"Round and round they wheeled and darted,Filled the Evening Star with music,With their songs of joy and freedomFilled the Evening Star with splendor,With the fluttering of their plumage;Till the boy, the little hunter,Bent his bow and shot an arrow,Shot a swift and fatal arrow,And a bird, with shining feathers,At his feet fell wounded sorely.
"But, O wondrous transformation!`T was no bird he saw before him,`T was a beautiful young woman,With the arrow in her bosom!
"When her blood fell on the planet,On the sacred Star of Evening,Broken was the spell of magic,Powerless was the strange enchantment,And the youth, the fearless bowman,Suddenly felt himself descending,Held by unseen hands, but sinkingDownward through the empty spaces,Downward through the clouds and vapors,Till he rested on an island,On an island, green and grassy,Yonder in the Big-Sea-Water.
"After him he saw descendingAll the birds with shining feathers,Fluttering, falling, wafted downward,Like the painted leaves of Autumn;And the lodge with poles of silver,With its roof like wings of beetles,Like the shining shards of beetles,By the winds of heaven uplifted,Slowly sank upon the island,Bringing back the good Osseo,Bringing Oweenee, the faithful.
"Then the birds, again transfigured,Reassumed the shape of mortals,Took their shape, but not their stature;They remained as Little People,Like the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies,And on pleasant nights of Summer,When the Evening Star was shining,Hand in hand they danced togetherOn the island's craggy headlands,On the sand-beach low and level.
"Still their glittering lodge is seen there,On the tranquil Summer evenings,And upon the shore the fisherSometimes hears their happy voices,Sees them dancing in the starlight !"
When the story was completed,When the wondrous tale was ended,Looking round upon his listeners,Solemnly Iagoo added:"There are great men, I have known such,Whom their people understand not,Whom they even make a jest of,Scoff and jeer at in derision.From the story of OsseoLet us learn the fate of jesters!"
All the wedding guests delightedListened to the marvellous story,Listened laughing and applauding,And they whispered to each other:"Does he mean himself, I wonder?And are we the aunts and uncles?"
Then again sang Chibiabos,Sang a song of love and longing,In those accents sweet and tender,In those tones of pensive sadness,Sang a maiden's lamentationFor her lover, her Algonquin.
"When I think of my beloved,Ah me! think of my beloved,When my heart is thinking of him,O my sweetheart, my Algonquin!
"Ah me! when I parted from him,Round my neck he hung the wampum,As a pledge, the snow-white wampum,O my sweetheart, my Algonquin!
"`I will go with you,' he whispered,'Ah me! to your native country;Let me go with you,' he whispered,'O my sweetheart, my Algonquin!''Far away, away,' I answered,'Very far away,' I answered,'Ah me! is my native country,O my sweetheart, my Algonquin!'
"When I looked back to behold him,Where we parted, to behold him,After me he still was gazing,O my sweetheart, my Algonquin!
"By the tree he still was standing,By the fallen tree was standing,That had dropped into the water,O my sweetheart, my Algonquin!"When I think of my beloved,Ah me! think of my beloved,When my heart is thinking of him,O my sweetheart, my Algonquin!"Such was Hiawatha's Wedding,Such the dance of Pau-Puk-Keewis,Such the story of Iagoo,Such the songs of Chibiabos;Thus the wedding banquet ended,And the wedding guests departed,Leaving Hiawatha happyWith the night and Minnehaha.
XIII
Blessing the Cornfields
Sing, O Song of Hiawatha,Of the happy days that followed,In the land of the Ojibways,In the pleasant land and peaceful!Sing the mysteries of Mondamin,Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields!
Buried was the bloody hatchet,Buried was the dreadful war-club,Buried were all warlike weapons,And the war-cry was forgotten.There was peace among the nations;Unmolested roved the hunters,Built the birch canoe for sailing,Caught the fish in lake and river,Shot the deer and trapped the beaver;Unmolested worked the women,Made their sugar from the maple,Gathered wild rice in the meadows,Dressed the skins of deer and beaver.
All around the happy villageStood the maize-fields, green and shining,Waved the green plumes of Mondamin,Waved his soft and sunny tresses,Filling all the land with plenty.`T was the women who in Spring-timePlanted the broad fields and fruitful,Buried in the earth Mondamin;`T was the women who in AutumnStripped the yellow husks of harvest,Stripped the garments from Mondamin,Even as Hiawatha taught them.
Once, when all the maize was planted,Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful,Spake and said to Minnehaha,To his wife, the Laughing Water:"You shall bless to-night the cornfields,Draw a magic circle round them,To protect them from destruction,Blast of mildew, blight of insect,Wagemin, the thief of cornfields,Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear.
"In the night, when all Is silence,'In the night, when all Is darkness,When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,Shuts the doors of all the wigwams,So that not an ear can hear you,So that not an eye can see you,Rise up from your bed in silence,Lay aside your garments wholly,Walk around the fields you planted,Round the borders of the cornfields,Covered by your tresses only,Robed with darkness as a garment.
"Thus the fields shall be more fruitful,And the passing of your footstepsDraw a magic circle round them,So that neither blight nor mildew,Neither burrowing worm nor insect,Shall pass o'er the magic circle;Not the dragon-fly, Kwo-ne-she,Nor the spider, Subbekashe,Nor the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena;Nor the mighty caterpillar,Way-muk-kwana, with the bear-skin,King of all the caterpillars!"
On the tree-tops near the cornfieldsSat the hungry crows and ravens,Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens,With his band of black marauders.And they laughed at Hiawatha,Till the tree-tops shook with laughter,With their melancholy laughter,At the words of Hiawatha."Hear him!" said they; "hear the Wise Man,Hear the plots of Hiawatha!"
When the noiseless night descendedBroad and dark o'er field and forest,When the mournful WawonaissaSorrowing sang among the hemlocks,And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,Shut the doors of all the wigwams,From her bed rose Laughing Water,Laid aside her garments wholly,And with darkness clothed and guarded,Unashamed and unaffrighted,Walked securely round the cornfields,Drew the sacred, magic circleOf her footprints round the cornfields.