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 darkness,
Sweeping down the Big-Sea-Water
From the distant Thunder Mountains;
And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis
Heard 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 dooorways,
Smote the jutting crags of sandstone,
And the thunder, Annemeekee,
Shouted down into the caverns,
Saying, "Where is Pan-Puk-Keewis,
And the crags fell, and beneath them
Dead among the rocky ruins
Lay 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 mishief-making,
All his gambling and his dancing,
All his wooing of the maidens.

Then the noble Hiawatha

Took this soul, his ghost, his shadow,
Spake and said: "O Pan-Puk-Keewis!
Never more in human figure

Shall you search for new adventures;
Never more with jest and laughter

Dance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds,
But above there in the heavens
You shall roar and sail in circles;
I will change you to an eagle,
To Kengu, the great war-eagle,
Chief of all the fowls with feathers,
Chief of Hiawatha's chickens."

And the name of Pau-Puk-Keewis
Lingers still among the people,
Lingers still among the singers,
And among the story-tellers;

And in Winter, when the snow-flakes

Whirl in eddies round the lodges,

When the wind in gusty tumult

O'er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles,

"There," they cry, "comes Pau-Puk-Keewis; He is dancing through the village, He is gathering in his harvest!"

XVIII.

THE DEATH OF KWASIND. FAR and wide among the nations Spread 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 I eople, They the fairies and the pigmies, Plotted and conspired against him.

"If this hateful Kwasind," said they, "If this great, outrageous fellow Goes 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 murshrooms, Drive us all into the water, Give our bodies to be eaten. By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs, By the Spirits of the water!"

So the angry Little People

All 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 Kwasind
In 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 weapon

That 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 margin
Jutting overhang the river.
There they lay in wait for Kwasind,
The malicious Little People.

'Twas an afternooon 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 current
Of the sluggishli 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 hovered,
O'er the drowsy head of Kwasind.

To his ear there came a murmur,
As of waves upon a sea-shore,
As of far-off tumbling waters,
As of winds among the pine-trees;
And he felt upon his forehead
Blows of little airy war-clubs,
Wielded by the slumbrous legions,
Of 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
Reeled 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-encampment
Of the pigmies, 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 sudden
War-cry of the Little People.

And he sideways swayed and tumbled, Sideways fell into the river,

Piunged beneath the sluggish water
Headlong; 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 Man
Lingered long among the people,
And whenever through the forest
Raged 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!"

XIX.

THE GHOSTS.

NEVER stoops the soaring vulture
On his quarry in the desert,
On the sick or wounded bison,
But another vulture, watching
From 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 others
Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise
Round their victim, sick and wounded,
First a shodow, then a sorrow,
Till the air is dark with anguish.

Now o'er all the dreary Northland,
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 Creator

With 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 together
On the ice the noisy ball-play,

On the plain the dance of snow-shoes.
One dark evening, after sundown,
In her wigwam Laughing Water
Sat with old Nokomis waiting
For the steps of Hiawatha
Homeward from the hunt returning.

On their faces gleamed the fire-light,
Painting them with streaks of crimson,
In the eyes of old Nokomis

Glimmered like the watery moonlight,
In the eyes of Laughing Water
Glistened like the sun in water:

And behind them crouched their shadows
In the corners of the wigwam,

And the smoke in wreaths above them

Climbed and crowded through the smoke-fluc.
Then the curtain of the doorway

From 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-fiue
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 Hiawatha
From his hunting in the forest,
With the snow upon his tresses,
And the red-deer on his shoulders,
At the feet of Laughing Water
Down 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 Minnehah?"
But he questioned not the strangers,
Only spake to bid them welcome
To 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 roc-buck,
Set apart for Laughing Water,
For the wife of Hiawatha:
Without asking, without thanking,
Eagerly devoured the morsels,
Flitted back among the shadows
In 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 softly

Whispered, 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 day-light
As the pine shakes off the snow-flakes
From the midnight of its branches;
Day by day the guests unmoving
Sat 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 Hiawatha
Came 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 portions
Set aside for Laughing Water,
And without rebuke or question
Flitted back among the shadows.
Never once had Hiawatha

By a word or look reproved them;
Never once had old Nokomis
Made a gesture of impatience;
Never once had Laughing Water
Shown 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 lighted,

He had brought his young wife homeward
From 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 Water
Said 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 was dying, Minnehaha.

