Through the clear, transparent waterHe could see the fishes swimmingFar down in the depths below him;See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,Like a sunbeam in the water,See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,Like a spider on the bottom,On the white and sandy bottom.
At the stern sat Hiawatha,With his fishing-line of cedar;In his plumes the breeze of morningPlayed as in the hemlock branches;On the bows, with tail erected,Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;In his fur the breeze of morningPlayed as in the prairie grasses.
On the white sand of the bottomLay the monster Mishe-Nahma,Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;Through his gills he breathed the water,With his fins he fanned and winnowed,With his tail he swept the sand-floor.
There he lay in all his armor;On each side a shield to guard him,Plates of bone upon his forehead,Down his sides and back and shouldersPlates of bone with spines projectingPainted was he with his war-paints,Stripes of yellow, red, and azure,Spots of brown and spots of sable;And he lay there on the bottom,Fanning with his fins of purple,As above him HiawathaIn his birch canoe came sailing,With his fishing-line of cedar.
"Take my bait," cried Hiawatha,Dawn into the depths beneath him,"Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma!Come up from below the water,Let us see which is the stronger!"And he dropped his line of cedarThrough the clear, transparent water,Waited vainly for an answer,Long sat waiting for an answer,And repeating loud and louder,"Take my bait, O King of Fishes!"
Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,Fanning slowly in the water,Looking up at Hiawatha,Listening to his call and clamor,His unnecessary tumult,Till he wearied of the shouting;And he said to the Kenozha,To the pike, the Maskenozha,"Take the bait of this rude fellow,Break the line of Hiawatha!"
In his fingers HiawathaFelt the loose line jerk and tighten,As he drew it in, it tugged soThat the birch canoe stood endwise,Like a birch log in the water,With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Perched and frisking on the summit.
Full of scorn was HiawathaWhen he saw the fish rise upward,Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,Coming nearer, nearer to him,And he shouted through the water,"Esa! esa! shame upon you!You are but the pike, Kenozha,You are not the fish I wanted,You are not the King of Fishes!"
Reeling downward to the bottomSank the pike in great confusion,And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,To the bream, with scales of crimson,"Take the bait of this great boaster,Break the line of Hiawatha!"
Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,Seized the line of Hiawatha,Swung with all his weight upon it,Made a whirlpool in the water,Whirled the birch canoe in circles,Round and round in gurgling eddies,Till the circles in the waterReached the far-off sandy beaches,Till the water-flags and rushesNodded on the distant margins.
But when Hiawatha saw himSlowly rising through the water,Lifting up his disk refulgent,Loud he shouted in derision,"Esa! esa! shame upon you!You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,You are not the fish I wanted,You are not the King of Fishes!"
Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,And again the sturgeon, Nahma,Heard the shout of Hiawatha,Heard his challenge of defiance,The unnecessary tumult,Ringing far across the water.
From the white sand of the bottomUp he rose with angry gesture,Quivering in each nerve and fibre,Clashing all his plates of armor,Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;In his wrath he darted upward,Flashing leaped into the sunshine,Opened his great jaws, and swallowedBoth canoe and Hiawatha.
Down into that darksome cavernPlunged the headlong Hiawatha,As a log on some black riverShoots and plunges down the rapids,Found himself in utter darkness,Groped about in helpless wonder,Till he felt a great heart beating,Throbbing in that utter darkness.
And he smote it in his anger,With his fist, the heart of Nahma,Felt the mighty King of FishesShudder through each nerve and fibre,Heard the water gurgle round himAs he leaped and staggered through it,Sick at heart, and faint and weary.
Crosswise then did HiawathaDrag his birch-canoe for safety,Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,In the turmoil and confusion,Forth he might be hurled and perish.And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Frisked and chatted very gayly,Toiled and tugged with HiawathaTill the labor was completed.
Then said Hiawatha to him,"O my little friend, the squirrel,Bravely have you toiled to help me;Take the thanks of Hiawatha,And the name which now he gives you;For hereafter and foreverBoys shall call you Adjidaumo,Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!"
And again the sturgeon, Nahma,Gasped and quivered in the water,Then was still, and drifted landwardTill he grated on the pebbles,Till the listening HiawathaHeard him grate upon the margin,Felt him strand upon the pebbles,Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,Lay there dead upon the margin.
Then he heard a clang and flapping,As of many wings assembling,Heard a screaming and confusion,As of birds of prey contending,Saw a gleam of light above him,Shining through the ribs of Nahma,Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,Gazing at him through the opening,Heard them saying to each other,"'T is our brother, Hiawatha!"
