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On the shores of Gitche Gumee,
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Of the shining Big-Sea-Water,
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Stood Nokomis, the old woman,
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Pointing with her finger westward,
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O'er the water pointing westward,
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To the purple clouds of sunset.
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Fiercely the red sun descending
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Burned his way along the heavens,
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Set the sky on fire behind him,
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As war-parties, when retreating,
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Burn the prairies on their war-trail;
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And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward,
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Suddenly starting from his ambush,
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Followed fast those bloody footprints,
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Followed in that fiery war-trail,
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With its glare upon his features.
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And Nokomis, the old woman,
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Pointing with her finger westward,
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Spake these words to Hiawatha:
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"Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather,
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Megissogwon, the Magician,
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Manito of Wealth and Wampum,
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Guarded by his fiery serpents,
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Guarded by the black pitch-water.
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You can see his fiery serpents,
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The Kenabeek, the great serpents,
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Coiling, playing in the water;
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You can see the black pitch-water
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Stretching far away beyond them,
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To the purple clouds of sunset!
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"He it was who slew my father,
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By his wicked wiles and cunning,
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When he from the moon descended,
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When he came on earth to seek me.
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He, the mightiest of Magicians,
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Sends the fever from the marshes,
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Sends the pestilential vapors,
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Sends the poisonous exhalations,
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Sends the white fog from the fen-lands,
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Sends disease and death among us!
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"Take your bow, O Hiawatha,
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Take your arrows, jasper-headed,
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Take your war-club, Puggawaugun,
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And your mittens, Minjekahwun,
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And your birch-canoe for sailing,
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And the oil of Mishe-Nahma,
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So to smear its sides, that swiftly
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You may pass the black pitch-water;
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Slay this merciless magician,
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Save the people from the fever
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That he breathes across the fen-lands,
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And avenge my father's murder!"
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Straightway then my Hiawatha
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Armed himself with all his war-gear,
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Launched his birch-canoe for sailing;
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With his palm its sides he patted,
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Said with glee, "Cheemaun, my darling,
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O my Birch-canoe! leap forward,
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Where you see the fiery serpents,
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Where you see the black pitch-water!"
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Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting,
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And the noble Hiawatha
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Sang his war-song wild and woful,
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And above him the war-eagle,
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The Keneu, the great war-eagle,
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Master of all fowls with feathers,
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Screamed and hurtled through the heavens.
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Soon he reached the fiery serpents,
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The Kenabeek, the great serpents,
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Lying huge upon the water,
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Sparkling, rippling in the water,
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Lying coiled across the passage,
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With their blazing crests uplifted,
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Breathing fiery fogs and vapors,
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So that none could pass beyond them.
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But the fearless Hiawatha
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Cried aloud, and spake in this wise:
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"Let me pass my way, Kenabeek,
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Let me go upon my journey!"
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And they answered, hissing fiercely,
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With their fiery breath made answer:
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"Back, go back! O Shaugodaya!
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Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!"
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Then the angry Hiawatha
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Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree,
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Seized his arrows, jasper-headed,
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Shot them fast among the serpents;
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Every twanging of the bow-string
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Was a war-cry and a death-cry,
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Every whizzing of an arrow
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Was a death-song of Kenabeek.
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Weltering in the bloody water,
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Dead lay all the fiery serpents,
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And among them Hiawatha
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Harmless sailed, and cried exulting:
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"Onward, O Cheemaun, my darling!
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Onward to the black pitch-water!"
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Then he took the oil of Nahma,
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And the bows and sides anointed,
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Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly
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He might pass the black pitch-water.
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All night long he sailed upon it,
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Sailed upon that sluggish water,
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Covered with its mould of ages,
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Black with rotting water-rushes,
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Rank with flags and leaves of lilies,
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Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal,
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Lighted by the shimmering moonlight,
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And by will-o'-the-wisps illumined,
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Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled,
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In their weary night-encampments.
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All the air was white with moonlight,
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All the water black with shadow,
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And around him the Suggema,
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The mosquito, sang his war-song,
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And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee,
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Waved their torches to mislead him;
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And the bull-frog, the Dahinda,
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Thrust his head into the moonlight,
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Fixed his yellow eyes upon him,
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Sobbed and sank beneath the surface;
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And anon a thousand whistles,
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Answered over all the fen-lands,
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And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
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Far off on the reedy margin,
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Heralded the hero's coming.
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Westward thus fared Hiawatha,
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Toward the realm of Megissogwon,
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Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather,
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Till the level moon stared at him,
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In his face stared pale and haggard,
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Till the sun was hot behind him,
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Till it burned upon his shoulders,
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And before him on the upland
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He could see the Shining Wigwam
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Of the Manito of Wampum,
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Of the mightiest of Magicians.
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Then once more Cheemaun he patted,
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To his birch-canoe said, "Onward!"
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And it stirred in all its fibres,
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And with one great bound of triumph
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Leaped across the water-lilies,
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Leaped through tangled flags and rushes,
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And upon the beach beyond them
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Dry-shod landed Hiawatha.
