tree,Rent it into shreds and splinters,Left it lying there in fragments.But in vain; for Pau-Puk-Keewis,Once again in human figure,Full in sight ran on before him,Sped away in gust and whirlwind,On the shores of Gitche Gumee,Westward by the Big-Sea-Water,Came unto the rocky headlands,To the Pictured Rocks of sand-stone,Looking over lake and landscape.And the Old Man of the Mountain,He the Manito of Mountains,Opened wide his rocky doorways,Opened wide his deep abysses,Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelterIn his caverns dark and dreary,Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcomeTo his gloomy lodge of sandstone.There without stood Hiawatha,Found the doorways closed against him,With his mittens, Minjekahwun,Smote great caverns in the sandstone,Cried aloud in tones of thunder,"Open! I am Hiawatha!"But the Old Man of the MountainOpened not, and made no answerFrom the silent crags of sandstone,From the gloomy rock abysses.Then he raised his hands to heaven,Called imploring on the tempest,Called Waywassimo, the lightning,And the thunder, Annemeekee;And they came with night and darknessSweeping down the Big-Sea-WaterFrom the distant Thunder Mountains;And the trembling Pau-Puk-KeewisHeard the footsteps of the thunder,Saw the red eyes of the lightning,Was afraid, and crouched and trembled.Then Waywassimo, the lightning,Smote the doorways of the caverns,With his war-club smote the doorways,Smote the jutting crags of sandstone,And the thunder, Annemeekee,Shouted down into the caverns,Saying, "Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis!"And the crags fell, and beneath themDead among the rocky ruinsLay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis,Lay the handsome Yenadizze,Slain in his own human figure.Ended were his wild adventures,Ended were his tricks and gambols,Ended all his craft and cunning,Ended all his mischief-making,All his gambling and his dancing,All his wooing of the maidens.Then the noble HiawathaTook his soul, his ghost, his shadow,Spake and said: "O Pau-Puk-Keewis,Never more in human figureShall you search for new adventures;Never more with jest and laughterDance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds;But above there in the heavensYou shall soar and sail in circles;I will change you to an eagle,To Keneu, the great war-eagle,Chief of all the fowls with feathers,Chief of Hiawatha's chickens."And the name of Pau-Puk-KeewisLingers still among the people,Lingers still among the singers,And among the story-tellers;And in Winter, when the snow-flakesWhirl in eddies round the lodges,When the wind in gusty tumultO'er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles,"There," they cry, "comes Pau-Puk-KeewisHe is dancing through the village,He is gathering in his harvest!"

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 the 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.'Twas 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 the 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 vision

Back to Index Next