Chapter 6

IN a lodge built close beside a frozen river sat an old man, whose hair was whiter than the whitest snow, and he shook and trembled as he sat there, hearing nothing but the gale that raged outside and seeing nothing but the flakes of snow that leaped and whirled about his chilly wigwam. All the coals of his fire were covered with white ashes and the fire itself was dying away unheeded, when a bright youth with red blood in his cheeks walked lightly through the open doorway. On his head was a crown of fresh and sweet-smelling grasses; his lips were curved in a beautiful smile, and he carried in his hand a bunch of flowers that filled the lodge with the fragrance of the wildwood.

"Ah, my son," said the old man, "it does my old eyes good to gaze upon you! Take a seat beside my fire, and we will pass the night together! Tell me of your travels and your strange adventures, and let me tell you of all the wonderful deeds that I have done."

The old man drew a peace-pipe from his pouch, filled it with willow-bark and handed it to the beautiful young stranger, who smoked in silence while he listened to the old man's words.

"When I blow my breath about me," said the old man, "the water becomes as hard as stone and the rivers cannot move."

"When I breathe upon the meadows and the woodlands," answered the young stranger with a sunny smile, "the flowers rise like magic, and the rivers, with a song, go rushing on again."

"When I shake my long white hair," said the old man scowling, "the land is buried with snow and the leaves all fade away and fall to earth. When I raise my voice the ground becomes like flint, the wild fowl fly away and the wild beasts of the forest hide for fear."

"When I shake my flowing ringlets," said the young man with a light laugh, "the warm rain falls on the hills and fields, and the wild geese and the heron come back to the marshes. Homeward flies the swallow, and the robin and the bluebird sing for joy. Wherever I go the woodlands ring with music, and the meadows become blue with violets."

While they were speaking, the great sun leaped up above the horizon and shot his beams of orange gold through the doorway of the wigwam. The air became warm and pleasant, and in the light of morning the young stranger saw the icy face of the old man and knew that he had spent the night with Peboan, the winter. From the old man's eyes the tears were running in two streams, the water was dripping from his hair, and his body shrank until it vanished into the ground. And on the hearth-stone where the old man's fire had been smoking, blossomed the earliest flower of springtime.

Thus did the young stranger, Spring, come back again and drive away the icy chill of that dreadful winter of famine and death. To the northward passed the wild swans, calling to one another, and the bluebirds and the pigeons and the robins sang in the thicket, until the grieving Hiawatha heard their voices and went forth from his gloomy wigwam to gaze up into the warm, blue sky.

From his wanderings in the east returned Iagoo, the great boaster, full of stories more wonderful than any that he had ever told, and the people laughed as they listened to him, saying: "Cold and famine have not harmed Iagoo; he is just the same as ever, and has seen more wonders in his travels than the Great Manito himself."

"I have seen a water greater than the Big-Sea-Water," cried Iagoo, "much greater! And over it came a huge canoe, with large white wings that carried it along!"

"It can't be true!" cried all the Indians, laughing at Iagoo; "we don't believe one word of what you say."

"From the canoe," went on Iagoo, "came thunder and lightning, and a hundred warriors landed on the beach. Their faces were painted white, and there was hair upon their chins."

"What lies you tell us!" shouted all the people. "Do not think that we believe you!" Hiawatha only did not join in the roar of laughter that Iagoo's words called forth from all the men and women and children who were listening.

"What he tells is true," said Hiawatha, "I have seen it all in a dream. I have seen the great canoe of the white-faced people come sailing from the Land of Sunrise. I have seen these people moving swiftly westward under the guidance of the Great Manito, until the fires of their wigwams smoked in all the valleys, while their canoes rushed over all the lakes and rivers. Let us welcome them," said Hiawatha; "let us give them of our best and call them brothers, for the Great Manito has sent them and they come to do his bidding.

"Then I had another vision," Hiawatha went on sadly. "I saw our people fighting with one another, forgetful of the warning of the Great Manito. And the forests where we hunted, and the rivers where we fished and trapped the beaver, knew our faces and our voices no more; for our people were scattered like the autumn leaves, until no Indians were left upon the earth." And when his voice died away, the Indians all sat in silence and looked at one another with a sudden fear.

XXII

HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA

INTRODUCTION

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

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA

I

THE PEACE-PIPE

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

II

THE FOUR WINDS