And he shouted from below them,Cried exulting from the caverns:"O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;Make the rifts a little larger,With your claws the openings widen,Set me free from this dark prison,And henceforward and foreverMen shall speak of your achievements,Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!"
And the wild and clamorous sea-gullsToiled with beak and claws together,Made the rifts and openings widerIn the mighty ribs of Nahma,And from peril and from prison,From the body of the sturgeon,From the peril of the water,They released my Hiawatha.
He was standing near his wigwam,On the margin of the water,And he called to old Nokomis,Called and beckoned to Nokomis,Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,Lying lifeless on the pebbles,With the sea-gulls feeding on him.
"I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,Slain the King of Fishes!" said he;"Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;Drive them not away, Nokomis,They have saved me from great perilIn the body of the sturgeon,Wait until their meal is ended,Till their craws are full with feasting,Till they homeward fly, at sunset,To their nests among the marshes;Then bring all your pots and kettles,And make oil for us in Winter."
And she waited till the sun set,Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,Rose above the tranquil water,Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,From their banquet rose with clamor,And across the fiery sunsetWinged their way to far-off islands,To their nests among the rushes.
To his sleep went Hiawatha,And Nokomis to her labor,Toiling patient in the moonlight,Till the sun and moon changed places,Till the sky was red with sunrise,And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,Came back from the reedy islands,Clamorous for their morning banquet.
Three whole days and nights alternateOld Nokomis and the sea-gullsStripped the oily flesh of Nahma,Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,Till the sea-gulls came no longer,And upon the sands lay nothingBut the skeleton of Nahma.
IX. Hiawatha and the Pearl-Feather
On the shores of Gitche Gumee,Of the shining Big-Sea-Water,Stood Nokomis, the old woman,Pointing with her finger westward,O'er the water pointing westward,To the purple clouds of sunset.
Fiercely the red sun descendingBurned his way along the heavens,Set the sky on fire behind him,As war-parties, when retreating,Burn the prairies on their war-trail;And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward,Suddenly starting from his ambush,Followed fast those bloody footprints,Followed in that fiery war-trail,With its glare upon his features.
And Nokomis, the old woman,Pointing with her finger westward,Spake these words to Hiawatha:"Yonder dwells the great Pearl-Feather,Megissogwon, the Magician,Manito of Wealth and Wampum,Guarded by his fiery serpents,Guarded by the black pitch-water.You can see his fiery serpents,The Kenabeek, the great serpents,Coiling, playing in the water;You can see the black pitch-waterStretching far away beyond them,To the purple clouds of sunset!
"He it was who slew my father,By his wicked wiles and cunning,When he from the moon descended,When he came on earth to seek me.He, the mightiest of Magicians,Sends the fever from the marshes,Sends the pestilential vapors,Sends the poisonous exhalations,Sends the white fog from the fen-lands,Sends disease and death among us!
"Take your bow, O Hiawatha,Take your arrows, jasper-headed,Take your war-club, Puggawaugun,And your mittens, Minjekahwun,And your birch-canoe for sailing,And the oil of Mishe-Nahma,So to smear its sides, that swiftlyYou may pass the black pitch-water;Slay this merciless magician,Save the people from the feverThat he breathes across the fen-lands,And avenge my father's murder!"
Straightway then my HiawathaArmed himself with all his war-gear,Launched his birch-canoe for sailing;With his palm its sides he patted,Said with glee, "Cheemaun, my darling,O my Birch-canoe! leap forward,Where you see the fiery serpents,Where you see the black pitch-water!"
Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting,And the noble HiawathaSang his war-song wild and woful,And above him the war-eagle,The Keneu, the great war-eagle,Master of all fowls with feathers,Screamed and hurtled through the heavens.
Soon he reached the fiery serpents,The Kenabeek, the great serpents,Lying huge upon the water,Sparkling, rippling in the water,Lying coiled across the passage,With their blazing crests uplifted,Breathing fiery fogs and vapors,So that none could pass beyond them.
But the fearless HiawathaCried aloud, and spake in this wise,"Let me pass my way, Kenabeek,Let me go upon my journey!"And they answered, hissing fiercely,With their fiery breath made answer:"Back, go back! O Shaugodaya!Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!"
Then the angry HiawathaRaised his mighty bow of ash-tree,Seized his arrows, jasper-headed,Shot them fast among the serpents;Every twanging of the bow-stringWas a war-cry and a death-cry,Every whizzing of an arrowWas a death-song of Kenabeek.
