THE STORY OF HIAWATHA

"FROM THE FULL MOON FELL NOKOMIS"—[Page 123]

THE STORY OF HIAWATHA

ADAPTED FROM
:LONGFELLOW:
BY
WINSTON STOKES

WITH THE ORIGINAL POEM
Illustrated by M · L · KIRK
NEW YORK
FREDERICK · A · STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1910, By
Frederick A. Stokes Company
All rights reserved
September, 1910

PREFACE

In this land of change it is important that we may learn a little of the childlike people who preceded us; who hunted, fished and worshipped long ago where we now make our homes and lead our lives. No other legends have so strange a charm, or such appealing local interest, as legends of the wildwood, and nowhere are these so well expressed as in Longfellow's poem of Hiawatha.

To furnish a simple medium through which both younger and older people of today may be brought closer, by Longfellow, to the mystery of the forest, this prose rendering of "Hiawatha" has been written. It follows closely the narrative of the poem, and in many places Longfellow's own words have been introduced into its pages, for the purpose of this volume is to awaken interest and pleasure in the poem itself.

CONTENTS

THE STORY OF HIAWATHA

CONTENTS

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE STORY OF HIAWATHA

I

THE PEACE-PIPE

LONG ago, when our cities were pleasant woodlands and the white man was far beyond the seas, the great Manito, God of all the Indians, descended to the earth. From the red crags of the Great Red Pipestone Quarry he gazed upon the country that he ruled, and a silver river gushed from his footprints and turned to gold as it met the morning sun. The Great Manito stooped to gather some of the red stone of the quarry, and molded it with giant fingers into a mighty pipe-bowl; he plucked a reed from the river bank for a pipe-stem, filled the pipe with the bark of the willow, breathed upon the forest until the great boughs chafed together into flame, and there alone upon the mountains he smoked the pipe of peace. The smoke rose high and slowly in the air. Far above the tops of the tallest pine-trees it rose in a thin blue line, so that all the nations might see and hasten at the summons of the Great Manito; and the smoke as it rose grew thicker and purer and whiter, rolling and unfolding in the air until it glistened like a great white fleecy cloud that touched the top of heaven. The Indians saw it from the Valley of Wyoming, and from Tuscaloosa and the far-off Rocky Mountains, and their prophets said: "Come and obey the summons of the Great Manito, who calls the tribes of men to council!"

Over the prairies, down the rivers, through the forests, from north and south and east and west, the red men hastened to approach the smoke-cloud. There were Delawares and Dacotahs and Choctaws and Comanches and Pawnees and Blackfeet and Shoshonies,—all the tribes of Indians in the world, and one and all they gathered at the Pipestone Quarry, where the Great Manito stood and waited for them. And the Great Manito saw that they glared at one another angrily, and he stretched his right hand over them and said:

"My children, I have given you a happy land, where you may fish and hunt. I have filled the rivers with the trout and sturgeon. There are wild fowl in the lakes and marshes; there are bears in the forest and bison on the prairie. Now listen to my warning, for I am weary of your endless quarrels: I will send a Prophet to you, who shall guide you and teach you and share your sufferings. Obey him, and all will be well with you. Disobey him, and you shall be scattered like the autumn leaves. Wash the war-paint and the bloodstains from your bodies; mould the red stone of the quarry into peace-pipes, and smoke with me the pipe of peace and brotherhood that shall last forever."

The tones of his deep voice died away, and the Indians broke their weapons and bathed in the sparkling river. They took the red stone of the quarry and made peace-pipes and gathered in a circle; and while they smoked the Great Manito grew taller and mightier and lighter until he drifted on the smoke high above the clouds into the heavens.

II

THE FOUR WINDS

IN the far-off kingdom of Wabasso, the country of the North-wind, where the fierce blasts howl among the gorges and the mountains are like flint the year round, Mishe Mokwa, the huge bear, had his cave. Years had passed since the great Manito had spoken to the tribes of men, and his words of warning were forgotten by the Indians; the smoke of his peace-pipe had been blown away by the four winds, and the red men smeared their bodies with new war-paint, as they had done in days of old. But, brave as they were, none of them dared to hunt the monster bear, who was the terror of the nations of the earth. He would rise from his winter sleep and bring the fear of death into the villages, and he would come like a great shadow in the night to kill and to destroy. Year by year the great bear became bolder, and year by year the number of his victims had increased until the mighty Mudjekeewis, bravest of all the early Indians, grew into manhood.

Although Mudjekeewis was so strong that all his enemies were afraid of him, he did not love the war-path, for he alone remembered the warning of the great Manito; and as he wished to be a hero, and yet to do no harm to his fellow men, he decided to hunt and kill the great bear of the mountains, and to take the magic belt of shining shells called wampum that the great bear wore about his neck. Mudjekeewis told this to the Indians, and one and all they shouted: "Honor be to Mudjekeewis!"

For a weapon he took a huge war-club, made of rock and the trunk of a tough young pine, and all alone he went into the Northland to the home of Mishe Mokwa. Many days he hunted, for the great bear knew of his coming, and the monster's savage heart felt fear for the first time; but at last, after a long search, Mudjekeewis heard a sound like far-off thunder, that rose and fell and rose again until the echoes all around were rumbling, and he knew the sound to be the heavy breathing of the giant bear, who slept. Softly Mudjekeewis stole upon him.

The great bear was sprawled upon the mountain, so huge that his fore-quarters rose above the tallest boulders, and on his rough and wrinkled hide the belt of wampum shone like a string of jewels. Still he slept; and Mudjekeewis, almost frightened by the long red talons and the mighty arms and fore-paws of the monster, drew the shining wampum softly over the closed eyes and over the grim muzzle of the bear, whose heavy breathing was hot upon his hands.

Then Mudjekeewis gripped his club and swung it high above his head, shouting his war-cry in a terrible voice, and he struck the great bear on the forehead a blow that would have split the rocks on which the monster slept. The great bear rose and staggered forward, but his senses reeled and his legs trembled beneath him. Stunned, he sat upon his haunches, and from his mighty chest and throat came a little whimpering cry like the crying of a woman. Mudjekeewis laughed at the great bear, and raising his war-club once again, he broke the great bear's skull as ice is broken in winter. He put on the belt of wampum and returned to his own people, who were proud of him and cried out with one voice that the West-wind should be given him to rule. Thenceforth he was known as Kabeyun, father of the winds and ruler of the air.

Kabeyun had three sons, to whom he gave the three remaining winds of heaven. To Wabun he gave the steady East-wind, fresh and damp with the air of the ocean; to the lazy Shawondasee he gave the scented breezes of the south, and to the cruel Kabibonokka he gave the icy gusts and storm-blasts of the Northland.

Wabun, the young and beautiful, ruled the morning, and would fly from hill to hill and plain to plain awakening the world. When he came with the dew of early dawn upon his shoulders the wild fowl would splash amid the marshes and the lakes and rivers wrinkle into life. The squirrels would begin to chatter in the tree-tops, the moose would crash through the thicket, and the smoke would rise from a thousand wigwams.

And yet, although the birds never sang so gayly as when Wabun was in the air, and the flowers never smelled so sweet as when Wabun blew upon their petals, he was not happy, for he lived alone in heaven. But one morning, when he sprang from the cloud bank where he had lain through the night, and when he was passing over a yet unawakened village, Wabun saw a maiden picking rushes from the brink of a river, and as he passed above her she looked up with eyes as blue as two blue lakes. Every morning she waited for him by the river bank, and Wabun loved the beautiful maiden. So he came down to earth and he wooed her, wrapped her in his robe of crimson till he changed her to a star and he bore her high into the heavens. There they may be seen always together, Wabun and the pure, bright star he loves—the Star of Morning.

But his brother, the fierce and cruel Kabibonokka, lived among the eternal ice caves and the snowdrifts of the north. He would whisk away the leaves in autumn and send the sleet through the naked forest; he would drive the wild fowl swiftly to the south and rush through the woods after them, roaring and rattling the branches. He would bind the lakes and rivers in the keenest, hardest ice, and make them hum and sing beneath him as he whirled along beneath the stars, and he would cause great floes and icebergs to creak and groan and grind together in agony of cold.

Once Kabibonokka was rushing southward after the departing wild fowl, when he saw a figure on the frozen moorland. It was Shingebis, the diver, who had stayed in the country of the North-wind long after his tribe had gone away, and Shingebis was making ready to pass the winter there in spite of Kabibonokka and his gusty anger. He was dragging strings of fish to his winter lodge—enough to last him until spring should set the rivers free and fill the air once more with wild fowl and the waters with returning salmon.

What did Shingebis care for the anger of Kabibonokka? He had four great logs to burn as firewood (one for each moon of the winter), and he stretched himself before the blazing fire and ate and laughed and sang as merrily as if the sun were warm and bright without his cheery wigwam.

"Ho," cried Kabibonokka, "I will rush upon him! I will shake his lodge to pieces! I will scatter his bright fire and drive him far to the south!" And in the night Kabibonokka piled the snowdrifts high about the lodge of Shingebis, and shook the lodge-pole and wailed around the smoke-flue until the flames flared and the ashes were scattered on the floor. But Shingebis cared not at all. He merely turned the log until it burned more brightly, and laughed and sang as he had done before, only a little louder: "O Kabibonokka, you are but my fellow-mortal!"

"I will freeze him with my bitter breath!" roared Kabibonokka; "I will turn him to a block of ice," and he burst into the lodge of Shingebis. But although Shingebis knew by the sudden coldness on his back that Kabibonokka stood beside him, he did not even turn his head, but blew upon the embers, struck the coals and made the sparks flicker up the smoke-flue, while he laughed and sang over and over again: "O Kabibonokka, you are but my fellow-mortal!"

Drops of sweat trickled down Kabibonokka's forehead, and his limbs grew hot and moist and commenced to melt away. From his snow-sprinkled locks the water dripped as from the melting icicles in spring, and the steam rose from his shoulders. He rushed from the lodge and howled upon the moorland; for he could not bear the heat and the merry laughter and the singing of Shingebis, the diver.

"Come out and wrestle with me!" cried Kabibonokka. "Come and meet me face to face upon the moorland!" And he stamped upon the ice and made it thicker; breathed upon the snow and made it harder; raged upon the frozen marshes against Shingebis, and the warm, merry fire that had driven him away.

