Part 11

The dance was going on, So, many were athirst. And this the hunter knew, The younger of the pair; So he had made a drink Cool, and with honey sweet, Fragrant with pleasant herbs-- A dainty drink indeed-- But, mingled with it all, There lurked a subtle life, The powder from the horn Of the Wîwilmekw. So thirsty was the witch As she from dancing came, So warm that, when the youth Held out to her the cup, She seized and drank it dry All without giving heed As to what hand had held The cool, refreshing draught; Then turning to the one Who was her partner, she Went on into the dance, And then a wondrous thing Was seen by all therein: For lo! at every turn The maiden older grew, One year for every round; Beginning as a girl In all her freshest youth She at the lodge’s end, Seemed fifty years of age, And still, as she danced on, Added unto her age, Till just as she returned Unto the very place Whence she had come, she fell All dead upon the floor, A little dried-up thing, A wrinkled, wizened squaw, A thing of the last old age Or of a hundred years.

There is another Passamaquoddy version of this poem which is hardly less striking in its ending. The brother, having obtained the scrapings of the horn, merely touches with them a large green beech tree which becomes dead in an instant and then falls to the ground, actually rotten as if it were a century old. And, when the same powder is given to the witch,

She grew older in an instant, She became very old indeed: A pale color rippled All over her face. She fell, Looking a hundred years, Dead upon the floor. Shrivelled and dried as she fell, Then dropped to powder--“She Will trouble you no more.” Then said the conjurer; “Her dance is over now.” L.

FOOTNOTES:

[59] Long ago in an Indian village.

XIII

A TALE OF THE RIVER-ELVES

[_Abenaki_]

_Noñwat Manoñuamasak Udainoñ kwaʿliwi kd-odana-na._[60]

Long ago some River-elves were living near our town. These Elves would always work at night along the river shore, And fashion little wheels of clay and leave them on the bank. When these small cakes of clay were fresh some Indians there were Who learned to eat them and to take great pleasure in their taste. In ancient times--this is the tale which oft was told to me-- An Indian and squaw were out afar in bark canoe When in the current’s swirling waves they right before them saw A wee canoe in which there sat two children, as they thought. Now these were hideous River-elves, and when they had beheld The Indians, they called to them: “O ye of fairer face And better looks go back,” and then tipped over their canoe, Which, as it rolled, the Indians perceived to be of stone, And nevermore thereafter did they see the River-elves, Who when the loud-voiced Whites had settled all the country-side, Withdrew far up the rushing stream where no canoe may pass Save only stone ones. Nor again did ever Indian find Those wheels of clay which he of old so dearly loved to eat.[61] P.

FOOTNOTES:

[60] Long ago the River-elves were around our town.

[61] This song clearly indicates “earth-eating” among the Indians. It still exists among negroes in the United States.

PART THIRD

=Lyrics and Miscellany=

LYRICS AND MISCELLANY

I

THE SONG OF LAPPILATWAN, THE SINGER IN THE DUSK

_Piʿche Lappilatwan mechimiu-olamto Wʾtagwsiu-ut msiu sipsis._[62]

Lappilatwan, fair tree-fungus, From days of old, The ever good-natured, Of all the birds cousin. Dwelt on the birch-tree; All the birds of the forest, Even the little insects, Even the little worms, Crawled up the great birch To see their good friend.

Thus always at sunset They heard him singing: _Lappilatwan Wappilatwan Wechkutonébit_, “Fair tree-fungus, Fair tree-fungus, Sits with mouth open,” The signal song Unto all wood birds, Worms and insects, To go to sleep; So that all the birds, Little worms, little insects, When they heard _Lappilatwan Wappilatwan_ Knew he was silent For all the night There where he hung In the cold birch tree, Cold, rough and damp, All night, all day! All through the year. But when the day dawns His song rings again; _Lappilatwan Wechkutonébit_, “Fair tree-fungus Fair tree-fungus Sits with mouth open.” Then every bird Every small insect, All creeping things Who heard his song, Knew there was coming A beautiful day: “Let us arise! The daylight is breaking!” They rose at his call.