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Straight he took his bow of ash-tree,
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On the sand one end he rested,
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With his knee he pressed the middle,
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Stretched the faithful bow-string tighter,
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Took an arrow, jasper-headed,
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Shot it at the Shining Wigwam,
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Sent it singing as a herald,
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As a bearer of his message,
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Of his challenge loud and lofty:
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"Come forth from your lodge, Pearl-Feather!
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Hiawatha waits your coming!"
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Straightway from the Shining Wigwam
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Came the mighty Megissogwon,
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Tall of stature, broad of shoulder,
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Dark and terrible in aspect,
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Clad from head to foot in wampum,
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Armed with all his warlike weapons,
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Painted like the sky of morning,
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Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow,
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Crested with great eagle-feathers,
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Streaming upward, streaming outward.
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"Well I know you, Hiawatha!"
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Cried he in a voice of thunder,
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In a tone of loud derision.
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"Hasten back, O Shaugodaya!
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Hasten back among the women,
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Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!
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I will slay you as you stand there,
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As of old I slew her father!"
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But my Hiawatha answered,
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Nothing daunted, fearing nothing:
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"Big words do not smite like war-clubs,
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Boastful breath is not a bow-string,
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Taunts are not so sharp as arrows,
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Deeds are better things than words are,
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Actions mightier than boastings!"
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Then began the greatest battle
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That the sun had ever looked on,
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That the war-birds ever witnessed.
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All a Summer's day it lasted,
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From the sunrise to the sunset;
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For the shafts of Hiawatha
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Harmless hit the shirt of wampum,
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Harmless fell the blows he dealt it
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With his mittens, Minjekahwun,
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Harmless fell the heavy war-club;
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It could dash the rocks asunder,
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But it could not break the meshes
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Of that magic shirt of wampum.
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Till at sunset Hiawatha,
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Leaning on his bow of ash-tree,
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Wounded, weary, and desponding,
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With his mighty war-club broken,
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With his mittens torn and tattered,
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And three useless arrows only,
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Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree,
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From whose branches trailed the mosses,
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And whose trunk was coated over
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With the Dead-man's Moccasin-leather,
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With the fungus white and yellow.
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Suddenly from the boughs above him
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Sang the Mama, the woodpecker:
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"Aim your arrows, Hiawatha,
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At the head of Megissogwon,
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Strike the tuft of hair upon it,
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At their roots the long black tresses;
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There alone can he be wounded!"
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Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper,
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Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow,
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Just as Megissogwon, stooping,
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Raised a heavy stone to throw it.
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Full upon the crown it struck him,
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At the roots of his long tresses,
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And he reeled and staggered forward,
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Plunging like a wounded bison,
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Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison,
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When the snow is on the prairie.
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Swifter flew the second arrow,
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In the pathway of the other,
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Piercing deeper than the other,
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Wounding sorer than the other;
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And the knees of Megissogwon
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Shook like windy reeds beneath him,
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Bent and trembled like the rushes.
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But the third and latest arrow
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Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest,
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And the mighty Megissogwon
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Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk,
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Saw the eyes of Death glare at him,
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Heard his voice call in the darkness;
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At the feet of Hiawatha
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Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather,
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Lay the mightiest of Magicians.
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Then the grateful Hiawatha
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Called the Mama, the woodpecker,
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From his perch among the branches
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Of the melancholy pine-tree,
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And, in honor of his service,
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Stained with blood the tuft of feathers
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On the little head of Mama;
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Even to this day he wears it,
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Wears the tuft of crimson feathers,
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As a symbol of his service.
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Then he stripped the shirt of wampum
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From the back of Megissogwon,
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As a trophy of the battle,
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As a signal of his conquest.
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On the shore he left the body,
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Half on land and half in water,
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In the sand his feet were buried,
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And his face was in the water.
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And above him, wheeled and clamored
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The Keneu, the great war-eagle,
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Sailing round in narrower circles,
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Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer.
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From the wigwam Hiawatha
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Bore the wealth of Megissogwon,
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All his wealth of skins and wampum,
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Furs of bison and of beaver,
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Furs of sable and of ermine,
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Wampum belts and strings and pouches,
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Quivers wrought with beads of wampum,
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Filled with arrows, silver-headed.
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Homeward then he sailed exulting,
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Homeward through the black pitch-water,
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Homeward through the weltering serpents,
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With the trophies of the battle,
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With a shout and song of triumph.
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On the shore stood old Nokomis,
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On the shore stood Chibiabos,
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And the very strong man, Kwasind,
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Waiting for the hero's coming,
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Listening to his songs of triumph.
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And the people of the village
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Welcomed him with songs and dances,
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Made a joyous feast, and shouted:
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"Honor be to Hiawatha!
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He has slain the great Pearl-Feather,
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Slain the mightiest of Magicians,
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Him, who sent the fiery fever,
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Sent the white fog from the fen-lands,
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Sent disease and death among us!"
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Ever dear to Hiawatha
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Was the memory of Mama!
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And in token of his friendship,
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As a mark of his remembrance,
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He adorned and decked his pipe-stem
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With the crimson tuft of feathers,
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With the blood-red crest of Mama.
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But the wealth of Megissogwon,
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All the trophies of the battle,
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He divided with his people,
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