Then Shingebis, the diver, left his lodge and all the warmth and light that was in it, and he wrestled all night long on the marshes with Kabibonokka, until the North-wind's frozen grasp became more feeble and his strength was gone. And Kabibonokka rose from the fight and fled from Shingebis far away into the very heart of his frozen kingdom in the north.

Shawondasee, the lazy one, ruler of the South-wind, had his kingdom in the land of warmth and pleasure of the sunlit tropics. The smoke of his pipe would fill the air with a dreamy haze that caused the grapes and melons to swell into delicious ripeness. He breathed upon the fields until they yielded rich tobacco; he dropped soft and starry blossoms on the meadows and filled the shaded woods with the singing of a hundred different birds.

How the wild rose and the shy arbutus and the lily, sweet and languid, loved the idle Shawondasee! How the frost-weary and withered earth would melt and mellow at his sunny touch! Happy Shawondasee! In all his life he had a single sorrow—just one sleepy little sting of pain. He had seen a maiden clad in purest green, with hair as yellow as the bright breast of the oriole, and she stood and nodded at him from the prairie toward the north. But Shawondasee, although he loved the bright-haired maiden and longed for her until he filled the air with sighs of tenderness, was so lazy and listless that he never sought to win her love. Never did he rouse himself and tell her of his passion, but he stayed far to the southward, and murmured half asleep among the palm-trees as he dreamed of the bright maiden.

One morning, when he awoke and gazed as usual toward the north, he saw that the beautiful golden hair of the maiden had become as white as snow, and Shawondasee cried out in his sorrow: "Ah, my brother of the North-wind, you have robbed me of my treasure! You have stolen the bright-haired maiden, and have wooed her with your stories of the Northland!" and Shawondasee wandered through the air, sighing with passion until, lo and behold! the maiden disappeared.

Foolish Shawondasee! It was no maiden that you longed for. It was the prairie dandelion, and you puffed her away forever with your useless sighing.

III

HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD

NO doubt you will wonder what the stories of the Four Winds have to do with Hiawatha, and why he has not been spoken of before; but soon you will see that if you had not read these stories, you could not understand how the life of Hiawatha was different from that of any other Indian. And Hiawatha had been chosen by the great Manito to be the leader of the red men, to share their troubles and to teach them; so of course there were a great many things that took place before he was born that have to be remembered when we think of him.

In the full moon, long ago, the beautiful Nokomis was swinging in a swing of grape-vines and playing with her women, when one of them, who had always wished to do her harm, cut the swing and let Nokomis fall to earth. As she fell, she was so fair and bright that she seemed to be a star flashing downward through the air, and the Indians all cried out: "See, a star is dropping to the meadow!"

There on the meadow, among the blossoms and the grasses, a daughter was born to Nokomis, and she called her daughter Wenonah. And her daughter, who was born beneath the clear moon and the bright stars of heaven, grew into a maiden sweeter than the lilies of the prairie, lovelier than the moonlight and purer than the light of any star.

Wenonah was so beautiful that the West-wind, the mighty West-wind, Mudjekeewis, came and whispered tenderly into her ear until she loved him. But the West-wind did not love Wenonah long. He went away to his kingdom on the mountains, and after he had gone Wenonah had a son whom she named Hiawatha, the child of the West-wind. But Wenonah was so sad because the West-wind had deserted her that she died soon after Hiawatha was born, and the infant Hiawatha, without father or mother, was taken to Nokomis' wigwam, which stood beside a broad and shining lake called "The Big-Sea-Water."

There he lived and was nursed by his grandmother, Nokomis, who sang to him and rocked him in his cradle. When he cried Nokomis would say to him: "Hush, or the naked bear will get thee," and when he awoke in the night she taught him all about the stars, and showed him the spirits that we call the northern lights dance the Death-dance far in the north.

On the summer evenings, little Hiawatha would hear the pine-trees whisper to one another and the water lapping in the lake, and he would see the fire-flies twinkle in the twilight; and when he saw the moon and all the dark spots on it he asked Nokomis what they were, and she told him that a very angry warrior had once seized his grandmother and thrown her up into the sky at midnight, "right up to the moon," said Nokomis, "and that is her body that you see there."

When Hiawatha saw the rainbow, with the sun shining on it, he said: "What is that, Nokomis?" and Nokomis answered, saying: "That is the heaven of the flowers, where all the flowers that fade on the earth blossom once again." And when Hiawatha heard the owls hooting through the night he asked Nokomis: "What are those?" And Nokomis answered: "Those are the owls and the owlets, talking to each other in their native language."

Then Hiawatha learned the language of all the birds of the air, all about their nests, how they learned to fly and where they went in winter; and he learned so much that he could talk to them just as if he were a bird himself. He learned the language of all the beasts of the forest, and they told him all their secrets. The beavers showed him how they built their houses, the squirrels took him to the places where they hid their acorns, and the rabbits told him why they were so timid. Hiawatha talked with all the animals that he met, and he called them "Hiawatha's brothers."

Nokomis had a friend called Iagoo the Boaster, because he told so many stories about great deeds that he had never done, and this Iagoo once made a bow for Hiawatha, and said to him: "Take this bow, and go into the forest hunting. Kill a fine roebuck and bring us back his horns." So Hiawatha went into the forest all alone with his bow and arrows, and because he knew the language of the wild things he could tell what all the birds and animals were saying to him.

"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" said the robins; and the squirrels scrambled in fright up the trunks of the trees, coughing and chattering: "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" But for once Hiawatha did not care or even hear what the birds and beasts were saying to him.

At last he saw the tracks of the red deer, and he followed them to the river bank, where he hid among the bushes and waited until two antlers rose above the thicket and a fine buck stepped out into the path and snuffed the wind. Hiawatha's heart beat quickly and he rose to one knee and aimed his arrow. "Twang!" went the bowstring, and the buck leaped high into the air and fell down dead, with the arrow in his heart. Hiawatha dragged the buck that he had killed back to the wigwam of Nokomis, and Nokomis and Iagoo were much pleased. From the buck-skin they made a fine cloak for Hiawatha; they hung up the antlers in the wigwam, and invited everybody in the village to a feast of deer's flesh. And the Indians all came and feasted, and called Hiawatha "Strong Heart."

IV

HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS

THE years passed, and Hiawatha grew from a child into a strong and active man. He was so wise that the old men knew far less than he, and often asked him for advice, and he was such a fine hunter that he never missed his aim. He was so swift of foot that he could shoot an arrow and catch it in its flight or let it fall behind him; he was so strong that he could shoot ten arrows up into the air, and the last of them would leave his bow before the first had fallen to the ground. He had magic mittens made of deer-skin, and when he wore them on his hands he could break the rocks with them and grind the pieces into powder; he had magic moccasins also—shoes made of deer-skin that he tied about his feet, and when he put on these he could take a mile at every step.

Hiawatha thought a great deal about his father, Mudjekeewis, and often plagued Nokomis with questions about him, until at last she told Hiawatha how his mother had loved Mudjekeewis, who left her to die of sorrow; and Hiawatha was so angry when he heard the story that his heart felt like a coal of fire. He said to Nokomis: "I will talk with Mudjekeewis, my father, and to find him I will go to the Land of the Sunset, where he has his kingdom."

So Hiawatha dressed himself for travel and armed himself with bow and a war-club, took his magic mittens and his magic moccasins, and set out all alone to travel to the kingdom of the West-wind. And although Nokomis called after him and begged him to turn back, he would not listen to her, but went away into the forest.

For days and days he traveled. He passed the Mississippi River; he crossed the prairies where the buffaloes were herding, and when he came to the Rocky Mountains, where the panther and the grizzly bear have their homes, he reached the Land of the Sunset, and the kingdom of the West-wind. There he found his father, Mudjekeewis.

When Hiawatha saw his father he was as nearly afraid as he had ever been in his life, for his father's cloudy hair tossed and waved in the air and flashed like the star we call the comet, trailing long streams of fire through the sky. But when Mudjekeewis saw what a strong and handsome man his son had grown to be, he was proud and happy; for he knew that Hiawatha had all of his own early strength and all the beauty of the dead Wenonah.

"Welcome, my son," said Mudjekeewis, "to the kingdom of the West-wind. I have waited for you many years, and have grown very lonely." And Mudjekeewis and Hiawatha talked long together; but all the while Hiawatha was thinking of his dead mother and the wrong that had been done to her, and he became more and more angry.

He hid his anger, however, and listened to what Mudjekeewis told him, and Mudjekeewis boasted of his own early bravery and of his body that was so tough that nobody could do him any harm. "Can nothing hurt you?" asked Hiawatha, and Mudjekeewis said: "Nothing but the black rock yonder." Then he smiled at Hiawatha and said: "Is there anything that can harm you, my son?" And Hiawatha, who did not wish Mudjekeewis to know that nothing in the world could do him injury, told him that only the bulrush had such power.

Then they talked about other things—of Hiawatha's brothers who ruled the winds, Wabun and Shawondasee and Kabibonokka, and about the beautiful Wenonah, Hiawatha's mother. And Hiawatha cried out then in fury: "Father though you be, you killed Wenonah!" And he struck with his magic mittens the black rock, broke it into pieces, and threw them at Mudjekeewis; but Mudjekeewis blew them back with his breath, and remembering what Hiawatha had said about the bulrushes he tore them up from the mud, roots and all, and used them as a whip to lash his son.

Thus began the fearful fight between Hiawatha and his father, Mudjekeewis. The eagle left his nest and circled in the air above them as they fought; the bulrush bent and waved like a tall tree in a storm, and great pieces of the black rock crashed upon the earth. Three days the fight continued, and Mudjekeewis was driven back—back to the end of the world, where the sun drops down into the empty places every evening.

"Stop!" cried Mudjekeewis, "stop, Hiawatha! You cannot kill me. I have put you to this trial to learn how brave you are. Now I will give you a great prize. Go back to your home and people, and kill all the monsters, and all the giants and the serpents, as I killed the great bear when I was young. And at last when Death draws near you, and his awful eyes glare on you from the darkness, I will give you a part of my kingdom and you shall be ruler of the North-west wind."