One bright fresh morning, Lively Sexkâtû The flying squirrel Climbed the great birch-tree, And there he found Lappilatwan From a branch hanging, And he thus spoke; “Tell me how long Have you dwelt here?” “I have lived in this tree Since your great grandfather _Kʾchî Kʾmûsums_ Was born on that cedar From which you came Early this morning.”

“But tell me truly, Lappilatwan, How long will you Dwell in this birch-tree?”

“While the birch-tree Sends forth its leaves, While its trunk stands, I will dwell in its branches.” Sexkâtû the squirrel Wanted that birch-tree For his own home: He would be nesting In that same place. Thus he then answered: “You have been here Long--and far _too_ long. It is time for you To yield to another: Let me come here!”

Lappilatwan Answered him quietly: “_Noses_, ‘my grandchild:’ I cannot go hence. If I should do so Birds and the insects Could not hear me call. Could not hear my songs From another tree; You, who are so clever, Far quicker than I am. You can make your home All over the forest.”

“You must go!” said Sexkâtû, Then he gnawed at the branch; There was the nest Of the Hamw[´ĕ]sŭk, Of the stinging wasps, Who came swarming out From their little wigwam; More than a hundred, Flew at Sexkâtû Clung to his back Madly they stung him, Till stunned with their stinging Saucy Sexkâtû Fell to the ground. Well nigh a-dyin, With stings and with bruises.

Ere long the news spread, Soon all the squirrels Said: “_Sexkâtûwuk Kʾputwusin_,” “Let us take council.” Red squirrels, gray squirrels, Striped squirrels, flying ones, Came running together, Then they cried out: “Lappilatwan Must leave his tree, And if it may be, Be put to death!”

All in a band They went to the birch-tree, Then they observed that In one way only Could they approach Lappilatwan. Straight up the trunk Not many together.

The news spread afar, Soon there came flying The wasps and the hornets, The bees and the black flies, The angry mosquitoes: Even the midges, The little Chessúyek Came to the rescue Of Lappilatwan. The chief of the squirrels Gave out the order: “Let the battle begin!” The squirrels rushed onward They rushed to the birch-tree: Yet only a few At once together Could climb up the trunk: Musesaaqua, the horse-fly, Was brave in that battle. Mosquitoes and midges Like gallant warriors Rushed on the squirrels, With their sharp spears. Ere the first squirrel Was half-way up the birch-tree, He and his followers Fell to the ground Wounded and dying.

Lappilatwan High up on the birch-tree Saw the battle rage, But was ever silent, Silent till sunset; Then his loud song Rang through the forest: “_Lappilatwan Wechkûtonébit_.” “Fair tree-fungus Sits with mouth open.”

Soon as they heard it All of the warriors, Squirrels and insects Valiant mosquitoes, Humble hornets, Bold bumble-bees, Wild whizzing wasps, Gallant merry midges Went to their wigwams. Lappilatwan Had faith in his warriors: Truly he trusted That they could defend him.

When in the morning They heard the signal, The song of awaking, Ring from the birch-tree, The mighty armies Again assembled; The chiefs held council; Thus spoke Sexkâtû While all were silent:

“Listen, oh squirrels! Last night in dreaming This was revealed to me: If in the battle One of your warriors Can touch for an instant Lappilatwan Ever so lightly, Before he sings us The summons to sleep, Then we shall conquer; Failing to touch him Ere we hear ringing ‘_Lappilatwan Wappilatwan_’ We are defeated. Now you have heard me, On to the birch-tree!”

The angry flies Sharpen their spears; Dip them in poison; Loud was their buzz!

