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XIX
Never
stoops the soaring vulture
On his quarry in the
desert,
On the sick or wounded bison,
But another
vulture, watching
From his high aerial look-out,
Sees the downward plunge, and follows;
And a third
pursues the second,
Coming from the invisible ether,
First a speck, and then a vulture,
Till the air is
dark with pinions.
So disasters come not singly;
But as if they watched and waited,
Scanning one
another's motions,
When the first descends, the
others
Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise
Round
their victim, sick and wounded,
First a shadow, then
a sorrow,
Till the air is dark with anguish.
Now,
o'er all the dreary North-land,
Mighty Peboan, the
Winter,
Breathing on the lakes and rivers,
Into
stone had changed their waters.
From his hair he
shook the snow-flakes,
Till the plains were strewn
with whiteness,
One uninterrupted level,
As if,
stooping, the Creator
With his hand had smoothed them
over.
Through the forest, wide and wailing,
Roamed
the hunter on his snow-shoes;
In the village worked
the women,
Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin;
And the young men played together
On the ice the
noisy ball-play,
On the plain the dance of
snow-shoes.
One dark evening, after sundown,
In
her wigwam Laughing Water
Sat with old Nokomis,
waiting
For the steps of Hiawatha
Homeward from
the hunt returning.
On their faces gleamed the
firelight,
Painting them with streaks of crimson,
In the eyes of old Nokomis
Glimmered like the watery
moonlight,
In the eyes of Laughing Water
Glistened
like the sun in water;
And behind them crouched their
shadows
In the corners of the wigwam,
And the
smoke In wreaths above them
Climbed and crowded
through the smoke-flue.
Then the curtain of the
doorway
From without was slowly lifted;
Brighter
glowed the fire a moment,
And a moment swerved the
smoke-wreath,
As two women entered softly,
Passed
the doorway uninvited,
Without word of salutation,
Without sign of recognition,
Sat down in the farthest
corner,
Crouching low among the shadows.
From
their aspect and their garments,
Strangers seemed
they in the village;
Very pale and haggard were they,
As they sat there sad and silent,
Trembling, cowering
with the shadows.
Was it the wind above the
smoke-flue,
Muttering down into the wigwam?
Was it
the owl, the Koko-koho,
Hooting from the dismal
forest?
Sure a voice said in the silence:
"These
are corpses clad in garments,
These are ghosts that
come to haunt you,
From the kingdom of Ponemah,
From the land of the Hereafter!"
Homeward now came
Hiawatha
From his hunting in the forest,
With the
snow upon his tresses,
And the red deer on his
shoulders.
At the feet of Laughing Water
Down he
threw his lifeless burden;
Nobler, handsomer she
thought him,
Than when first he came to woo her,
First threw down the deer before her,
As a token of
his wishes,
As a promise of the future.
Then he
turned and saw the strangers,
Cowering, crouching
with the shadows;
Said within himself, "Who are they?
What strange guests has Minnehaha?"
But he questioned
not the strangers,
Only spake to bid them welcome
To his lodge, his food, his fireside.
When the
evening meal was ready,
And the deer had been
divided,
Both the pallid guests, the strangers,
Springing from among the shadows,
Seized upon the
choicest portions,
Seized the white fat of the
roebuck,
Set apart for Laughing Water,
For the
wife of Hiawatha;
Without asking, without thanking,
Eagerly devoured the morsels,
Flitted back among the
shadows
In the corner of the wigwam.
Not a word
spake Hiawatha,
Not a motion made Nokomis,
Not a
gesture Laughing Water;
Not a change came o'er their
features;
Only Minnehaha softly
Whispered, saying,
"They are famished;
Let them do what best delights
them;
Let them eat, for they are famished."
Many a
daylight dawned and darkened,
Many a night shook off
the daylight
As the pine shakes off the snow-flakes
From the midnight of its branches;
Day by day the
guests unmoving
Sat there silent in the wigwam;
But by night, in storm or starlight,
Forth they went
into the forest,
Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam,
Bringing pine-cones for the burning,
Always sad and
always silent.
And whenever Hiawatha
Came from
fishing or from hunting,
When the evening meal was
ready,
And the food had been divided,
Gliding from
their darksome corner,
Came the pallid guests, the
strangers,
Seized upon the choicest portions
Set
aside for Laughing Water,
And without rebuke or
question
Flitted back among the shadows.
Never
once had Hiawatha
By a word or look reproved them;
Never once had old Nokomis
Made a gesture of
impatience;
Never once had Laughing Water
Shown
resentment at the outrage.
All had they endured in
silence,
That the rights of guest and stranger,
That the virtue of free-giving,
By a look might not
be lessened,
By a word might not be broken.
Once
at midnight Hiawatha,
Ever wakeful, ever watchful,
In the wigwam, dimly lighted
By the brands that still
were burning,
By the glimmering, flickering firelight
Heard a sighing, oft repeated,
From his couch rose
Hiawatha,
From his shaggy hides of bison,
Pushed
aside the deer-skin curtain,
Saw the pallid guests,
the shadows,
Sitting upright on their couches,
Weeping in the silent midnight.
And he said: "O
guests! why is it
That your hearts are so afflicted,
That you sob so in the midnight?
Has perchance the
old Nokomis,
Has my wife, my Minnehaha,
Wronged or
grieved you by unkindness,
Failed in hospitable
duties?"
Then the shadows ceased from weeping,
Ceased from sobbing and lamenting,
And they said,
with gentle voices:
"We are ghosts of the departed,
Souls of those who once were with you.
From the
realms of Chibiabos
Hither have we come to try you,
Hither have we come to warn you.
"Cries of grief and
lamentation
Reach us in the Blessed Islands;
Cries
of anguish from the living,
Calling back their
friends departed,
Sadden us with useless sorrow.
Therefore have we come to try you;
No one knows us,
no one heeds us.
We are but a burden to you,
And
we see that the departed
Have no place among the
living.
"Think of this, O Hiawatha!
Speak of it to
all the people,
That henceforward and forever
They
no more with lamentations
Sadden the souls of the
departed
In the Islands of the Blessed.
"Do not
lay such heavy burdens
In the graves of those you
bury,
Not such weight of furs and wampum,
Not such
weight of pots and kettles,
For the spirits faint
beneath them.
Only give them food to carry,
Only
give them fire to light them.
"Four days is the
spirit's journey
To the land of ghosts and shadows,
Four its lonely night encampments;
Four times must
their fires be lighted.
Therefore, when the dead are
buried,
Let a fire, as night approaches,
Four
times on the grave be kindled,
That the soul upon its
journey
May not lack the cheerful firelight,
May
not grope about in darkness.
"Farewell, noble
Hiawatha!
We have put you to the trial,
To the
proof have put your patience,
By the insult of our
presence,
By the outrage of our actions.
We have
found you great and noble.
Fail not in the greater
trial,
Faint not In the harder struggle."
When
they ceased, a sudden darkness
Fell and filled the
silent wigwam.
Hiawatha heard a rustle
As of
garments trailing by him,
Heard the curtain of the
doorway
Lifted by a hand he saw not,
Felt the cold
breath of the night air,
For a moment saw the
starlight;
But he saw the ghosts no longer,
Saw no
more the wandering spirits
From the kingdom of
Ponemah,
From the land of the Hereafter.
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