Then the battle ended long ago among the mountains; and if you do not believe this story, go there and see for yourself that the bulrush grows by the ponds and rivers, and that the pieces of the black rock are scattered all through the valleys, where they fell after Hiawatha had thrown them at his father.

Hiawatha started homeward, with all the anger taken from his heart. Only once upon his way he stopped and bought the heads of arrows from an old Arrow-maker who lived in the land of the Indians called Dacotahs. The old Arrow-maker had a daughter, whose laugh was as musical as the voice of the waterfall by which she lived, and Hiawatha named her by the name of the rushing waterfall—"Minnehaha"—Laughing Water. When he reached his native village, all he told to Nokomis was of the battle with his father. Of the arrows and the lovely maiden, Minnehaha, he did not say a word.

V

HIAWATHA'S FASTING

THE time came when Hiawatha felt that he must show the tribes of Indians that he would do them some great service, and he went alone into the forest to fast and pray, and see if he could not learn how to help his fellow-men and make them happy. In the forest he built a wigwam, where nobody might disturb him, and he went without food for seven nights and seven days. The first day, he walked in the forest; and when he saw the hare leap into the thicket and the deer dart away at his approach he was very sad, because he knew that if the animals of the forest should die, or go and hide where the Indians could not hunt them, the Indians would starve for want of food. "Must our lives depend on the hare and on the red deer?" asked Hiawatha, and he prayed to the Great Manito to tell him of some food that the Indians might always be able to find when they were hungry.

The next day, Hiawatha walked by the bank of the river, and saw the wild rice growing and the blueberries and the wild strawberries and the grape-vine that filled the air with pleasant odors; and he knew that when cold winter came, all this fruit would wither and the Indians would have no more of it to eat. Again he prayed to the Great Manito to tell him of some food that the Indians might enjoy in winter and summer, in autumn and in spring.

The third day that Hiawatha fasted, he was too weak to walk about the forest, and he sat by the shore of the lake and watched the yellow perch darting about in the sunny water. Far out in the middle of the lake he saw Nahma, the big sturgeon, leap into the air with a shower of spray and fall back into the water with a crash; and every now and then the pike would chase a school of minnows into the shallow water at the edges of the lake and dart among them like an arrow. And Hiawatha thought of how a hot summer might dry up the lakes and rivers and kill the fish, or drive them into such deep water that nobody could catch them; and he called out to the Great Manito, asking a third time for some food that the Indians could store away and use when there was no game in the forest, and no fruit on the river banks or in the fields, and no fish in any of the lakes and rivers.

On the fourth day that Hiawatha fasted, he was so weak from hunger that he could not even go out and sit beside the lake, but lay on his back in his wigwam and watched the rising sun burn away the mist, and he looked up into the blue sky, wondering if the Great Manito had heard his prayers and would tell him of this food that he wished so much to find. And just as the sun was sinking down behind the hills, Hiawatha saw a young man with golden hair coming through the forest toward his wigwam, and the young man wore a wonderful dress of the brightest green, with silky yellow fringes and gay tassels that waved behind him in the wind.

The young man walked right into Hiawatha's wigwam and said: "Hiawatha, my name is Mondamin, and I have been sent by the Great Manito to tell you that he has heard your prayers and will give you the food that you wish to find. But you must work hard and suffer a great deal before this food is given you, and you must now come out of your wigwam and wrestle with me in the forest."

Then Hiawatha rose from his bed of leaves and branches, but he was so weak that it was all he could do to follow Mondamin from the wigwam. He wrestled with Mondamin, and as soon as he touched him his strength began to return. They wrestled for a long time and at last Mondamin said: "It is enough. You have wrestled bravely, Hiawatha. To-morrow I will come again and wrestle with you." He vanished, and Hiawatha could not tell whether he had sunk into the ground or disappeared into the air.

"DEAD HE LAY THERE IN THE SUNSET"—[Page 153]

On the next day, when the sun was setting, Mondamin came again to wrestle with Hiawatha, and the day after that he came also and they wrestled even longer than before. Then Mondamin smiled at Hiawatha and said to him: "Three times, O Hiawatha, you have bravely wrestled with me. To-morrow I shall wrestle with you once again, and you will overcome me and throw me to the earth and I shall seem to be dead. Then, when I am lying still and limp on the ground, do you take off my gay clothes and bury me where we have wrestled. And you must make the ground above the place where I am buried soft and light, and take good care that weeds do not grow there and that ravens do not come there to disturb me, until at last I rise again from the ground more beautiful than ever."

True to his word, Mondamin came at sunset of the next day, and he and Hiawatha wrestled together for the last time. They wrestled after evening had come upon them, until at last Hiawatha threw Mondamin to the ground, who lay there as if dead.

Then Hiawatha took off all the gay green clothes that Mondamin wore, and he buried Mondamin and made the ground soft and light above the grave, just as he had been told to do. He kept the weeds from growing in the ground, and kept the ravens from coming to the place, until at last he saw a tiny little green leaf sticking up out of the grave. The little leaf grew into a large plant, taller than Hiawatha himself, and the plant had wonderful green leaves and silky yellow fringes and gay tassels that waved behind it in the wind. "It is Mondamin!" cried out Hiawatha, and he called Nokomis and Iagoo to see the wonderful plant that was to be the food that he had prayed for to the Great Manito.

They waited until autumn had turned the leaves to yellow, and made the tender kernels hard and shiny, and then they stripped the husks and gathered the ears of the wonderful Indian corn. All the Indians for miles around had a great feast and were happy, because they knew that with a little care they would have corn to eat in winter and in summer, in autumn and in spring.

VI

HIAWATHA'S FRIENDS

HIAWATHA had two good friends, whom he had chosen from all other Indians to be with him always, and whom he loved more than any living men. They were Chibiabos, the sweetest singer, and Kwasind, the strongest man in the world; and they told to Hiawatha all their secrets as he told his to them. Best of all Hiawatha loved the brave and beautiful Chibiabos, who was such a wonderful musician that when he sang people flocked from villages far and near to listen to him, and even the animals and birds left their dens and nests to hear.

Chibiabos sang so sweetly that the brook would pause in its course and murmur to him, asking him to teach its waves to sing his songs and to flow as softly as his words flowed when he was singing. The envious bluebird begged Chibiabos to teach it songs as wild and wonderful as his own; the robin tried to learn his notes of gladness, and the lonely bird of night, the whippoorwill, longed to sing as Chibiabos sang when he was sad. He could imitate all the noises of the woodland, and make them sound even sweeter than they really were, and by his singing he could force the Indians to laugh or cry or dance, just as he chose.

The mighty Kwasind was also much beloved by Hiawatha, who believed that next to wonderful songs and love and wisdom great strength was the finest thing in the world and the closest to perfect goodness; and never, in all the years that men have lived upon the earth, has there been another man so strong as Kwasind.

When he was a boy, Kwasind did not fish or play with other children, but seemed very dull and dreamy, and his father and mother thought that they were bringing up a fool. "Lazy Kwasind!" his mother said to him, "you never help me with my work. In the summer you roam through the fields and forests, doing nothing; and now that it is winter you sit beside the fire like an old woman, and leave me to break the ice for fishing and to draw the nets alone. Go out and wring them now, where they are freezing with the water that is in them; hang them up to dry in the sunshine, and show that you are worth the food that you eat and the clothes you wear on your back."

Without a word Kwasind rose from the ashes where he was sitting, left the lodge and found the nets dripping and freezing fast. He wrung them like a wisp of straw, but his fingers were so strong that he broke them in a hundred different places, and his strength was so great that he could not help breaking the nets any more than if they were tender cobwebs.

"Lazy Kwasind!" his father said to him, "you never help me in my hunting, as other young men help their fathers. You break every bow you touch, and you snap every arrow that you draw. Yet you shall come with me and bring home from the forest what I kill."

They went down to a deep and narrow valley by the side of a little brook, where the tracks of bison and of deer showed plainly in the mud; and at last they came to a place where the trunks of heavy trees were piled like a stone wall across the valley.

"We must go back," said Kwasind's father; "we can never scale those logs. They are packed so tightly that no woodchuck could get through them, and not even a squirrel could climb over the top," and the old man sat down to smoke and rest and wonder what they were going to do; but before he had finished his pipe the way lay clear, for the strong Kwasind had lifted the logs as if they were light lances, and had hurled them crashing into the depths of the forest.

"Lazy Kwasind!" shouted the young men, as they ran their races and played their games upon the meadows, "why do you stay idle while we strive with one another? Leave the rock that you are leaning on and join us. Come and wrestle with us, and see who can pitch the quoit the farthest."

Kwasind did not say a word in answer to them, but rose and slowly turned to the huge rock on which he had been leaning. He gripped it with both hands, tore it from the ground and pitched it right into the swift Pauwating River, where you can still see it in the summer months, as it towers high above the current.

Once as Kwasind with his companions was sailing down the foaming rapids of the Pauwating he saw a beaver in the water—Ahmeek, the King of Beavers—who was struggling against the savage current. Without a word, Kwasind leaped into the water and chased the beaver in and out among the whirlpools. He followed the beaver among the islands, dove after him to the bottom of the river and stayed under water so long that his companions believed him dead and cried out: "Alas, we shall see Kwasind no more! He is drowned in the whirlpool!" But Kwasind's head showed at last above the water and he swam ashore, carrying the King of Beavers dead upon his shoulders.

These were the sort of men that Hiawatha chose to be his friends.

VII

HIAWATHA'S SAILING

ONCE Hiawatha was sitting alone beside the swift and mighty river Taquamenaw, and he longed for a canoe with which he might explore the river from bank to bank, and learn to know all its rapids and its shallows. And Hiawatha set about building himself a canoe such as he needed, and he called upon the forest to give him aid:

"Give me your bark, O Birch Tree!" cried Hiawatha; "I will build me a light canoe for sailing that shall float upon the river like a yellow leaf in autumn. Lay aside your cloak, O Birch Tree, for the summer time is coming." And the birch tree sighed and rustled in the breeze, murmuring sadly: "Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"

With his knife Hiawatha cut around the trunk of the birch-tree just beneath the branches until the sap came oozing forth; and he also cut the bark around the tree-trunk just above the roots. He slashed the bark from top to bottom, raised it with wooden wedges and stripped it from the trunk of the tree without a crack in all its golden surface.