As they went to battle, Terrible slaughter Followed their onrush; Desperate squirrels Heedless of death Clung to the birch-tree Wingèd warriors By many thousands Swarmed on the foe; Many a horse-fly Beheld no more His wife and children; Many a hornet Sat no more By the fire of his wigwam; The dying bumble-bee Chanted his death song.

Dire was the slaughter, Full thrice greater Than on the first day; Still they rushed onward, Fiercer for battle, Giving no heed That the day was ending; Never observing The sun down-sinking, When over the forest Rang loud the summons: “_Lappilatwan Wappilatwan_.”

All was over. High on the birch-tree Untouched by a foeman-- Sat the watchman-- The flies were victorious!

This poem is like Homer’s Batrachomyomachia, the battle of the frogs and mice, as sung by some Icelandic bard. The humor is as Greek as the form is Norse. L.

FOOTNOTES:

[62] Long ago, Lappilatwan, always good-natured, was cousin of all the birds. These lines indicate the measure to which the whole was sung; _i.e._, they are a “staff-rhyme.”

II

THE STORY OF NIPON THE SUMMER

[_Passamaquoddy_]

_Piʿche weligit ēpit Liwiha Nipon Metchimiû wikos Kwihio kizosek._[63]

In the far old time Lived near the sun A beautiful woman, Nipon her name. Green were her garments All of fresh leaves. And with green leaves And beautiful flowers She covered her wigwam.

She had a grandmother, Kʾmēwun, the rain, Who dwelt far away. But when she came To visit her grandchild One thing she ever Said ere she left her: “One thing I bid thee With hardest warning, To one thing I bind thee With a strong will: Look that thou never Seek in thy wandering The Laʿtogwesnuk, The land of the North: For there dwells Pûn, Pûn, the winter; A deadly foe Thou wilt surely find him. Should thy feet fall In the Laʿtogwesnuk Thy beauty will leave thee, Thy green dress fade, Hair turning gray Thy strength become weakness.”

Little heed And scant attention Gave Nipon To Kʾmēwun, the rain. One fair morning She sat by her wigwam In the bright sunshine, And looking afar At the Laʿtogwesnuk All that she saw Seemed strangely lovely As if enchanted. No human being Was in the Northland, But o’er it all Was beautiful sunshine; There she beheld At a long distance A wonderful land: Broad shining lakes, High blue mountains, Bright rolling rivers All strange and sweet. Something came over her, She knew not what; A dream or a voice; There was no help, She must rise and go. Must go to the land Of Laʿtogwesnuk Unto the Northland.

Up rose Nipon Unto the North Wending her way, When she heard a voice, The voice of the Rain (Though she could not see her), Kʾmēwun, a-wailing: “Bide, my daughter! If thou goest Unto the Northland Pûn the winter Will surely kill thee!” She heard nothing Of all the warning, She could not stay For a spell was on her; Ever onward She went to the North.

For many days, For many moons, Still the sun shone, Still she saw The beautiful country Of mountains and rivers, Until one day Nipon noted That as she followed, The land went onward, And as she travelled, It travelled before her.

All around her Was nothing but sunshine. Stopping a little To think of the wonder, She heard a whisper, The voice of the Rain: “Stay, my daughter!” It made her wilful, She still went onward; On to the North.

Still the far country Went on before her, And something she never Had known came o’er her-- She felt the cold! An unseen power Now drove her onward; Will had departed, Still the mountains Went on before her; The green leaves Of her beautiful garment Grew yellow and faded, And were blown away By the grim wind; Her long hair Turned gray and white; The sun grew dim And then shone no more; She was very weak; The beautiful mountains Were heaps of snow; The beautiful rivers And lakes were of ice-- All in the North.

Kʾmēwun, the Rain, Was sad in her soul. She looked afar No smoke was rising From Nipon’s wigwam: “She has not returned,” Said the Rain-mother, So in her fear She went to the wigwam.

All was silent, The boughs and the flowers Which covered the wigwam Were yellow and faded: “My child!--my child! Thou art caught at last By the icy Pûn, By the wicked winter! Afar in the North.”

