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Two good friends had Hiawatha,
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Singled out from all the others,
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Bound to him in closest union,
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And to whom he gave the right hand
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Of his heart, in joy and sorrow;
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Chibiabos, the musician,
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And the very strong man, Kwasind.
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Straight between them ran the pathway,
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Never grew the grass upon it;
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Singing birds, that utter falsehoods,
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Story-tellers, mischief-makers,
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Found no eager ear to listen,
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Could not breed ill-will between them,
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For they kept each other's counsel,
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Spake with naked hearts together,
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Pondering much and much contriving
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How the tribes of men might prosper.
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Most beloved by Hiawatha
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Was the gentle Chibiabos,
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He the best of all musicians,
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He the sweetest of all singers.
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Beautiful and childlike was he,
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Brave as man is, soft as woman,
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Pliant as a wand of willow,
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Stately as a deer with antlers.
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When he sang, the village listened;
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All the warriors gathered round him,
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All the women came to hear him;
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Now he stirred their souls to passion,
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Now he melted them to pity.
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From the hollow reeds he fashioned
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Flutes so musical and mellow,
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That the brook, the Sebowisha,
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Ceased to murmur in the woodland,
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That the wood-birds ceased from singing,
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And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
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Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,
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And the rabbit, the Wabasso,
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Sat upright to look and listen.
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Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha,
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Pausing, said, "O Chibiabos,
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Teach my waves to flow in music,
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Softly as your words in singing!"
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Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa,
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Envious, said, "O Chibiabos,
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Teach me tones as wild and wayward,
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Teach me songs as full of frenzy!"
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Yes, the robin, the Opechee,
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Joyous, said, "O Chibiabos,
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Teach me tones as sweet and tender,
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Teach me songs as full of gladness!"
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And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa,
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Sobbing, said, "O Chibiabos,
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Teach me tones as melancholy,
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Teach me songs as full of sadness!"
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All the many sounds of nature
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Borrowed sweetness from his singing;
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All the hearts of men were softened
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By the pathos of his music;
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For he sang of peace and freedom,
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Sang of beauty, love, and longing;
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Sang of death, and life undying
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In the Islands of the Blessed,
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In the kingdom of Ponemah,
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In the land of the Hereafter.
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Was the gentle Chibiabos,
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He the best of all musicians,
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He the sweetest of all singers;
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For his gentleness he loved him,
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And the magic of his singing.
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Dear, too, unto Hiawatha
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Was the very strong man, Kwasind,
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He the strongest of all mortals,
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He the mightiest among many;
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For his very strength he loved him,
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For his strength allied to goodness.
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Idle in his youth was Kwasind,
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Very listless, dull, and dreamy,
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Never played with other children,
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Never fished and never hunted,
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Not like other children was he;
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But they saw that much he fasted,
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Much his Manito entreated,
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Much besought his Guardian Spirit.
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"Lazy Kwasind!" said his mother,
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"In my work you never help me!
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In the Summer you are roaming
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Idly in the fields and forests;
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In the Winter you are cowering
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O'er the firebrands in the wigwam!
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In the coldest days of Winter
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I must break the ice for fishing;
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With my nets you never help me!
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At the door my nets are hanging,
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Dripping, freezing with the water;
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Go and wring them, Yenadizze!
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Go and dry them in the sunshine!"
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Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind
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Rose, but made no angry answer;
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From the lodge went forth in silence,
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Took the nets, that hung together,
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Dripping, freezing at the doorway;
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Like a wisp of straw he wrung them,
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Like a wisp of straw he broke them,
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Could not wring them without breaking,
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Such the strength was in his fingers.
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"Lazy Kwasind!" said his father,
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"In the hunt you never help me;
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Every bow you touch is broken,
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Snapped asunder every arrow;
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Yet come with me to the forest,
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You shall bring the hunting homeward."
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Down a narrow pass they wandered,
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Where a brooklet led them onward,
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Where the trail of deer and bison
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Marked the soft mud on the margin,
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Till they found all further passage
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Shut against them, barred securely
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By the trunks of trees uprooted,
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Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise,
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And forbidding further passage.
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"We must go back," said the old man,
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"O'er these logs we cannot clamber;
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Not a woodchuck could get through them,
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Not a squirrel clamber o'er them!"
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And straightway his pipe he lighted,
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And sat down to smoke and ponder.
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But before his pipe was finished,
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Lo! the path was cleared before him;
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All the trunks had Kwasind lifted,
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To the right hand, to the left hand,
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Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows,
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Hurled the cedars light as lances.
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"Lazy Kwasind!" said the young men,
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As they sported in the meadow:
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"Why stand idly looking at us,
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Leaning on the rock behind you?
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Come and wrestle with the others,
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Let us pitch the quoit together!"
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Lazy Kwasind made no answer,
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To their challenge made no answer,
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Only rose, and slowly turning,
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Seized the huge rock in his fingers,
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Tore it from its deep foundation,
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Poised it in the air a moment,
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Pitched it sheer into the river,
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Sheer into the swift Pauwating,
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Where it still is seen in Summer.
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Once as down that foaming river,
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Down the rapids of Pauwating,
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Kwasind sailed with his companions,
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In the stream he saw a beaver,
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Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers,
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Struggling with the rushing currents,
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Rising, sinking in the water.
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Without speaking, without pausing,
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Kwasind leaped into the river,
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Plunged beneath the bubbling surface,
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Through the whirlpools chased the beaver,
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Followed him among the islands,
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Stayed so long beneath the water,
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That his terrified companions
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Cried, "Alas! good-by to Kwasind!
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We shall never more see Kwasind!"
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But he reappeared triumphant,
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And upon his shining shoulders
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Brought the beaver, dead and dripping,
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Brought the King of all the Beavers.
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And these two, as I have told you,
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Were the friends of Hiawatha,
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Chibiabos, the musician,
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And the very strong man, Kwasind.
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Long they lived in peace together,
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Spake with naked hearts together,
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Pondering much and much contriving
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