Weltering in the bloody water,Dead lay all the fiery serpents,And among them HiawathaHarmless sailed, and cried exulting:"Onward, O Cheemaun, my darling!Onward to the black pitch-water!"
Then he took the oil of Nahma,And the bows and sides anointed,Smeared them well with oil, that swiftlyHe might pass the black pitch-water.
All night long he sailed upon it,Sailed upon that sluggish water,Covered with its mould of ages,Black with rotting water-rushes,Rank with flags and leaves of lilies,Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal,Lighted by the shimmering moonlight,And by will-o'-the-wisps illumined,Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled,In their weary night-encampments.
All the air was white with moonlight,All the water black with shadow,And around him the Suggema,The mosquito, sang his war-song,And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee,Waved their torches to mislead him;And the bull-frog, the Dahinda,Thrust his head into the moonlight,Fixed his yellow eyes upon him,Sobbed and sank beneath the surface;And anon a thousand whistles,Answered over all the fen-lands,And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,Far off on the reedy margin,Heralded the hero's coming.
Westward thus fared Hiawatha,Toward the realm of Megissogwon,Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather,Till the level moon stared at himIn his face stared pale and haggard,Till the sun was hot behind him,Till it burned upon his shoulders,And before him on the uplandHe could see the Shining WigwamOf the Manito of Wampum,Of the mightiest of Magicians.
Then once more Cheemaun he patted,To his birch-canoe said, "Onward!"And it stirred in all its fibres,And with one great bound of triumphLeaped across the water-lilies,Leaped through tangled flags and rushes,And upon the beach beyond themDry-shod landed Hiawatha.
Straight he took his bow of ash-tree,On the sand one end he rested,With his knee he pressed the middle,Stretched the faithful bow-string tighter,Took an arrow, jasperheaded,Shot it at the Shining Wigwam,Sent it singing as a herald,As a bearer of his message,Of his challenge loud and lofty:"Come forth from your lodge, Pearl-Feather!Hiawatha waits your coming!"
Straightway from the Shining WigwamCame the mighty Megissogwon,Tall of stature, broad of shoulder,Dark and terrible in aspect,Clad from head to foot in wampum,Armed with all his warlike weapons,Painted like the sky of morning,Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow,Crested with great eagle-feathers,Streaming upward, streaming outward.
"Well I know you, Hiawatha!"Cried he in a voice of thunder,In a tone of loud derision."Hasten back, O Shaugodaya!Hasten back among the women,Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart!I will slay you as you stand there,As of old I slew her father!"
But my Hiawatha answered,Nothing daunted, fearing nothing:"Big words do not smite like war-clubs,Boastful breath is not a bow-string,Taunts are not so sharp as arrows,Deeds are better things than words are,Actions mightier than boastings!"
Then began the greatest battleThat the sun had ever looked on,That the war-birds ever witnessed.All a Summer's day it lasted,From the sunrise to the sunset;For the shafts of HiawathaHarmless hit the shirt of wampum,Harmless fell the blows he dealt itWith his mittens, Minjekahwun,Harmless fell the heavy war-club;It could dash the rocks asunder,But it could not break the meshesOf that magic shirt of wampum.
Till at sunset Hiawatha,Leaning on his bow of ash-tree,Wounded, weary, and desponding,With his mighty war-club broken,With his mittens torn and tattered,And three useless arrows only,Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree,From whose branches trailed the mosses,And whose trunk was coated overWith the Dead-man's Moccasin-leather,With the fungus white and yellow.
Suddenly from the boughs above himSang the Mama, the woodpecker:"Aim your arrows, Hiawatha,At the head of Megissogwon,Strike the tuft of hair upon it,At their roots the long black tresses;There alone can he be wounded!"
Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper,Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow,Just as Megissogwon, stooping,Raised a heavy stone to throw it.Full upon the crown it struck him,At the roots of his long tresses,And he reeled and staggered forward,Plunging like a wounded bison,Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison,When the snow is on the prairie.
Swifter flew the second arrow,In the pathway of the other,Piercing deeper than the other,Wounding sorer than the other;And the knees of MegissogwonShook like windy reeds beneath him,Bent and trembled like the rushes.
But the third and latest arrowSwiftest flew, and wounded sorest,And the mighty MegissogwonSaw the fiery eyes of Pauguk,Saw the eyes of Death glare at him,Heard his voice call in the darkness;At the feet of HiawathaLifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather,Lay the mightiest of Magicians.
