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In those days the Evil Spirits,
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All the Manitos of mischief,
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Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom,
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And his love for Chibiabos,
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Jealous of their faithful friendship,
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And their noble words and actions,
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Made at length a league against them,
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To molest them and destroy them.
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Hiawatha, wise and wary,
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Often said to Chibiabos,
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"O my brother! do not leave me,
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Lest the Evil Spirits harm you!"
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Chibiabos, young and heedless,
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Laughing shook his coal-black tresses,
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Answered ever sweet and childlike,
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"Do not fear for me, O brother!
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Harm and evil come not near me!"
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Once when Peboan, the Winter,
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Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water,
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When the snow-flakes, whirling downward,
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Hissed among the withered oak-leaves,
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Changed the pine-trees into wigwams,
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Covered all the earth with silence,--
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Armed with arrows, shod with snow-shoes,
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Heeding not his brother's warning,
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Fearing not the Evil Spirits,
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Forth to hunt the deer with antlers
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All alone went Chibiabos.
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Right across the Big-Sea-Water
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Sprang with speed the deer before him.
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With the wind and snow he followed,
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O'er the treacherous ice he followed,
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Wild with all the fierce commotion
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And the rapture of the hunting.
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But beneath, the Evil Spirits
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Lay in ambush, waiting for him,
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Broke the treacherous ice beneath him,
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Dragged him downward to the bottom,
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Buried in the sand his body.
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Unktahee, the god of water,
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He the god of the Dacotahs,
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Drowned him in the deep abysses
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Of the lake of Gitche Gumee.
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From the headlands Hiawatha
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Sent forth such a wail of anguish,
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Such a fearful lamentation,
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That the bison paused to listen,
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And the wolves howled from the prairies,
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And the thunder in the distance
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Starting answered "Baim-wawa!"
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Then his face with black he painted,
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With his robe his head he covered,
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In his wigwam sat lamenting,
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Seven long weeks he sat lamenting,
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Uttering still this moan of sorrow:--
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"He is dead, the sweet musician!
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He the sweetest of all singers!
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He has gone from us forever,
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He has moved a little nearer
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To the Master of all music,
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To the Master of all singing!
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O my brother, Chibiabos!"
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And the melancholy fir-trees
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Waved their dark green fans above him,
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Waved their purple cones above him,
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Sighing with him to console him,
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Mingling with his lamentation
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Their complaining, their lamenting.
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Came the Spring, and all the forest
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Looked in vain for Chibiabos;
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Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha,
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Sighed the rushes in the meadow.
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From the tree-tops sang the bluebird,
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Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,
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"Chibiabos! Chibiabos!
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He is dead, the sweet musician!"
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From the wigwam sang the robin,
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Sang the robin, the Opechee,
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"Chibiabos! Chibiabos!
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He is dead, the sweetest singer!"
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And at night through all the forest
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Went the whippoorwill complaining,
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Wailing went the Wawonaissa,
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"Chibiabos! Chibiabos!
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He is dead, the sweet musician!
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He the sweetest of all singers!"
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Then the Medicine-men, the Medas,
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The magicians, the Wabenos,
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And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets,
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Came to visit Hiawatha;
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Built a Sacred Lodge beside him,
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To appease him, to console him,
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Walked in silent, grave procession,
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Bearing each a pouch of healing,
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Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter,
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Filled with magic roots and simples,
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Filled with very potent medicines.
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When he heard their steps approaching,
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Hiawatha ceased lamenting,
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Called no more on Chibiabos;
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Naught he questioned, naught he answered,
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But his mournful head uncovered,
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From his face the mourning colors
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Washed he slowly and in silence,
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Slowly and in silence followed
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Onward to the Sacred Wigwam.
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There a magic drink they gave him,
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Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint,
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And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow,
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Roots of power, and herbs of healing;
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Beat their drums, and shook their rattles;
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Chanted singly and in chorus,
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Mystic songs like these, they chanted.
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"I myself, myself! behold me!
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'T is the great Gray Eagle talking;
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Come, ye white crows, come and hear him!
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The loud-speaking thunder helps me;
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All the unseen spirits help me;
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I can hear their voices calling,
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All around the sky I hear them!
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I can blow you strong, my brother,
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I can heal you, Hiawatha!"
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"Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus,
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"Way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus.
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"Friends of mine are all the serpents!
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Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk!
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Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him;
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I can shoot your heart and kill it!
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I can blow you strong, my brother,
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I can heal you, Hiawatha!"
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"Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus,
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"Way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus.
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"I myself, myself! the prophet!
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When I speak the wigwam trembles,
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Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror,
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Hands unseen begin to shake it!
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When I walk, the sky I tread on
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Bends and makes a noise beneath me!
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I can blow you strong, my brother!
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Rise and speak, O Hiawatha!"
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"Hi-au-ha!" replied the chorus,
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"Way-ha-way!" the mystic chorus.
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Then they shook their medicine-pouches
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O'er the head of Hiawatha,
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Danced their medicine-dance around him;
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And upstarting wild and haggard,
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Like a man from dreams awakened,
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He was healed of all his madness.
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As the clouds are swept from heaven,
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Straightway from his brain departed
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All his moody melancholy;
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As the ice is swept from rivers,
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Straightway from his heart departed
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All his sorrow and affliction.
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Then they summoned Chibiabos
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From his grave beneath the waters,
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From the sands of Gitche Gumee
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Summoned Hiawatha's brother.
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And so mighty was the magic
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Of that cry and invocation,
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That he heard it as he lay there
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Underneath the Big-Sea-Water;
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From the sand he rose and listened,
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Heard the music and the singing,
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Came, obedient to the summons,
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To the doorway of the wigwam,
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But to enter they forbade him.
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Through a chink a coal they gave him,
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Through the door a burning fire-brand;
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Ruler in the Land of Spirits,
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Ruler o'er the dead, they made him,
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Telling him a fire to kindle
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For all those that died thereafter,
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Camp-fires for their night encampments
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On their solitary journey
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To the kingdom of Ponemah,
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To the land of the Hereafter.
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From the village of his childhood,
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From the homes of those who knew him,
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Passing silent through the forest,
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Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways,
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Slowly vanished Chibiabos!
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Where he passed, the branches moved not,
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Where he trod, the grasses bent not,
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And the fallen leaves of last year
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Made no sound beneath his footstep.
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Four whole days he journeyed onward
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Down the pathway of the dead men;
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On the dead-man's strawberry feasted,
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Crossed the melancholy river,
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On the swinging log he crossed it,
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Came unto the Lake of Silver,
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In the Stone Canoe was carried
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To the Islands of the Blessed,
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To the land of ghosts and shadows.
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On that journey, moving slowly,
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Many weary spirits saw he,
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Panting under heavy burdens,
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Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows,
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Robes of fur, and pots and kettles,
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And with food that friends had given
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For that solitary journey.
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"Ay! why do the living," said they,
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"Lay such heavy burdens on us!
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Better were it to go naked,
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Better were it to go fasting,
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Than to bear such heavy burdens
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On our long and weary journey!"
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Forth then issued Hiawatha,
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Wandered eastward, wandered westward,
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Teaching men the use of simples
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And the antidotes for poisons,
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And the cure of all diseases.
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Thus was first made known to mortals
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All the mystery of Medamin,
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