"Give me your boughs, O Cedar!" cried Hiawatha. "Give me your strong and pliant branches, to make my canoe firmer and tougher beneath me." Through all the branches of the cedar there swept a noise as if somebody were crying with horror, but the tree at last bent downward and whispered: "Take my boughs, O Hiawatha."

He cut down the boughs of the cedar and made them into a framework with the shape of two bows bent together, and he covered this framework with the rich and yellow bark.

"Give me your roots, O Larch Tree!" cried Hiawatha, "to bind the ends of my canoe together, that the water may not enter and the river may not wet me!" The larch-tree shivered in the air and touched Hiawatha's forehead with its tassels, sighing: "Take them, take them!" as he tore the fibres from the earth. With the tough roots he sewed the ends of his canoe together and bound the bark tightly to the framework, and his canoe became light and graceful in shape. He took the balsam and pitch of the fir-tree and smeared the seams so that no water might ooze in, and he asked for the quills of Kagh, the hedgehog, to make a necklace and two stars for his canoe.

Thus did Hiawatha build his birch canoe, and all the life and magic of the forest was held in it; for it had all the lightness of the bark of the birch-tree, all the toughness of the boughs of the cedar, and it danced and floated on the river as lightly as a yellow leaf.

Hiawatha did not have any paddles for his canoe, and he needed none, for he could guide it by merely wishing that it should turn to the right or to the left. The canoe would move in whatever direction he chose, and would glide over the water swiftly or slowly just as he desired. All Hiawatha had to do was to sit still and think where he cared to have it take him. Never was there such a wonderful craft before.

Then Hiawatha called to Kwasind, and asked for help in clearing away all the sunken logs and all the rocks, and sandbars in the river-bed, and he and Kwasind traveled down the whole length of the river. Kwasind swam and dove like a beaver, tugging at sunken logs, scooping out the sandbars with his hands, kicking the boulders out of the stream and digging away all the snags and tangles. They went back and forth and up and down the river, Kwasind working just as hard as he was able, and Hiawatha showing him where he could find new logs and rocks, and sandbars to remove, until together they made the channel safe and regular all the way from where the river rose among the mountains in little springs to where it emptied a wide and rolling sheet of water into the bay of Taquamenaw.

VIII

HIAWATHA'S FISHING

IN his wonderful canoe, Hiawatha sailed over the shining Big-Sea-Water to go fishing and to catch with his fishing-line made of cedar no other than the very King of Fishes—Nahma, the big sturgeon. All alone Hiawatha sailed over the lake, but on the bow of his canoe sat a squirrel, frisking and chattering at the thought of all the wonderful sport that he was going to see. Through the calm, clear water Hiawatha saw the fishes swimming to and fro. First he saw the yellow perch that shone like a sunbeam; then he saw the crawfish moving along the sandy bottom of the lake, and at last he saw a great blue shape that swept the sand floor with its mighty tail and waved its huge fins lazily backward and forward, and Hiawatha knew that this monster was Nahma, the Sturgeon, King of all the Fishes.

"Take my bait!" shouted Hiawatha, dropping his line of cedar into the calm water. "Come up and take my bait, O Nahma, King of Fishes!" But the great fish did not move, although Hiawatha shouted to him over and over again. At last, however, Nahma began to grow tired of the endless shouting, and he said to Maskenozha, the pike: "Take the bait of this rude fellow, Hiawatha, and break his line."

Hiawatha felt the fishing-line tighten with a snap, and as he pulled it in, Maskenozha, the pike, tugged so hard that the canoe stood almost on end, with the squirrel perched on the top; but when Hiawatha saw what fish it was that had taken his bait he was full of scorn and shouted: "Shame upon you! You are not the King of Fishes; you are only the pike, Maskenozha!" and the pike let go of Hiawatha's line and sank back to the bottom, very much ashamed.

Then Nahma said to the sunfish, Ugudwash: "Take Hiawatha's bait, and break his line! I am tired of his shouting and his boasting," and the sunfish rose up through the water like a great white moon. It seized Hiawatha's line and struggled so that the canoe made a whirlpool in the water and rocked until the waves it made splashed upon the beaches at the rim of the lake; but when Hiawatha saw the fish he was very angry and shouted out again: "Oh shame upon you! You are the sunfish, Ugudwash, and you come when I call for Nahma, King of Fishes!" and the sunfish let go of Hiawatha's line and sank to the bottom, where he hid among the lily stems.

Then Nahma, the great sturgeon, heard Hiawatha shouting at him once again, and furious he rose with a swirl to the top of the water; leaped in the air, scattering the spray on every side, and opening his huge jaws he made a rush at the canoe and swallowed Hiawatha, canoe and all.

Into the dark cave of Nahma's giant maw, Hiawatha in his canoe plunged headlong, as a log rushes down a roaring river in the springtime. At first he was frightened, for it was so inky black that he could not see his hand before his face; but at last he felt a great heart beating in the darkness, and he clenched his fist and struck the giant heart with all his strength. As he struck it, he felt Nahma tremble all over, and he heard the water gurgle as the great fish rushed through it trying to breathe, and Hiawatha struck the mighty heart yet another heavy blow.

Then he dragged his canoe crosswise, so that he might not be thrown from the belly of the great fish and be drowned in the swirling water where Nahma was fighting for life, and the little squirrel helped Hiawatha drag his canoe into safety and tugged and pulled bravely at Hiawatha's side. Hiawatha was grateful to the little squirrel, and told him that for a reward the boys should always call him Adjidaumo, which means "tail-in-the-air," and the little squirrel was much pleased.

At last everything became quiet, and Nahma, the great sturgeon, lay dead and drifted on the surface of the water to the shore, where Hiawatha heard him grate upon the pebbles. There was a great screaming and flapping of wings outside, and finally a gleam of light shone to the place where Hiawatha was sitting, and he could see the glittering eyes of the sea-gulls, who had crawled into the open mouth of Nahma and were peering down his gullet. Hiawatha called out to them: "O my Brothers, the Sea-Gulls, I have killed the great King of Fishes, Nahma, the sturgeon. Scratch and tear with your beaks and claws until the opening becomes wider and you can set me free from this dark prison! Do this, and men shall always call you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, the Noble Scratchers."

The sea-gulls set to work with a will, and scratched and tore at Nahma's ribs until there was an opening wide enough for Hiawatha and the squirrel to step through and to drag the canoe out after them. Hiawatha called Nokomis, pointed to the body of the sturgeon and said: "See, Nokomis, I have killed Nahma, the King of Fishes, and the sea-gulls feed upon him. You must not drive them away, for they saved me from great danger; but when they fly back to their nests at sunset, do you bring your pots and kettles and make from Nahma's flesh enough oil to last us through the winter."

Nokomis waited until sunset, when the sea-gulls had flown back to their homes in the marshes, and she set to work with all her pots and kettles to make yellow oil from the flesh of Nahma. She worked all night long until the sun rose again and the sea-gulls came back screeching and screaming for their breakfast; and for three days and three nights the sea-gulls and Nokomis took turns in stripping the greasy flesh of Nahma from his ribs, until nothing was left. Then the sea-gulls flew away for good and all, Nokomis poured her oil into great jars, and on the sand was only the bare skeleton of Nahma, who had once been the biggest and the strongest fish that ever swam.

IX

HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER

ONCE Nokomis was standing with Hiawatha beside her upon the shore of the Big-Sea-Water, watching the sunset, and she pointed to the west, and said to Hiawatha: "There is the dwelling of the Pearl-Feather, the great wizard who is guarded by the fiery snakes that coil and play together in the black pitch-water. You can see them now." And Hiawatha beheld the fiery snakes twist and wriggle in the black water and coil and uncoil themselves in play. Nokomis went on: "The great wizard killed my father, who had come down from the moon to find me. He killed him by wicked spells and by sly cunning, and now he sends the rank mist of marshes and the deadly fog that brings sickness and death among our people. Take your bow, Hiawatha," said Nokomis, "and your war-club and your magic mittens. Take the oil of the sturgeon, Nahma, so that your canoe may glide easily through the sticky black pitch-water, and go and kill this great wizard. Save our people from the fever that he breathes at them across the marshes, and punish him for my father's death."

Swiftly Hiawatha took his war-club and his arrows and his magic mittens, launched his birch canoe upon the water and cried: "O Birch Canoe, leap forward where you see the snakes that play in the black pitch-water. Leap forward swiftly, O my Birch Canoe, while I sing my war-song," and the canoe darted forward like a live thing until it reached the spot where the fiery serpents were sporting in the water.

"Out of my way, O serpents!" cried Hiawatha, "out of my way and let me go to fight with Pearl-Feather, the awful wizard!" But the serpents only hissed and answered: "Go back, Coward; go back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!"

Then Hiawatha took his bow and sent his arrows singing among the serpents, and at every shot one of them was killed, until they all lay dead upon the water.

"Onward, my Birch Canoe!" cried Hiawatha; "onward to the home of the great wizard!" and the canoe darted forward once again.

It was a strange, strange place that Hiawatha had entered with his birch canoe! The water was as black as ink, and on the shores of the lake dead men lit fires that twinkled in the darkness like the eyes of a wicked old witch. Awful shrieks and whistling echoed over the water, and the heron flapped about the marshes to tell all the evil beings who lived there that Hiawatha was coming to fight with the great wizard.

Hiawatha sailed over this dismal lake all night long, and at last, when the sun rose, he saw on the shore in front of him the wigwam of the great magician, Pearl-Feather. The canoe darted ahead faster and faster until it grated on the beach, and Hiawatha fitted an arrow to his bowstring and sent it hissing into the open doorway of the wigwam.

"Come out and fight me, Pearl-Feather!" cried Hiawatha; "come out and fight me if you dare!"

Then Pearl-Feather stepped out of his wigwam and stood in the open before Hiawatha. He was painted red and yellow and blue and was terrible to see. In his hand was a heavy war-club, and he wore a shirt of shining wampum that would keep out an arrow and break the force of any blow.

"Well do I know you, Hiawatha!" shouted Pearl-Feather in a deep and awful voice. "Go back to Nokomis, coward that you are; for if you stay here, I will kill you as I killed her father."

"Words are not as sharp as arrows," answered Hiawatha, bending his bow.

