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Whispered round the sultry wigwam,
With a sound of sleep the water
Rippled on the beats shrill and ceaseless
the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena;
And the guests of Hiawatha,
Weary with the heat of Summer,
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam.
Slowly o'er the simmering landscape
Fell the evening's dusk and coolness,
And the long and level sunbeams
Shot their spears into the forest,
Breaking through its shields of shadow,
Rushed into each secret ambush,
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow,
Still the guests of Hiawatha
Slumbered in the silent wigwam.

From his place rose Hiawatha,

Bade farewell to old Nokomis,

Spake in whispers, spake in this wise,

Did not wake the guests that slumbered: "I am going, O Nokomis,

On a long and distant journey,
To the portals of the Sunset,

To the regions of the home-wind,

Of the Northwest wind, Keewaydin:
But these guests I leave behind me,
In your watch and ward I leave them;
See that never harm comes near them,
See that never fear molests them,
Never danger nor sucpicion,
Never want of food or shelter,
In the lodge of Hiawatha!"

Forth into the village went he,
Bade farewell to all the warriors,
Bade farewell to all the young men,
Spake, persuading, spake in this wise:
I am going, O my people,

On a long and distant journey;
Many moons and many winters

Will have come, and will have vanished,
Ere I come again to see you.
But my guests I leave behind me:
Listen to their words of wisdom,
Listen to the truth they tell you,

For the Master of Life has sent them

om the land of light and morning!"
On the shore stood Hiawatha,
Turned and waved his hand at parting;
On the clear and luminous water
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing,
From the pebbles of the margin
Shoved it forth into the water;

Whispered to it, "Westward! Westward!"
And with speed it darted forward.

And the evening sun descending
Set the clouds on fire with redness,
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,
Left upon the level water

One long track and trail of splendour,
Down whose stream, as down a river,
Westward, westward Hiawatha
Sailed into the fiery sunset,
Sailed into the purple vapours,
Sailed into the dusk of evening.

And the people from the margin
Watched him floating, rising, sinking,
Till the birch-canoe seemed lifted
High into that sea of splendour,
Till it sank into the vapours
Like the new moon slowly, slowly
Sinking in the purple distance.

And they said, Farewell for ever!"
Said "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the forests, dark and lonely,
Moved through all their depths of darkness,
Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the waves upon the margin
Rising, rippling on the pebbles,
Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From her haunts among the fen-lands,
Screamed, "Farewell, Ö Hiawatha!"
Thus departed Hiawatha,
Hiawatha the Beloved,

In the glory of the sunset,
In the purple mists of evening,
To the regions of the home-wind,
Of the Northwest wind Keewaydin,
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the kingdom of Ponemah,
To the land of the Hereafter!

VOCABULARY.

Adjidau'mo, the red squirrel.
Ahdeek', the reindeer.
Ahmeek', the beaver.
Annemee'kee, the thunder.
Apuk'wa, a bulrush.
Baim-wa'wa, the sound of the
thunder.

Bemah'gut, the grape-vine.
Big-Sea-Water, Lake Superior.
Cheemann', a birch-canoe.
Chetowaik', the plover.
Chibia'bos, a musician; friend
Hiawatha; ruler in the

Land of Spirits.

Dahin'da, the bull frog. Dush-kwo-ne'she, or Kwo-ne'she, the dragon-fly. Esa, shame upon you. Ewa-yea', lullaby. Gitch'e Gu'mee, the Big-SeaWater, Lake Superior. Gitch'e Man'ito, the Great Spirit, the Master of Life. Gushkewau', the darkness. Hiawatha, the Prophet, the Teacher; son of Mudjekeewis, the West-Wind, and Wenonah, daughter of Nokomis. Ia'goo, a great boaster and storyteller.

Inin'e wug, men or pawns in the

Game of the Boul.

Ishkoodah', fire; a comet.
Jee'bi, a ghost, a spirit.
Joss'akeed, a prophet.

Kabibonok'ka, the North-Wind.
Ka'go, do not.

Kahgahgee', the raven.

Kaw, no.

Kaween', no indeed.

Kayoshk', the sea-gull.

Kee'go, a fish.

the Home-wind.

Maskenoʻzha, the pike.
Me'da, a medicine man.
Meenah'ga, the blueberry.
Megissog'won, the great Pearl-
Feather, a magician, and the
Manito of Wealth.
Meshinau'wa, a pipe-bearer.
Minjekah'wun, Hiawatha's mit-
tens.