Hark!" she said; "I hear a rushing,
Hear a roaring and a rushing,
Hear the falls of Minnehaha
Calling to me from a distance!"

No, my child!" said old Nokomis,
""Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!"
"Look!" she said. "I see my father,
Standing lonely at his doorway,
Beckoning to me from his wigwam
In the land of the Dacotahs!"

No, my child!" said old Nokomis,

Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!" "Ah!" she said, "the eyes of Pauguk Glare upon me in the darkness,

I can feel his icy fingers

Clasping 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 Minnehaha
Calling 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 wailing, moaning:
"Wahonomin! Wahoнomin!
Would that I had perished for you.
Would that I were dead as you are!
Wahonomin! Wahonomin!"

And he rushed into the wigwam,
Saw the old Nokomis slowly
Rocking to and fro and moaning,
Saw his lovely Minnehaha

Lying dead and cold before him,

And his bursting heart within him
Uttered such a cry of anguish,

That the forest moaned and shuddered,

That the very stars in heaven

Shook and trembled with h's anguish.

Then he sat down, still and speechless,

On the bed of Minnehaha,

At the feet of Laughing Water,
At those willing feet that never
More 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, unconscious
Of the daylight or the darkness.

Then they buried Minnehaha ;
In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest deep and darksome,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
Clothed her in her richest garments,
Wrapped 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 journey
To the Islands of the Blessed.
From his doorway Hiawatha
Saw 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 labour,
Come not back again to suffer,
Where the Famine and the Fever
Wear the heart and waste the body.
Soon my task will be completed,
Soon your footsteps I shall follow
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the kingdom of Ponemah,
To the Land of the Hereafter!"

XXI.

THE WHITE MAN'S FOOT

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 tempest
As 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 tire 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 blossoms
Filling all the lodge with sweetness.

"Ah, my son!" exclained 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 land 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 branches
Fall 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 forest
Hide 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 unto their lakes and marshes
Come the wild goose and the heron.
Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow,
Sing the blue-bird 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 me!
Gheezis, the great sun, behold me !"

Then the old man's tongue was speechless,
And the air grew warm and pleasant,
And upon the wigwam sweetly
Sang the blue-bird and the robin,
And the stream began to murmur,
And a scent of growing grasses
Through the lodge was gently wafted,
And Swegun, the youthful stranger,
More distinctly in the daylight,
Saw the icy face before him,
It was Peboan, the Winter.

From his eyes the tears were flowing,
As from melting lakes and streamlets,
And his body shrunk and dwindled
As 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 Northland
After that unheard-of coldness,
That intolerable Winter,

Came the Spring, with all its splendour,
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, bending
Like a bow-string snapped asunder,
Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa;
And in pairs, or singly flying,

Mahng the loon, with clamorous pinions,
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa.

In the thickets and the meadows
Piped the blue-bird, the Owaissa,
On the summit of the lodges,
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
In the covert of the pine-trees
Cooed the Omeme, the pigeon,
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 viHage

Listened to him as he told them
Of 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 water
Bigger 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 water
Came 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 women
Looked 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, Annemekee!

And the warriors and the women
Laughed aloud at poor Iagoo;

"Kaw!" they said, "what tales you tell us!" In it, said he, came a people,

In the great canoe with pinions
Came, he said, a hundred warriors;
Painted white were all their faces,
And with hair their chins were covered!
And the warriors and the women
Laughed and shouted in derision,
Like the ravens on the tree-tops,
Like the crows upon the hemlock.
"Kaw!" they said, "what lies you tell us!
Do not think that we believe them!"
Only Hiawatha laughed not,
But he gravely spake and answered
To 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 bearded
People of the wooden vessel
From 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 them
Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo,
Swarms the bee, the honey-maker;
Whereso'er they tread, beneath them
Springs 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 friendship
Give them when they come to see us.
Gitche Manito, the Mighty,
Said this to me in my vision.

"I beheld, too, in that vision
All the secrets of the future,
Of the distant days that shall be,
I beheld the westward marches
Of the unknown, crowded nations.
All the land was full of people,
Restless, struggling, toiling, striving,
Speaking many tongues, yet feeling,
But one heart-beat in their bosoms.
In the woodlands rang their axes,
Smoked their towns in all the valleys,
Over all the lakes and rivers
Rushed their great canoes of thunder.
"Then a darker, drearier vision
Passed before me, vague and cloud-like,
I behold our nations scattered,

All forgetful of my counsels,

Weakened, warring with each other;