Then began a battle even more terrible than the one among the mountains when Hiawatha fought with Mudjekeewis, and it lasted all one summer's day. For Hiawatha's arrows could not pierce Pearl-Feather's shirt of wampum, and he could not break it with the blows of his magic mittens.

At sunset Hiawatha was so weary that he leaned on his bow to rest. His heavy war-club was broken, his magic mittens were torn to pieces, and he had only three arrows left. "Alas," sighed Hiawatha, "the great magician is too strong for me!"

Suddenly, from the branches of the tree nearest him, he heard the woodpecker calling to him: "Hiawatha, Hiawatha," said the woodpecker, "aim your arrows at the tuft of hair on Pearl-Feather's head. Aim them at the roots of his long black hair, for there alone can you do him any harm." Just then Pearl-Feather stooped to pick up a big stone to throw at Hiawatha, who bent his bow and struck Pearl-Feather with an arrow right on the top of the head. Pearl-Feather staggered forward like a wounded buffalo. "Twang!" went the bowstring again, and the wizard's knees trembled beneath him, for the second arrow had struck in the same spot as the first and had made the wound much deeper. A third arrow followed swiftly, and Pearl-Feather saw the eyes of Death glare at him from the darkness, and he fell forward on his face right at the feet of Hiawatha and lay there dead.

Then Hiawatha called the woodpecker to him, and as a mark of gratitude he stained the tuft of feathers on the woodpecker's head with the blood of the dead Pearl-Feather, and the woodpecker wears his tuft of blood-red feathers to this day.

Hiawatha took the shirt of wampum from the dead wizard as a sign of victory, and from Pearl-Feather's wigwam he carried all the skins and furs and arrows that he could find, and they were many. He loaded his canoe with them and sped homeward over the pitch-water, past the dead bodies of the fiery serpents until he saw Chibiabos and Kwasind and Nokomis waiting for him on the shore. All the Indians assembled and gave a feast in Hiawatha's honor, and they sang and danced for joy because the great wizard would never again send sickness and death among them. And Hiawatha took the red crest of the woodpecker to decorate his pipe, for he knew that to the woodpecker his victory was due.

X

HIAWATHA'S WOOING

"WOMAN is to man as the cord is to the bow," thought Hiawatha. "She bends him, yet obeys him; she draws him, yet she follows. Each is useless without the other." Hiawatha was dreaming of the lovely maiden, Minnehaha, whom he had seen in the country of the Dacotahs.

"Do not wed a stranger, Hiawatha," warned the old Nokomis; "do not search in the east or in the west to win a bride. Take a maid of your own people, for the homely daughter of a neighbor is like the pleasant fire on the hearth-stone, while the stranger is cold and distant, like the starlight or the light of the pale moon."

But Hiawatha only smiled and answered: "Dear Nokomis, the fire on the hearth-stone is indeed pleasant and warm, but I love the starlight and the moonlight better."

"Do not bring home an idle woman," said old Nokomis, "bring not home a maiden who is unskilled with the needle and will neither cook nor sew!" And Hiawatha answered: "Good Nokomis, in the land of the Dacotahs lives the daughter of an Arrow-maker, and she is the most beautiful of all the women in the world. Her name is Minnehaha, and I will bring her home to do your bidding and to be your firelight, your moonlight, and your starlight, all in one."

"Ah, Hiawatha," warned Nokomis, "bring not home a maid of the Dacotahs! The Dacotahs are fierce and cruel and there is often war between our tribe and theirs." Hiawatha laughed and answered: "I will wed a maid of the Dacotahs, and old wars shall be forgotten in a new and lasting peace that shall make the two tribes friends forevermore. For this alone would I wed the lovely Laughing Water if there were no other reason."

Hiawatha left his wigwam for the home of the old Arrow-maker, and he ran through the forest as lightly as the wind, until he heard the clear voice of the Falls of Minnehaha.

At the sunny edges of the forest a herd of deer were feeding, and they did not see the swift-footed runner until he sent a hissing arrow among them that killed a roebuck. Without pausing, Hiawatha caught up the deer and swung it to his shoulder, running forward until he came to the home of the aged Arrow-maker.

The old man was sitting in the doorway of his wigwam, and at his side were all his tools and all the arrows he was making. At his side, also, was the lovely Minnehaha, weaving mats of reeds and water-rushes, and the old man and the young maiden sat together in the pleasant contrast of age and youth, the one thinking of the past, the other dreaming of the future.

The old man was thinking of the days when with such arrows as he now was making he had killed deer and bison, and had shot the wild goose on the wing. He remembered the great war-parties that came to buy his arrows, and how they could not fight unless he had arrow-*heads to sell. Alas, such days were over, he thought sadly, and no such splendid warriors were left on earth.

The maiden was dreaming of a tall, handsome hunter, who had come one morning when the year was young to purchase arrows of her father. He had rested in their wigwam, lingered and looked back as he was leaving, and her father had praised his courage and his wisdom. Would the hunter ever come again in search of arrows, thought the lovely Minnehaha, and the rushes she was weaving lay unfingered in her lap.

Just then they heard a rustle and swift footsteps in the thicket, and Hiawatha with the deer upon his shoulders and a glow upon his cheek and forehead stood before them in the sunlight.

"Welcome, Hiawatha," said the old Arrow-maker in a grave but friendly tone, and Minnehaha's light voice echoed the deep one of her father, saying: "Welcome, Hiawatha."

Together the old Arrow-maker and Hiawatha entered the wigwam, and Minnehaha laid aside her mat of rushes and brought them food and drink in vessels of earth and bowls of basswood. Yet she did not say a word while she was serving them, but listened as if in a dream to what Hiawatha told her father about Nokomis and Chibiabos and the strong man, Kwasind, and the happiness and peace of his own people, the Ojibways. Hiawatha finished his words by saying very slowly: "That this peace may always be among us and our tribes become as brothers to each other, give me the hand of your daughter, Minnehaha, the loveliest of women."

"PLEASANT WAS THE JOURNEY HOMEWARD"—[Page 199]

The aged Arrow-maker paused before he answered, looked proudly at Hiawatha and lovingly at his daughter, and then said:

"You may have her if she wishes it. Speak, Minnehaha, and let us know your will."

The lovely Minnehaha seemed more beautiful than ever as she looked first at Hiawatha and then at her old father. Softly she took the seat beside Hiawatha, blushing as she answered: "I will follow you, my husband."

Thus did Hiawatha win the daughter of the ancient Arrow-maker. Together he and his bride left the wigwam hand in hand and went away over the meadows, while the old Arrow-maker with shaded eyes gazed after them and called out sadly: "Good-bye, Minnehaha! Good-bye my lovely daughter!"

They walked together through the sunlit forest, and all the birds and animals gazed at them from among the leaves and branches.

When they came to swift rivers, Hiawatha lifted Minnehaha and carried her across, and in his strong arms she seemed lighter than a willow-leaf or the plume upon his headgear. At night he cleared away the thicket and built a lodge of branches; he made a bed of hemlock boughs and kindled a fire of pine-cones before the doorway, and Adjidaumo, the squirrel, climbed down from his nest and kept watch, while the two lovers slept in their lodge beneath the stars.

XI

HIAWATHA'S WEDDING FEAST

A GREAT feast was prepared by Hiawatha to celebrate his wedding. That the feast might be one of joy and gladness, the sweet singer Chibiabos sang his love-songs; that it might be merry, the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis danced his liveliest dances; and to make the wedding guests even more content, Iagoo, the great boaster, told them a wonderful story. Oh, but it was a splendid feast that Nokomis prepared at the bidding of Hiawatha! She sent messengers with willow-wands through all the village as a sign that all Ojibways were invited, and the wedding guests wore their very brightest garments—rich fur robes and wampum-belts, beads of many colors, paint and feathers and gay tassels. All the bowls at the feast were made of white and shining basswood; all the spoons were made of bison horn, as black as ink and polished until the black was as bright as silver, and the Indians feasted on the flesh of the sturgeon and the pike, on buffalo marrow and the hump of the bison and the haunch of the red deer. They ate pounded meat called pemican and the wild rice that grew by the river-bank and golden-yellow cakes of Indian corn. It was a feast indeed!

But the kind host Hiawatha did not take a mouthful of all this tempting food. Neither did Minnehaha nor Nokomis, but all three waited on their guests and served them carefully until their wants were generously satisfied. When all had finished, old Nokomis filled from an ample otter pouch the red stone pipes with fragrant tobacco of the south, and when the blue smoke was rising freely she said: "O Pau-Puk-Keewis, dance your merry Beggar's Dance to please us, so the time may pass more pleasantly and our guests may be more gay."

Pau-Puk-Keewis rose and stood amid the guests. He wore a white shirt of doeskin, fringed with ermine and covered with beads of wampum. He wore deerskin leggings, also fringed with ermine and with quills of Kagh, the hedgehog. On his feet were buck-skin moccasins, richly embroidered, and red foxes' tails to flourish while he danced were fastened to the heels. A snowy plume of swan's down floated over his head, and he carried a gay fan in one hand and a pipe with tassels in the other.

All the warriors disliked Pau-Puk-Keewis, and called him coward and idler; but he cared not at all, because he was so handsome that all the women and the maidens loved him. To the sound of drums and flutes and singing voices Pau-Puk-Keewis now began the Dance of Beggars.

First he danced with slow steps and stately motion in and out of the shadows and the sunshine, gliding like a panther among the pine-trees; but his steps became faster and faster and wilder and wilder, until the wind and dust swept around him as he danced. Time after time he leaped over the heads of the assembled guests and rushed around the wigwam, and at last he sped along the shore of the Big-Sea-Water, stamping on the sand and tossing it furiously in the air, until the wind had become a whirlwind and the sand was blown in great drifts like snowdrifts all over the shore.

There they have stayed until this day, the great Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo.

When the Beggar's Dance was over, Pau-Puk-Keewis returned and sat down laughing among the guests and fanned himself as calmly as if he had not stirred from his seat, while all the guests cried out: "Sing to us, Chibiabos, sing your love songs!" and Hiawatha and Nokomis said: "Yes, sing, Chibiabos, that our guests may enjoy themselves all the more, and our feast may pass more gayly!"