Straight she called for Her bravest warriors. The ever-unseen. These were their names: Saunésen the south wind, Wchîpi the east wind, With Sĕnusóktun The warming breeze. Quickly she cried: “Hasten away To the Laʿtogwésnuk, Fight like heroes, Use all your power To rescue Nĭpon From Pûn, the winter, Fly to the North!”

The wind warriors, The unseen by man, Flew like lightning On their long journey. As they entered The Laʿtogwesnuk Pûn the winter Felt ill at ease; He called his chieftains: Great Laʿtogwĕsin The terrible north wind, And the wild north-wester, The chill north-east wind, With all the frosts Sleet-spirits, snow-spirits, And every child Of the killing cold Who dwell in the North.

“Fly!” he cried, “For our foes are coming! Up from the Southland, The home of Summer!” Even as he spoke The sweat dropped from him His face grew thin, His feet seemed smaller: “I feel them coming! Fly to the battle!”

The mighty wind-giants Flew to the fight, Great snow-flakes And heavy hail-stones Met and melted With the great rain-drops; Winds were loud roaring, Thunder pealing, Tempest fighting tempest, Storm against storm; The drops of sweat Grew ever bigger On Pûn’s cheeks; On Nipon’s head The hair grew whiter; Louder and louder The winds were blowing, Snow was falling, Thicker and thicker, But the driving rain And the mild south winds Were ever warmer And bigger the drops Grew on Pûn’s face; His strength had left him. Down he fell And in his falling A leg was broken:

“Lo, I must perish If this lasts longer, Set Nipon free! She it is Who has brought this trouble And made this battle. By my own prisoner I have been conquered. Set Nipon free!”

At the word spoken, Even in the instant, The winds were silent. Snow and rain ceased. Turning her back To the Laʿtogwesnuk And Pûn the winter, Weary Nipon Set out on her journey. Old she was, old As she bore from the North In her white hair The hue of its snows, In her tottering weakness Its chilling frosts. Many moons passed, Still she travelled; The sun grew warmer, Days and shadows Were ever longer; The air was softer; Greener and greener Grew the mountains; Freer from ice Rivers were rushing; Lakes were shining In the sunlight; Flowers were unfolding To the warm breezes.

Weary Nipon Was weary no longer; Her heart grew lighter, Her hair grew darker, Her face was fairer, Brighter and younger, Thus becoming All she had been In her early beauty.

Then the butterflies Knew her again, And fluttered round her, And all the flowers Greeted with perfume In scent-voices As she went past.

On she went To the grandmother’s wigwam, To old Kʾmēwun. As she drew near The clouds grew thicker; Rain-winds were blowing, Rain-drops falling, Showers pelting, Torrents pouring, Thunder roaring round: Still she went on, Her path lit By wild lightning, Till in the midst Where the clouds were darkest She found the wigwam And entered the door. There as if dying Lay Kʾmēwun The ancient Rain-mother, Weaker and older, And worn and weary.

“Thou, my daughter!” She said to Nipon, “Hast well-nigh killed me! By disobedience Thou hast brought suffering On me and all things. But for my battle With Pûn the winter All life had perished: Never again though, While life is in me Can I venture On such a struggle! Be this thy warning! Else will Pûn, The cruel winter, Conquer all things And ice and snow For ever and ever Cover the world.” L.

FOOTNOTES:

[63] Long ago a fair woman named Nipon always lived near the sun.

III

THE SCARLET TANAGER AND THE LEAF

[_Passamaquoddy_]

_Piche yut kʾchî wachok nit wigit welitasit mipis._[64]

In the earliest time on the greatest mountain Lived merry Mĭpis, the Little Leaf; When spring is coming and sunlight is shining He climbs a tree, and there, all summer, Dressed in green he rocks in the branches, Listens all day to the birds and the breezes, And goes to sleep to the song of the owl.

