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