Chibiabos rose, and his wonderful voice swelled all the echoes of the forest, until the streams paused in their courses, and the listening beavers came to the surface of the water so that they might hear. He sang so sweetly that his voice caused the pine-trees to quiver as if a wind were passing through them, and strange sounds seemed to run along the earth. All the Indians were spellbound by his singing, and sat as if they had been turned to stone. Even the smoke ceased to rise from their pipes while Chibiabos sang, but when he had ended they shouted with joy and praised him in loud voices.

Iagoo, the mighty boaster, alone did not join in the roar of praise, for he was jealous of Chibiabos, and longed to tell one of his great stories to the Indians. When Iagoo heard of any adventure he always told of a greater one that had happened to himself, and to listen to him, you would think that nobody was such a mighty hunter and nobody was such a valiant fighter as he. If you would only believe him, you would learn nobody had ever shot an arrow half so far as he had, that nobody could run so fast, or dive so deep, or leap so high, and that nobody in the wide world had ever seen so many wonders as the brave, great, and wonderful Iagoo.

This was the reason that his name had become a byword among the Indians; and whenever a hunter spoke too highly of his own deeds, or a warrior talked too much of what he had done in battle, his hearers shouted: "See, Iagoo is among us!"

But it was Iagoo who had carved the cradle of Hiawatha long ago, and who had taught him how to make his bow and arrows. And as he sat at the feast, old and ugly but very eager to tell of his adventures, Nokomis said to him: "Good Iagoo, tell us some wonderful story, so that our feast may be more merry," and Iagoo answered like a flash: "You shall hear the most wonderful story that has ever been heard since men have lived upon the earth. You shall hear the strange and marvelous tale of Osseo and his father, King of the Evening Star."

XII

THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR

"SEE the Star of Evening!" cried Iagoo; "see how it shines like a bead of wampum on the robes of the Great Spirit! Gaze on it, and listen to the story of Osseo!

"Long ago, in the days when the heavens were nearer to the earth than they are now, and when the spirits and gods were better known to all men, there lived a hunter in the Northland who had ten daughters, young and beautiful, and as tall as willow-wands. Oweenee, the youngest of these, was proud and wayward, but even fairer than her sisters. When the brave and wealthy warriors came as suitors, each of the ten sisters had many offers, and all except Oweenee were quickly married; but Oweenee laughed at her handsome lovers and sent them all away. Then she married poor, ugly old Osseo, who was bowed down with age, weak with coughing, and twisted and wrinkled like the roots of an oak-tree. For she saw that the spirit of Osseo was far more beautiful than were the painted figures of her handsome lovers.

"All the suitors whom she had refused to marry, and they were many, came and pointed at her with jeers and laughter, and made fun of her and of her husband; but she said to them: 'I care not for your feathers and your wampum; I am happy with Osseo.'

"It happened that the sisters were all invited to a great feast, and they were walking together through the forest, followed by old Osseo and the fair Oweenee; but while all the others chatted gayly, these two walked in silence. Osseo often stopped to gaze at the Star of Evening, and at last the others heard him murmur: 'Oh, pity me, pity me, my Father!' 'He is praying to his father,' said the eldest sister. 'What a shame that the old man does not stumble in the path and break his neck!' and the others all laughed so heartily at the wicked joke that the forest rang with merriment.

"On their way through the thicket, lay a hollow oak that had been uprooted by a storm, and when Osseo saw it he gave a cry of anguish, and leaped into the mighty tree. He went in an old man, ugly and bent and hideous with wrinkles. He came out a splendid youth, straight as an arrow, handsome and very strong. But Osseo was not happy in the change that had come over him. Indeed, he was more sorrowful than ever before, because at the same instant that he recovered his lost youth, Oweenee was changed into a tottering old woman, wasted and worn and ugly as a witch. And her nine hard-hearted sisters and their husbands laughed long and loud, until the forest echoed once again with their wicked merriment.

"Osseo, however, did not turn from Oweenee in her trouble, but took her brown and withered hand, called her sweetheart and soothed her with kind words, until they came to the lodge in the forest where the feast was being given. They sat down to the feast, and all were joyous except Osseo, who would taste neither food nor drink, but sat as if in a dream, looking first at the changed Oweenee, then upward at the sky. All at once he heard a voice come out of the empty air and say to him: 'Osseo, my son, the spells that bound you are now broken, and the evil charms that made you old and withered before your time have all been wished away. Taste the food before you, for it is blessed and will change you to a spirit. Your bowls and your kettles shall be changed to silver and to wampum, and shine like scarlet shells and gleam like the firelight; and all the men and women but Oweenee shall be changed to birds.'

"The voice Osseo heard was taken by the others for the voice of the whippoorwill, singing far off in the lonely forest, and they did not hear a word of what was said. But a sudden tremor ran through the lodge where they sat feasting, and they felt it rise in the air high up above the tree-tops into the starlight. The wooden dishes were changed into scarlet shells, the earthen kettles were changed into silver bowls, and the bark of the roof glittered like the backs of gorgeous beetles.

"Then Osseo saw that the nine beautiful sisters of Oweenee and their husbands, were changed into all sorts of different birds. There were jays and thrushes and magpies and blackbirds, and they flew about the lodge and sang and twittered in many different keys. Only Oweenee was not changed, but remained as wrinkled and old and ugly as before; and Osseo, in his disappointment, gave a cry of anguish such as he had uttered by the oak tree when lo and behold! all Oweenee's former youth and loveliness returned to her. The old woman's staff on which she had been leaning became a glittering silver feather, and her tattered dress was changed into a snowy robe of softest ermine.

"The wigwam trembled once again and floated through the sky until at last it alighted on the Evening Star as gently as thistledown drops to the water, and the ruler of the Evening Star, the father of Osseo, came forward to greet his son.

"'My son,' he said, 'hang the cage of birds that you bring with you at the doorway of my wigwam, and then do you and Oweenee enter,' and Osseo and Oweenee did as they were told, entered the wigwam and listened to the words of Osseo's father.

"'I have had pity on you, my Osseo,' he began. 'I have given back to you your youth and beauty; and I have changed into birds the sisters of Oweenee and their husbands, because they laughed at you and could not see that your spirit was beautiful. When you were an ugly old man, only Oweenee knew your heart. But you must take heed, for in the little star that you see yonder lives an evil spirit, the Wabeno; and it is he who has brought all this sorrow upon you. Take care that you never stand in the light of that evil star. Its gleams are used by the Wabeno as his arrows, and he sits there hating all the world and darting forth his poisonous beams of baleful light to injure all who stray within his reach.'

"For many years Osseo and his father and Oweenee lived happily together upon the Evening Star. Oweenee bore a son to Osseo, and the boy had beauty and courage. Osseo, to please his son, made little bows and arrows for him, and when the boy had learned to shoot, Osseo opened the door of the silver bird-cage and let out all the birds. They darted through the air, singing for joy at their freedom, until the boy bent his bow and struck one of them with a fatal arrow, so that the bird fell wounded at his feet. But when it touched the ground the bird underwent a great change; and there lay at the boy's feet a beautiful young woman with the arrow in her breast.

"As soon as her blood dripped upon the sacred Evening Star, all the magical charms that Osseo's father had used to keep his son and Oweenee with him in the happy dwelling far above the earth were broken, and the boy hunter with his bow and arrow felt himself held by unseen hands, but sinking downward through the blue sky and the empty air until he rested on a green and grassy island in the Big-Sea-Water. Falling and fluttering after him came all the bright birds; and the lodge, with Osseo and Oweenee in it, sailed lightly downward and landed on the island.

"When the bright birds touched the earth, another change came over them, and they became men and women once again as they were before; only they remained so small in size—so tiny, that they were called the Little People, the Puk-Wudjies. And on summer nights, when the stars shone brightly above them, they would dance hand in hand about the island, and sometimes in the starlight they dance there even now."

When the story was finished, Iagoo looked about him at the assembled guests, and added very solemnly: "There are many great men at whom their own people often scoff and jeer. Let these people take warning from the story of Osseo, so that they too may not be changed to birds for laughing at their betters;" and the wedding guests all whispered to each other, "I wonder if he means himself and us." Then Chibiabos sang another sweet and tender love-song, and the guests all went away, leaving Hiawatha alone and happy with Minnehaha.

XIII

BLESSING THE CORNFIELDS

MANY were the pleasant days that followed the wedding of Minnehaha and Hiawatha. All the tribes were at peace with one another, and the hunters roved wherever they chose, built their birch canoes, hunted and fished and trapped the beaver without once hearing the war-cry or the hiss of a hostile arrow. The women made sugar from the sap of the maple-trees, gathered the wild rice and dressed the skins of the deer and beaver, while all around the peaceful village waved green and sunny fields of corn.

Once, when the corn was being planted by the women, the wise and thoughtful Hiawatha said to Minnehaha: "To-night you shall bless the cornfields, and draw around them a magic circle to keep out the mildew and the insects. In the night, when everybody is asleep and none can hear you or see you, rise from your bed, lay aside your clothes and walk in the darkness around the fields of corn that you have planted. Do this and the fields shall be more fruitful and the magic circle of your footsteps cannot be crossed by either worm or insect; for the dragon-fly and the spider, and the grasshopper and the caterpillar all will know that you have walked around the cornfields, and they will not dare to enter."

While Hiawatha spoke, Kahgahgee, King of the Ravens, sat with his band of black robbers in the tree-tops near at hand, and they laughed so loud at the words of Hiawatha that the tree-tops shook and rattled. "Kaw!" shouted the ravens. "Listen to the wise man! Hear the plots of Hiawatha! We will fly over the magic circle and eat just as much corn as we can hold."

When night had fallen dark and black over the fields and woodlands, and when all the Indians were sleeping fast, Minnehaha rose from her bed of branches, laid aside her garments and walked safely among the cornfields, drawing the magic circle of her light footsteps closely around them. No one but the midnight saw her, and no one but the whippoorwill heard the panting of her bosom, for the darkness wrapped its cloak closely about her as she walked. And the dragon-fly and the grasshopper, the spider and the caterpillar, all knew that they could not cross the magic circle of Minnehaha's footsteps.