When fall is coming and days are shorter, Mĭpis dresses himself in scarlet; Glad and gay in the Indian Summer; But as the nights grow cold and longer, He puts on a coat of brown or yellow, Curls himself up like a bear for winter, Lets go his hold and falls to the ground; There he sleeps, all under the snow-drift Till he hears in the spring the blue-bird calling, And the stream fighting its enemy ice-- Carrying proudly in pieces as prisoners The foe which kept it a frozen captive, All the winter under its wigwam. Then little Mĭpis, the Leaf, awaking, Dresses in green and climbs in the sunshine, Up through a tree, and upon the branches, Lives as he did the summer before.

Merry Mĭpis on a bright May morning Was stretching himself in the warm sunshine When he heard afar a wonderful music, A sound like a flute and the voice of a maiden, Rippling melodies melting in one. Never before had he heard such singing; Then looking up he beheld before him A beautiful merry little bird-girl, Dressed in garments of brilliant scarlet, Just like his own in the Indian Summer. “O fairest of small birds!” said merry Mĭpis; “Who are you, and what is your name?” Thus she answered: “I am Squʿtes: The Little Fire. When I fly in the forest And meet in my way a bar of sunshine, I look as I enter and leave the shadow Like a red flame which leaps up in darkness, And then falls asleep in the night again. I have lived in the deep green forest, Even as you have, for many ages, Singing my songs to Kʾmûsomsʾn Unto our Father the mighty mountain, And because he well loved my music, For a reward he sent me hither To seek a youth whose name is Mĭpis, Whom he wills that I should wed. And as I think, and hope as I think it, You are truly the one whom I seek.”

Little Leaf listened in silence Being by nature very cunning, Trained to suspicion from his childhood; Thus his grandmother ever taught him: “My child--beware of all living creatures, Even the very smallest insect May eat your life out. A worm so little That it can pass through the prick of a needle Even as a rabbit runs through a valley, Or as a fish swims free up a river, May cut your stem or blight your beauty; Anything living may be your death.”

So to Squʿtes, Mĭpis listened, Charmed with her beauty yet still mistrusting, Liking her look yet deeply doubting, Wondering whether this lovely creature Was truly a friend or a false-hearted foe.

Beautiful Squʿtes, never heeding What the Leaf thought, began to warble; Pouring out in the pleasant sunshine Her morning song. As Mĭpis listened To the melodious trill, he melted; For the sweet tune filled all the forest, Every leaf on the tree was listening, Branches were waving in keeping cadence, Even the busy ants stopped running, The butterfly sat on a flower to hear; And as the music grew tender and stronger, And as in one long soft note it ended, Little Leaf said to her: “Be my own!”

So in the greenwood they lived together; Other singers often assembled, Other birds were often about them, Coming to see the beautiful stranger, Longing to try with hers their voices, But at every trial the Little Fire Flew in her melody far above them, Even as she went beyond them in beauty. One morning Squʿtes sang to the Leaf: “Let us go and visit Kʾmûsomsʾn Our mighty grandfather--the Mountain: He made us happy--let us thank him!” So the little Squʿtes and Mĭpis Went like a flame through the shades of the forest, Till they came to the cave of the grandsire. Glad the grandfather was when he saw them! Thus he spoke unto them--“_Nosesak!_ Grandchildren! Heed well what I tell you! While you live never leave the mountain! While you are here you are always in safety: But when away from it, ever in danger From one who is ever seeking to kill you: The little Indian boy Monimques, Who, armed with a terrible bow and arrows, Shoots all the little birds of the forest, And carries them home to old Monimques, Who roasts them all in the fire and eats them. Even worse is another foeman, A dreadful little boy who is flying All the time over rivers and valleys, Aplasemwesit, the Little Whirlwind, Who never rests. He is always trying To blow the leaves away from the branches, And drives them headlong, in flocks together, To his grandfather the terrible Tempest, The great wild Whirlwind who kills them all.”