Minneha'ha, Laughing Water;
a water-fall on a stream run-
ning into the Mississippi, be-
tween Fort Snelling and the
Falls of St. Anthony.
Minneha'ha, Laughing Water;
wife of Hiawatha.
Minnie-wa'wa, a pleasant sound,
as of the wind in the trees.
Mish'e-Mo'kwa, the Great Bear.
Mish'e-Nah'ma, the Great Stur-
geon.
Miskodeed', the Spring Beauty,
the Claytonia Virginica.
Monda'min, Indian corn.
Moon of Bright Nights, April.
Moon of Leaves, May.
Moon of Strawberries, June.
Moon of the Falling Leaves,
September.

Moon of Snow-shoes, November.
Mudjekeewis, the West- Wind;
Fathe of Hiawatha.
Mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves
on a shore.
Mushkoda'sa, the grouse.
Nah'ma, the sturgeon.
Nah'ma-wusk, spearmint.
Na'gow Wudj'oo, the Sand Dunes
of Lake Superior.
Nee-ba-naw'-baigs, water-spirits
Nenemoo'sha, sweetheart.
Nepal'win, sleep.

Keewaydin, the North-west wind; Noko'mis, a grandmother; mo

Kena'beek, a serpent.

Keneu', the great war-eagle.
Keno'zha, the pickerel.
Ko'ko-ko'ho, the owl.

Kuntasoo', the Game of Plumstones.

Kwa'sind, the Strong Man.

Kwo-ne'-she, or Dush-kwo-ne'she, the dragon-fly. Mahnahbe'zee, the swan. Mahng, the loon.

Mahn-go-tay'see, loon-hearted,

brave.

Mahnomo'nee, wild rice.

Ma'ma, the woodpecker,

ther of Wenonah.

No'sa, my father.
Nush'ka, look! look!
Odah'min, the strawberry.
Okahah'wis, the fresh-water her-
ring.

Ome'me, the pigeon.
Ona'gon, a bowl.
Onaway, awake.
Opechee', the robin.

Osseo, Son of the Evening Star.
Owais'sa, the blue-bird.
Oweenee', wife of Osseo.
Ozawa'beek, a round piece of
brass or copper in the Game
of the Bowl.

Pah-puk-kee'na, the grasshop-
per.
Pau'guk, death.
Pau-Puk-Kee'wis, the handsome
Yenadizze, the Storm Fool.
Pe'boan, Winter.
Pem'ican, meat of the deer or
buffalo, dried and pounded.
Pezhekee', the bison.
Pishnekah', the brant.
Ponemah', hereafter.
Puggawau'gun, a war-club,
Puk-Wudj'ies, Puk-Wudg-In-

in'ees, little wild men of the
woods; pigmies.
Sah-sah-je-wun, rapids.
Sah'wa, the perch.
Segwun', Spring.
Sha'da, the pelican.
Shahbo'min, the gooseberry.
Shah-shah, long ago.
Shaugoda'ya, a coward.
Shawgashee', the craw-fish.
Shawonda'see, the South-Wind.
Shaw-shaw, the swallow.
Shesh'ebwug, ducks; pieces in
the game of the Bowl.
Shin'gebis, the diver, or greebe.
Showain' neme'-shin, pity me.
Shuh-shuh'-gah, the blue heron.
Soan-ge-ta'ha, strong-hearted.
Subbeka'she, the spider.
Sugge'ma, the mosquito.
To'tem, family coat-of-arms.
Ugh, yes.

Ugudwash', the sun-fish.
Unktahee', the God of Water.
Wabas'so, the rabbit; the North.
Wabe'no, a magician, a juggler.
Wabe'no-wusk, yarrow.
Wa'bun, the East- Wind.
Wa'bun An'nung, the Star of the
East, the Morning Star.
Wahono'min, a cry of lamenta-
tion.

Wah-wah-tay'sce, the fire-fly.
Waubewy'on, a white skin wrap-

per. Wa'wa, the wild-goose. Waw'beek, a rock.

Waw-be-wa'wa, the white goose. Wawonais'sa. the whippoor-will. Way-muk-kwa'na, the caterpitlar.

Weno'nah, the eldest daughter; Hiawatha's mother; daughter of Nokomis. Yenadiz'ze, an idler and gambler; an Indian dandy.

THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH

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Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.

Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing

Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,

Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,

Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,

Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence.

While underneath, in a corner, were fowlingpiece, musket, and matchlock. Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,

Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron:

Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet

beard was already

Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.

Tear him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,

Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window;

Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon

complexion,

Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives

Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles but Angels

Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May-Flower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent. scribe interrupting,

Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.

Look at these arms,' he said, "the warlike weapons that hang here, Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!

This is the sword of Damascus I fought with m Flanders; this breastplate,

Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish;

Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet

Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.

Had it not been of sheer-steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish

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Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses. Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:

"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;

He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!'

Still the captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:

'See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;

That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.

Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;

So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.

Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great invincible army,

Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock.

Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,

And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"

This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes as the sunbeams'

Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.

Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:

"Look! you can see from this window my bražen howitzer planted,

High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose,

Steady, straight-forward, and strong, with irresistible logic,

Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen.

Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians;

Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better.

Let them come, if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow,

Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!"

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully

gazed on she landscape,

Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapoury breath of the east wind,

Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean,

Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine.

Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape.

Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion,

Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded:

"Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish;

Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside;

She was the first to die of all who came in the May-Flower!

Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there.

Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people,

Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished!"

Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful.

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding

Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Cæsar,

Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London,

And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible,

Musing a moment before them. Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful

Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort,

Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans,

Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians.

Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman,

Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence

Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumbmarks thick on the margin

Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest.

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,

Busy writing epistles important, to go by the May-Flower,

Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing!

Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter,

Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla,

Full of the name and fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla!

II.

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP.

NOTHING was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling,

Or an occasional sigh from the labouring heart of the Captain,

Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Cæsar.

After awhile he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards,

Heavily on the page: "A wonderful man was this Cæsar!

You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow

Who can both write and fight, and in both was equally skilful!" Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful:

"Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons.

Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate

Seven letters at once. at the same time writing his memoirs."

"Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other,

"Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cæsar!

Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village,

Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it.

Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after; Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered;

He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded;

Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus!

Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders,

When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too,

And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together

Their was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier, Put himself straight at the head of the troops, and commanded the captains, Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns;

Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons;

So he won the day, the battle of something-orother.

That's what I always say; if you wish a thing to be well done,

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to

others!"

All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading.

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling

Writing epistles important to go next day by the May-Flower,

Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla;

Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla,

Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret,

Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla!

Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover,

Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier

grounding his musket,

Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth:

"When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you.

Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!"

Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters, Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention:

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Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen,

Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish."

Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases:

"Tis not good for a man to be alone say the Scriptures.

This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it;

Every hour in the day I think it, and feel it, and say it.

Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary;

Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship.

Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla.

She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brother

Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming,

Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying,

Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever

There were angels on earth as there are angels in heaven,

Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla

Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned.

Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it.

Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part.

Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden | Into the tranquil woods, where blue-birds and of Plymouth,

Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions,

Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier.

Not in these words, you know. but this in short is my meaning:

I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases.

You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language.

Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers,

Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden."

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair

haired taciturn stripling,

All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered,

Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness,

Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom,

Just as a time-piece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning,

Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered:

"Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it;

If you would have it well done,-I am only repeating your maxim,

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to

others!"

But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose,

Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth:

"Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it;

But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing.

Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases.

I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender,

But march up to a woman with such a proposal,

I dare not.

I'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon,

But of a thundering

No!' point-blank from the mouth of a woman, That I confess I'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it;

So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar,

Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases.

Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful,

Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added:

Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me; Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship!"

Then made answer John Alden: "The name of friendship is sacred;

What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you!"

So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler,

Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.

III.

THE LOVER'S ERRAND.

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand,

Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest,

robins were building

Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure,

Peaceful, aërial cities of joy and affection and freedom.

All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict,

Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse.

To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing,

As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel,

Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean!

"Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild lamentation,

Must I relinquish it all," the joy, the hope, the illusion?

Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence! Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow

Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England?

Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption

Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion;

Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan.

All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly!

This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in anger,

For I have followed too much the heart's desires and devices,

Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idiols of Baal. This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift retribution."

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled went on his errand, Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers over pebble and shallow Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonblooming around him,

derful sweetness,

Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber.

"Puritan flowers," he said, "and the type of Puritan maidens,

Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take them;

Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish,

Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of a giver."

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand;

Came to an open space, and saw the dirsk of the ocean,

Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless Saw the new-built house, and people at work in breath of the east-wind; a meadow:

Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla

Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem,

Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist,

Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many.

Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden

Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift

Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle,

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