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III
Downward through the evening twilight,
In the days
that are forgotten,
In the unremembered ages,
From the full moon fell Nokomis,
Fell the beautiful
Nokomis,
She a wife, but not a mother.
She was
sporting with her women,
Swinging in a swing of
grape-vines,
When her rival the rejected,
Full
of jealousy and hatred,
Cut the leafy swing asunder,
Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines,
And
Nokomis fell affrighted
Downward through the evening
twilight,
On the Muskoday, the meadow,
On the
prairie full of blossoms.
"See! a star falls!" said
the people;
"From the sky a star is falling!"
There among the ferns and mosses,
There among the
prairie lilies,
On the Muskoday, the meadow,
In
the moonlight and the starlight,
Fair Nokomis bore a
daughter.
And she called her name Wenonah,
As
the first-born of her daughters.
And the daughter of
Nokomis
Grew up like the prairie lilies,
Grew a
tall and slender maiden,
With the beauty of the
moonlight,
With the beauty of the starlight.
And
Nokomis warned her often,
Saying oft, and oft
repeating,
"Oh, beware of Mudjekeewis,
Of the
West-Wind, Mudjekeewis;
Listen not to what he tells
you;
Lie not down upon the meadow,
Stoop not
down among the lilies,
Lest the West-Wind come and
harm you!"
But she heeded not the warning,
Heeded
not those words of wisdom,
And the West-Wind came at
evening,
Walking lightly o'er the prairie,
Whispering to the leaves and blossoms,
Bending low
the flowers and grasses,
Found the beautiful
Wenonah,
Lying there among the lilies,
Wooed her
with his words of sweetness,
Wooed her with his soft
caresses,
Till she bore a son in sorrow,
Bore a
son of love and sorrow.
Thus was born my Hiawatha,
Thus was born the child of wonder;
But the
daughter of Nokomis,
Hiawatha's gentle mother,
In
her anguish died deserted
By the West-Wind, false
and faithless,
By the heartless Mudjekeewis.
For
her daughter long and loudly
Wailed and wept the sad
Nokomis;
"Oh that I were dead!" she murmured,
"Oh that I were dead, as thou art!
No more work, and
no more weeping,
Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"
By the
shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining
Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.
Dark behind it rose
the forest,
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees,
Rose the firs with cones upon them;
Bright
before it beat the water,
Beat the clear and sunny
water,
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.
There the
wrinkled old Nokomis
Nursed the little Hiawatha,
Rocked him in his linden cradle,
Bedded soft in moss
and rushes,
Safely bound with reindeer sinews;
Stilled his fretful wail by saying,
"Hush! the Naked
Bear will hear thee!"
Lulled him into slumber,
singing,
"Ewa-yea! my little owlet!
Who is this,
that lights the wigwam?
With his great eyes lights
the wigwam?
Ewa-yea! my little owlet!"
Many
things Nokomis taught him
Of the stars that shine in
heaven;
Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet,
Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses;
Showed the
Death-Dance of the spirits,
Warriors with their
plumes and war-clubs,
Flaring far away to northward
In the frosty nights of Winter;
Showed the broad
white road in heaven,
Pathway of the ghosts, the
shadows,
Running straight across the heavens,
Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows.
At the door on
summer evenings
Sat the little Hiawatha;
Heard
the whispering of the pine-trees,
Heard the lapping
of the waters,
Sounds of music, words of wonder;
'Minne-wawa!" said the Pine-trees,
Mudway-aushka!"
said the water.
Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee,
Flitting through the dusk of evening,
With the
twinkle of its candle
Lighting up the brakes and
bushes,
And he sang the song of children,
Sang
the song Nokomis taught him:
"Wah-wah-taysee, little
fire-fly,
Little, flitting, white-fire insect,
Little, dancing, white-fire creature,
Light me with
your little candle,
Ere upon my bed I lay me,
Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!"
Saw the moon rise
from the water
Rippling, rounding from the water,
Saw the flecks and shadows on it,
Whispered,
"What is that, Nokomis?"
And the good Nokomis
answered:
"Once a warrior, very angry,
Seized
his grandmother, and threw her
Up into the sky at
midnight;
Right against the moon he threw her;
'T is her body that you see there."
Saw the rainbow
in the heaven,
In the eastern sky, the rainbow,
Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?"
And the good
Nokomis answered:
"'T is the heaven of flowers you
see there;
All the wild-flowers of the forest,
All the lilies of the prairie,
When on earth they
fade and perish,
Blossom in that heaven above us."
When he heard the owls at midnight,
Hooting,
laughing in the forest,
'What is that?" he cried in
terror,
"What is that," he said, "Nokomis?"
And
the good Nokomis answered:
"That is but the owl and
owlet,
Talking in their native language,
Talking,
scolding at each other."
Then the little Hiawatha
Learned of every bird its language,
Learned their
names and all their secrets,
How they built their
nests in Summer,
Where they hid themselves in
Winter,
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens."
Of all beasts he
learned the language,
Learned their names and all
their secrets,
How the beavers built their lodges,
Where the squirrels hid their acorns,
How the
reindeer ran so swiftly,
Why the rabbit was so
timid,
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers."
Then Iagoo, the
great boaster,
He the marvellous story-teller,
He the traveller and the talker,
He the friend of
old Nokomis,
Made a bow for Hiawatha;
From a
branch of ash he made it,
From an oak-bough made the
arrows,
Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers,
And the cord he made of deer-skin.
Then he said
to Hiawatha:
"Go, my son, into the forest,
Where
the red deer herd together,
Kill for us a famous
roebuck,
Kill for us a deer with antlers!"
Forth
into the forest straightway
All alone walked
Hiawatha
Proudly, with his bow and arrows;
And
the birds sang round him, o'er him,
"Do not shoot
us, Hiawatha!"
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
Sang
the bluebird, the Owaissa,
"Do not shoot us,
Hiawatha!"
Up the oak-tree, close beside him,
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
In and out among the
branches,
Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree,
Laughed, and said between his laughing,
"Do not
shoot me, Hiawatha!"
And the rabbit from his pathway
Leaped aside, and at a distance
Sat erect upon
his haunches,
Half in fear and half in frolic,
Saying to the little hunter,
"Do not shoot me,
Hiawatha!"
But he heeded not, nor heard them,
For
his thoughts were with the red deer;
On their tracks
his eyes were fastened,
Leading downward to the
river,
To the ford across the river,
And as one
in slumber walked he.
Hidden in the alder-bushes,
There he waited till the deer came,
Till he saw two
antlers lifted,
Saw two eyes look from the thicket,
Saw two nostrils point to windward,
And a deer
came down the pathway,
Flecked with leafy light and
shadow.
And his heart within him fluttered,
Trembled like the leaves above him,
Like the
birch-leaf palpitated,
As the deer came down the
pathway.
Then, upon one knee uprising,
Hiawatha
aimed an arrow;
Scarce a twig moved with his motion,
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled,
But the
wary roebuck started,
Stamped with all his hoofs
together,
Listened with one foot uplifted,
Leaped
as if to meet the arrow;
Ah! the singing, fatal
arrow,
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him!
Dead
he lay there in the forest,
By the ford across the
river;
Beat his timid heart no longer,
But the
heart of Hiawatha
Throbbed and shouted and exulted,
As he bore the red deer homeward,
And Iagoo and
Nokomis
Hailed his coming with applauses.
From
the red deer's hide Nokomis
Made a cloak for
Hiawatha,
From the red deer's flesh Nokomis
Made
a banquet to his honor.
All the village came and
feasted,
All the guests praised Hiawatha,
Called
him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-taha!
Called him
Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!
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