When the morning came, however, Kahgahgee gathered about him all his black and rascally crew of ravens and jays and crows and blackbirds, shrieking with laughter, and with harsh cries and raucous clamor they all left the tree-tops and flapped eagerly down upon the cornfields. "Kaw! Kaw!" they shrieked, "we will dig up the corn from the soft earth, and we will eat all we can hold, in spite of Minnehaha and her foolish circle!"

But Hiawatha had overheard the ravens as they laughed at him from among the tree-tops. He had risen before day-*break and had covered the cornfields with snares, and at that moment he was hiding in the woods until all the evil birds should alight on the fields and begin their wicked feast.

They came with a rush of wings and hungry cries, settled down upon the cornfields and began to dig and delve and scratch in the earth for the corn that had been planted there, and with all their skill and cunning, they did not see that anything was amiss until their claws were caught in Hiawatha's snares and they were helpless.

Then Hiawatha left his hiding-place among the bushes and strode toward the captive ravens, and his appearance was so awful that the bravest of them hopped and shrieked and flapped their wings in terror. He walked among them, and killed them to the right and left in tens and twenties without mercy; and he hung their dead bodies on poles, to serve as scarecrows and to frighten away all other thieves and robbers from the sacred fields of corn. Only one of the ravens was spared by Hiawatha and that was Kahgahgee, the ruler of them all. Hiawatha tied him with a string and fastened him to the ridge-pole of his wigwam, saying: "Kahgahgee, you are the cause of all this mischief, and I am going to hold you as a warning to all the ravens left alive. If they light upon the cornfields and begin again their wicked thieving, I will kill you and hang your body on a pole as an example." And Hiawatha left Kahgahgee tied fast to the ridge-pole of the wigwam, hopping and tugging angrily at his string and croaking in vain for his friends to come and set him free.

The summer passed, and all the air became warm and soft with the haze of early autumn. The corn had grown tall and yellow, and the ears were almost bursting from their sheaths, when old Nokomis said to Minnehaha: "Let us gather the harvest and strip the ripe ears of all their husks and tassels," and Minnehaha and Nokomis went through the village, calling on the women and the maidens and the young men to come forth and help them with the husking of the corn. All together they went to the cornfields, and the old men and the warriors sat in the shade at the edges of the forest and smoked and looked on in approval, while the young men and maidens stripped the ears of corn and laughed and sang merrily over their labor. Whenever a youth or a maiden found a crooked ear, they all laughed even louder, and crept about the cornfields like weak old men bent almost double with age. But when some lucky maiden found a blood-red ear in the husking, they all cried out: "Ah, Nushka! You shall have a sweetheart!" And the old men nodded in approval as they smoked beneath the pine-trees.

XIV

PICTURE-WRITING

IN those days, the Indians had no way of writing down what they thought, and could only tell each other their messages and their dreams and wisdom, by spoken words. The deeds of hunters and the thoughts of wise men were remembered for a little while, but soon were talked about less often, and when the old men died there were none left who could tell about what had happened in the past. The grave-posts had no marks on them, nor were the Indians able to tell who were buried in the graves. All they knew was that some one of their own tribe, some former wise man or hunter, or some beautiful maiden of other days lay buried there. And Hiawatha was much troubled that the Indians did not know the graves of their own fathers, and could not tell the men who should come after them about the wonderful things that had taken place long before they were born.

Hiawatha spent many days alone in the deep forest, trying to invent some way by which the Indians could always know what had happened in the past, and thereby tell secrets to each other and send messages without the risk of having them forgotten by the messenger. And after a great deal of thought, Hiawatha discovered one of the finest things in all the wide world—a secret that has changed the lives of all Indians since his time.

He took his different colored paints, and began to draw strange figures on the bark of the birch-tree, and every figure had some meaning that the red men would always remember. For the great Manito, God of all the Indians, Hiawatha painted the picture of an egg with different colored points toward the north and the south, the east and the west, to show that the Great Spirit was watching over all the world, and could be found everywhere at once.

For the Evil Spirit, Hiawatha painted the picture of a great serpent to show that the Evil Spirit was as deadly and wicked and treacherous as any snake that crawled in the green marsh grass. For Life and Death, Hiawatha drew two round spots, and painted one of them white and the other black. The white one was meant for Life, because white is clear and fair to look upon; the black was meant for Death, because black is hideous and dark. And Hiawatha painted the sun and the moon and all the stars of heaven, and he painted forests and mountains, lakes and rivers, animals and birds. For the earth he drew a straight line, like the line of the horizon, and for the sky he drew a curved line like a bow. He filled in the space between with white paint that was to mean the white light of day; he painted a point at each side, one for sunrise and the other for sunset, and he drew a number of little stars to represent the night. And Hiawatha drew all sorts of pictures of men and wigwams and bows and arrows and canoes, each with its own meaning, until he had drawn different figures for the different thoughts of men.

He called the Indians to come and see what he had painted, and he said to them: "Look and learn the meaning of these different figures; go and paint upon the graves of those whom you remember, some mark that will always show who it is that lies there buried;" and the Indians painted on the grave-posts of the graves they had not yet forgotten, figures of bear and reindeer, and turtles, and cranes, and beavers. Each one of them invented some sign by which he might always know his dead, and from these signs many of the Indians have been remembered to this day. On their birch canoes the Indians drew many different shapes, and the brightest of them all was the figure of Love. It was painted in deep scarlet, because scarlet is the strongest of all colors, and the color meant: "I am greater than all others;" for the Indians believed that love was mightier than life or death, and more dangerous than either war or hunting.

Other figures were also painted there, and by looking at the pictures drawn by an Indian you could tell who he was, and what family he came from, and whether he was stern and cruel or loving and kind-hearted. For the Indians were apt to paint the things they thought about the most.

Many were the gifts that Hiawatha gave his people; but when he taught them how to paint their thoughts, he gave them a better gift than any other.

XV

HIAWATHA'S LAMENTATION

WHEN Hiawatha lived, there were many evil spirits on the earth; and these evil spirits were very jealous of the friendship between Hiawatha and Chibiabos. "If we can only get this Chibiabos in our power," they plotted, "we will kill him, and when he is dead, Hiawatha cannot do so much good to all the tribes of men; for Chibiabos helps him like a brother, and together they are much too strong for us." The evil spirits joined to destroy both Chibiabos and Hiawatha, and they laid many traps and thought of many schemes to catch the two friends off their guard.

Hiawatha was so wise that he knew of all this plotting, and he often said to Chibiabos: "O my brother, stay with me always, for together the evil spirits cannot do us any harm." But Chibiabos was young and heedless and he did not fear the evil spirits. He laughed at Hiawatha, and said to him: "Harm and evil never come near me, my Hiawatha; have no fear on my account." But Hiawatha only shook his head, and feared all the more because Chibiabos feared so little.

Once in the winter time, when the Big-Sea-Water was covered with ice and snow, Chibiabos was hunting a buck with antlers, and the buck ran right across the frozen lake. Wild with excitement of hunting, Chibiabos followed him and ran far out from shore upon the treacherous ice, where the evil spirits were waiting for him. When they saw that he was far enough from land, they broke the ice and Chibiabos fell with a crash and a splash into the freezing water of the lake. Even then he might have saved himself and climbed out upon the ice but the strong, cruel water-god, the god of the Dacotahs, wrapped his cold wet arms around the body of Chibiabos and dragged him down, down through the dark black water to the bottom. There the water-god buried him beneath the mud and sand, so that his dead body might not rise to the surface; and the evil spirits danced for joy at the death of Chibiabos. "We have killed him," they shouted gleefully to one another; "we have killed the sweetest singer in the world and the dearest friend of Hiawatha!"

From the headlands on the shore, Hiawatha had seen Chibiabos plunge into the lake, and he heard the wicked shouting of the evil spirits. He gave such a cry of sorrow that the forest trembled, and the wolves on the prairie raised their heads to listen and then howled in answer, while the hoarse thunder stirred itself among the mountains and awakened all the echoes to his cry.

Then Hiawatha smeared his face with black paint, the color of sorrow and of death; he covered his head with his robe and sat for seven long weeks in his wigwam, grieving for the murdered Chibiabos. And the fir-trees sadly waved their dark green branches to and fro above his head and sighed as mournfully as Hiawatha.

Spring came, and all the birds and animals, and even the rivulets, and flowers and grasses, looked in vain for the dead Chibiabos. The bluebird sang a song of sorrow from the tree-tops; the robin echoed it from the silence of the thicket, and the whippoorwill took up the sad refrain at night and wailed it far and wide through all the woodland. "Chibiabos! Chibiabos!" murmured every living thing, and all the echoes sighed in answer until the whole world seemed to mourn for the lost singer.

Then the wise men of the tribes—the medicine-men, the men of magic—came to Hiawatha as he sat in sorrow in his hut, and they walked before him in a grave procession to drive the sadness from his heart. Each of them carried a pouch of healing, made of beaver-skin or lynx or otter, and filled with roots and herbs of wonderful power to cure all diseases and to drive the evil spirits of grief from the heart and from the mind. To and fro they walked, until Hiawatha uncovered his head, washed the black paint from his face, and followed the wise men to the Sacred Lodge that they had built beside his own wigwam.

There they gave to Hiawatha a marvelous drink made of spearmint and yarrow and all sorts of strange and different roots, and when he had drunk of this they began a wild and mystic dance, beating on the small drums that they carried, and shaking their pouches of healing in the face of Hiawatha. "Hi-au-ha!" they shouted in strange voices, "way-ha-way! We can cure you, Hiawatha; we can make you strong." And they shook their medicine pouches over Hiawatha's head, and continued beating on their hollow drums, as they circled wildly around him again and again.

All at once the sorrow left Hiawatha's heart, as the ice is swept from a river in the springtime, and like a man awakening from evil dreams he felt that he was healed, and he gazed about him where the medicine-men were still dancing. They were trying to summon Chibiabos from his grave deep down in the sandy bottom of the Big-Sea-Water, for the water-god had buried him so deep that his spirit could not go into the land of dead men, but was still in his drowned body, struggling to free itself. And the magic of the wise men was so strong that Chibiabos rose body and all, and stood on the bottom of the lake, listening to them.

