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Far and wide among the nations
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Spread the name and fame of Kwasind;
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No man dared to strive with Kwasind,
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No man could compete with Kwasind.
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But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies,
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They the envious Little People,
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They the fairies and the pygmies,
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Plotted and conspired against him.
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"If this hateful Kwasind," said they,
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"If this great, outrageous fellow
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Goes on thus a little longer,
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Tearing everything he touches,
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Rending everything to pieces,
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Filling all the world with wonder,
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What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies?
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Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies?
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He will tread us down like mushrooms,
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Drive us all into the water,
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Give our bodies to be eaten
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By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs,
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By the Spirits of the water!
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So the angry Little People
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All conspired against the Strong Man,
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All conspired to murder Kwasind,
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Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind,
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The audacious, overbearing,
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Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind!
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Now this wondrous strength of Kwasind
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In his crown alone was seated;
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In his crown too was his weakness;
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There alone could he be wounded,
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Nowhere else could weapon pierce him,
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Nowhere else could weapon harm him.
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Even there the only weapon
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That could wound him, that could slay him,
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Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree,
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Was the blue cone of the fir-tree.
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This was Kwasind's fatal secret,
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Known to no man among mortals;
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But the cunning Little People,
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The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret,
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Knew the only way to kill him.
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So they gathered cones together,
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Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree,
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Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree,
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In the woods by Taquamenaw,
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Brought them to the river's margin,
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Heaped them in great piles together,
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Where the red rocks from the margin
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Jutting overhang the river.
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There they lay in wait for Kwasind,
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The malicious Little People.
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'T was an afternoon in Summer;
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Very hot and still the air was,
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Very smooth the gliding river,
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Motionless the sleeping shadows:
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Insects glistened in the sunshine,
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Insects skated on the water,
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Filled the drowsy air with buzzing,
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With a far resounding war-cry.
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Down the river came the Strong Man,
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In his birch canoe came Kwasind,
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Floating slowly down the current
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Of the sluggish Taquamenaw,
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Very languid with the weather,
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Very sleepy with the silence.
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From the overhanging branches,
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From the tassels of the birch-trees,
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Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended;
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By his airy hosts surrounded,
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His invisible attendants,
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Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin;
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Like a burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she,
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Like a dragon-fly, he hovered
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O'er the drowsy head of Kwasind.
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To his ear there came a murmur
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As of waves upon a sea-shore,
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As of far-off tumbling waters,
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As of winds among the pine-trees;
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And he felt upon his forehead
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Blows of little airy war-clubs,
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Wielded by the slumbrous legions
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Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,
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As of some one breathing on him.
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At the first blow of their war-clubs,
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Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind;
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At the second blow they smote him,
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Motionless his paddle rested;
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At the third, before his vision
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Reeled the landscape into darkness,
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Very sound asleep was Kwasind.
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So he floated down the river,
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Like a blind man seated upright,
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Floated down the Taquamenaw,
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Underneath the trembling birch-trees,
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Underneath the wooded headlands,
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Underneath the war encampment
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Of the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies.
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There they stood, all armed and waiting,
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Hurled the pine-cones down upon him,
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Struck him on his brawny shoulders,
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On his crown defenceless struck him.
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"Death to Kwasind!" was the sudden
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War-cry of the Little People.
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And he sideways swayed and tumbled,
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Sideways fell into the river,
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Plunged beneath the sluggish water
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Headlong, as an otter plunges;
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And the birch canoe, abandoned,
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Drifted empty down the river,
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Bottom upward swerved and drifted:
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Nothing more was seen of Kwasind.
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But the memory of the Strong Man
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Lingered long among the people,
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And whenever through the forest
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Raged and roared the wintry tempest,
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And the branches, tossed and troubled,
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Creaked and groaned and split asunder,
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"Kwasind!" cried they; "that is Kwasind!
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