Then the dead man floated to the shore, climbed out upon the bank and made his way swiftly and silently through the forest to the doorway of the wigwam where the medicine-men were singing. When he shook the curtain of the doorway and peered in upon them they would not let him enter, but gave him through an opening in the door a burning torch and told him to light a fire in the land of spirits, so that all who died might see it and find their way thither; and they made Chibiabos ruler in the Kingdom of the Dead. He left the doorway of the wigwam and vanished in the forest, and the wise men watched the twinkling of his torch until it disappeared. They saw that the branches did not move as he passed, and that the dead leaves and the grass did not even bend or rustle beneath his footsteps, and they looked at one another much afraid, because such sights are not good for living men to see.

Four days Chibiabos traveled down the pathway of the dead, and for his food he ate the dead man's strawberry. He saw many other dead men struggling under heavy burdens of food and skins and wampum that their friends had given them to use in the Land of Spirits, and they groaned beneath their burdens. He passed them all, crossed the sad, dark River of Death upon the swinging log that floats there; and at last he came to the Lake of Silver, and was carried in the Stone Canoe over the water to the Islands of the Blessed, where he rules all ghosts and shadows.

When he had disappeared in the dark forest, Hiawatha left the Sacred Lodge and wandered eastward and westward teaching men the use of roots and herbs and the cure of all disorders; and thus was first made known to the Indians the sacred knowledge of caring for the sick.

XVI

PAU-PUK-KEEWIS

YOU remember how Pau-Puk-Keewis danced the Beggar's Dance at Hiawatha's wedding, and how, in his wild leaping and whirling at the edges of the Big-Sea-Water, he tossed up the mighty sand dunes of the Nagow Wudjoo. And you remember also, how the warriors all disliked Pau-Puk-Keewis, and called him an idler and coward, for they knew his heart was bad within him. Only the women cared for Pau-Puk-Keewis, and the women were deceived by his handsome face and his costly dresses.

One morning Pau-Puk-Keewis came in search of adventures to the village, and found all the young men gathered in the wigwam of Iagoo, listening to the wonderful stories that old Iagoo always told when any one would hear him. He was telling how Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, climbed up to the sky and made a hole in Heaven that let out all the warm and pleasant weather of the summer months. He was describing how the Otter tried it first, and how the Beaver and the Lynx and Badger also tried it, all of them climbing to the top of the highest mountain and hitting their heads against the sky.

"They cracked it but they could not break it," said Iagoo, "and then Ojeeg the Weasel came and the Wolverine helped him to make ready for the trial. Ojeeg climbed to the top of the mountain, and the Wolverine went with him. The Wolverine crouched down like a grasshopper on the mountain top, with his legs all drawn up beneath him like a squirrel or a cricket, and he leaped as hard as he was able at the sky.

"The first time he leaped," said Iagoo, "the sky bent above him as the ice in rivers when the water rises beneath it in the springtime. The second time he leaped, the sky cracked open, and he could see the light of Heaven shining through. And the third time he leaped—crash! The sky broke into bits above him and he disappeared in Heaven, followed closely by the valiant Weasel, who tumbled into Heaven after him and has been called 'The Summer-Maker' ever since."

"Hark you," cried Pau-Puk-Keewis, bursting through the open doorway of the wigwam. "I am tired of all this talk, and I am tired of Hiawatha's endless wisdom. Listen to me, and you shall learn something more interesting than old Iagoo's stories. Watch, and I will teach you all a splendid game."

From his pouch he drew forth all the pieces used in the game of Bowl and Counters. There were thirteen in all, and nine were painted white on one side and red on the other; while four were made of brass, one side polished and the other painted black. On nine of the thirteen pieces were painted pictures of men, or ducks, or serpents, and Pau-Puk-Keewis shook them all together in a wooden bowl and tossed them out, explaining that the score was counted great or little according to the way the pictures and the colors fell upon the ground. Curious eyes stared at him as he shook and tossed and counted up the pieces, until the Indians were drawn into the game one after one, and they sat there playing for prizes of weapons and fur robes and wampum through the rest of the day and through the night until the sun rose once again. By that time the clever, lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis had won everything they owned—deerskin shirts, wampum, pipes, ermine robes and all sorts of weapons, and he chuckled to himself.

Then the crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis said to them: "My wigwam is lonely, and I want a companion in my wanderings. I want a slave. I will risk all the wampum and the fur robes, everything that I have won, against the nephew of Iagoo—that young man who is standing yonder. But if I win again, he shall be my slave for life."

"Done!" cried Iagoo, his eyes glowing like coals beneath his shaggy brows, and he seized the bowl and shook it fiercely, throwing out the pieces on the ground. Pau-Puk-Keewis counted, took the bowl and threw in his turn, and his throw was far more lucky than that of old Iagoo. "The game is mine!" cried Pau-Puk-Keewis, smiling as he rose and looked about him, and heaped all the robes and feathers and wampum and weapons in the arms of Iagoo's nephew, now a slave.

"Carry them to my wigwam yonder," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, "and wait there until I have need of you;" and he left the tent, followed by the angry glances of all the other players, who had lost all their fine furs and wampum belts and even the pipes they had been smoking.

Pau-Puk-Keewis strolled through the sunny morning singing to himself, for his new wealth made him very happy, and he soon reached the farthest wigwam of the village, which was the home of Hiawatha.

Nobody was there. Only Kahgahgee, the raven, tied to the ridge-pole, screamed and flapped his wings, watching Pau-Puk-Keewis with glaring eyes.

"All are gone," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, thinking of new mischief as he spoke; "all are gone, and they have left the lodge for me to do with as I choose."

He seized the raven by the neck and whirled him around in the air like a rattle, until the bird was strangled, and he left Kahgahgee's dead body dangling from the ridge-pole as an insult to Hiawatha. Then he went inside and threw everything into the wildest disorder, piling together all the kettles and bowls, and all the skins and buffalo-robes that he could find as an insult to Minnehaha and to Nokomis; and he ran off through the forest, whistling and singing, much pleased with what he had done.

He climbed the rocks that overlooked the Big-Sea-Water, and rested lazily upon his back, gazing up into the sky and listening to the splash of the waves on the beaches far beneath. The sea-gulls fluttered about him in great flocks, very curious to know what he was doing, and before they could get out of his way he had killed them by tens and twenties and had thrown the dead bodies over the cliff down to the beaches. One of the sea-gulls, who was perched on a crag above, shouted out: "It is Pau-Puk-Keewis, and he is killing us by the hundred. Fly quickly and send a message to our brother! Hasten and bring the news to Hiawatha!"

XVII

THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS

WHEN Hiawatha heard of the mischief that Pau-Puk-Keewis had worked among the gulls he was very angry indeed; but when he discovered the wrecked wigwam and the dead body of the raven, and heard how Pau-Puk-Keewis had despoiled Iagoo and his friends of their robes and pipes and wampum, he swore that he would kill Pau-Puk-Keewis with his own hand.

"The world is not so wide but I will find him!" cried out Hiawatha; "the way is not so rough but I will reach him with my anger!" and with several hunters Hiawatha set out upon the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis.

They followed it to the crags where he had killed the gulls, but by that time Pau-Puk-Keewis was far away among the lowlands, and turning back he saw his pursuers on the mountain and waved his arms to mock them.

Hiawatha shouted at him from the mountain top: "The world is not so rough and wide but I shall catch you, Pau-Puk-Keewis. Hide where you will, but I shall find you out," and Pau-Puk-Keewis sped forward like an antelope for Hiawatha's words had made him suddenly afraid.

He rushed through the forest until he came to a little stream that had overflowed its banks, and there he saw a dam made by the beavers. Pau-Puk-Keewis stood on the dam and called, and the King of Beavers, Ahmeek, rose to the surface of the water to find out who the stranger might be.

"Ahmeek, my friend," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, "the water is very cool and pleasant. Let me dive in and stay with you awhile! Change me into a beaver like yourself, so that I may rest with you in your lodge beneath the water."

"Wait awhile," said Ahmeek, looking at him cautiously. "I must ask the other beavers," and he sank beneath the water like a stone.

Pau-Puk-Keewis thought he could hear Hiawatha and the hunters crashing through the forest, and he waded out upon the dam, calling to the beavers until one head after another popped up out of the water, and all the beavers in the pond were looking at him.

"Your dwelling is very pleasant, my friends," said Pau-Puk-Keewis in an entreating voice; "cannot you change me also into a beaver?"

"Yes," said Ahmeek, "let yourself slide down into the water and you shall become as we are."

Pau-Puk-Keewis slid down into the water and his deer-skin shirt and moccasins and leggings became black and shiny. His fringes drew together into a clump, and became a broad black tail; his teeth became sharp, and long whiskers sprouted out from his cheeks. He was changed into a beaver.

"Make me large," he said, as he swam about the pond; "make me ten times larger than the other beavers," and Ahmeek said: "Yes, when you enter our lodge beneath the water you shall be ten times as large as any one of us."

They sank down through the water, and Pau-Puk-Keewis saw great stores of food upon the bottom. They entered the lodge and came up inside of it above the surface of the water, and the lodge was divided into large rooms, with ledges on which the beavers slept. There they made Pau-Puk-Keewis ten times larger than any other beaver, and they said to him: "Thenceforth you shall rule over all the rest of us and be our king."

But Pau-Puk-Keewis had not been sitting long upon the throne of the beavers, when he heard the voice of the beaver watchman call out from among the water-lilies: "Hiawatha, Hiawatha!" There was a shout and a noise of rending branches, and the water sucked out of the beavers' lodge and left it high and dry; their dam was broken. The hunters jumped on the roof of the lodge and broke a great hole in it, through which the sunlight streamed as the beavers scuttled away through their doorway to seek safety in deeper water. But Pau-Puk-Keewis was so big, and so puffed up with heavy feeding and the pride of being a king, that he could not crawl through the doorway with the others, but was helpless before the hunters.

Hiawatha looked through the roof and cried: "Ah, Pau-Puk-Keewis, I know you in spite of your disguise. I said that you could not escape me," and Hiawatha and his hunters beat Pau-Puk-Keewis with their heavy clubs until the beaver's skull was broken into pieces.

Six tall hunters bore the body of the beaver homeward, and it was so heavy that they had to carry it slung from poles and branches that rested on their shoulders. But within the dead body Pau-Puk-Keewis still lived, and thought and felt exactly as a man; and at last, with great effort he gathered himself together, left the beaver's body and, assuming once more his own form, he vanished in the forest.