Introduction to the story of Hiawatha. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Peter Yersley. The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Introductory note. The Song of Hiawatha is based on the legends and stories of many North American Indian tribes, but especially those of the Ojibwe Indians of northern Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota. They were collected by Henry Rowe Schoolcraft, the renowned historian, pioneer explorer and geologist. He was superintendent of Indian affairs for Michigan from 1836 to 1841. Schoolcraft married Jane Johnson, Oba Bamaoage Gokwa, the woman of the sound which the stars make rushing through the sky. Jane was a daughter of John Johnson, an early Irish fur trader, and O'Shaugus Codei Weikwa, the woman of the green prairie, who was a daughter of Waub O'Jague, the white fisher, who was chief of the Ojibwe tribe at La Pointe, Wisconsin. Jane and her mother are credited with having researched, authenticated and compiled much of the material Schoolcraft included in his Algic Researches, 1839, and a revision published in 1856 as The Myth of Hiawatha. It was this latter revision that Longfellow used as the basis for the Song of Hiawatha. Longfellow began Hiawatha on June 25th, 1854. He completed it on March 29th, 1855, and it was published November 10th, 1855. As soon as the poem was published, its popularity was assured. However, it also was severely criticized as a plagiary of the Finnish epic poem Kalevala. Longfellow made no secret of the fact that he used the meter of the Kalevala, but as for the legends, he openly gave credits to Schoolcraft in his notes to the poem. I would add a personal note here. My father's roots include Ojibwe Indians. His mother, Margaret Caroline Davenport, was a daughter of Susan de Caro Davenport, Ogie Emma Qua, the chief woman, whose mother was a daughter of Chief Waubo Jig. Finally, my mother used to rock me to sleep, reading portions of Hiawatha to me, especially Wawa Teisi, Little Firefly, Little Flitting White Fire Insect, Little Dancing White Fire Creature, Light me with your little candle, Air upon my bed I lay me, Air in sleep I close my eyelids, Woodrow W. Morris. The Song of Hiawatha, Introduction Should you ask me whence these stories, whence these legends and traditions, with the odours of the forest, with the dew and damp of meadows, with the curling smoke of wigwams, with the rushing of great rivers, with their frequent repetitions and their wild reverberations as of thunder in the mountains? I should answer, I should tell you, from the forests and the prairies, from the great lakes of the Northland, from the land of the Ojibwe's, from the land of the Dakotas, from the mountains, moors and fenlands where the heron, the shushuga, feeds among the reeds and rushes. I repeat them as I heard them, from the lips of Nawadaha, the musician, the sweet singer. Should you ask me where Nawadaha found these songs so wild and wayward, found these legends and traditions? I should answer, I should tell you, in the birds' nests of the forest, in the lodges of the beaver, in the hoofprint of the bison, in the eerie of the eagle. All the wildfowl sang them to him, in the moorlands and the fenlands, in the melancholy marshes. Jet-awake the plover sang them, mang the loon, the wild goose, wah-wah, the blue heron, the shushuga, and the grouse, the mush-kadasa. If still further you should ask me, saying, who was Nawadaha? Tell us of this Nawadaha. I should answer your enquiries straightway, in such words as follow. In the veil of Tawa Sentha in the green and silent valley, by the pleasant water-courses, dwelt the singer Nawadaha. Round about the Indian village spread the meadows and the cornfields, and beyond them stood the forest, stood the groves of singing pine trees, green in summer, white in winter, ever sighing, ever singing. And the pleasant water-courses, you could trace them through the valley, by the rushing in the springtime, by the alders in the summer, by the white fog in the autumn, by the black lion in the winter, and besides them dwelt the singer in the veil of Tawa Sentha in the green and silent valley. There he sang of Hiawatha, sang the song of Hiawatha, sang his wondrous birth and being, how he prayed and how he fasted, how he lived and toiled and suffered, that the tribes of men might prosper, that he might advance his people. Ye who love the haunts of nature, love the sunshine of the meadow, love the shadow of the forest, love the wind among the branches, and the rain-shower and the snowstorm, and the rushing of great rivers through their palisades of pine trees, and the thunder in the mountains, whose innumerable echoes flap like eagles in their eerie, listen to these wild traditions to this song of Hiawatha. Ye who love a nation's legends, love the ballads of a people that, like voices from afar off, call to us to pause and listen, speak in tones so plain and childlike, scarcely can the ear distinguish whether they are sung or spoken, listen to this Indian legend, to this song of Hiawatha. Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, who have faith in God and nature, who believe that in all ages every human heart is human, that in even savage bosoms there are longings, yearnings, strivings for the good they comprehend not, that the feeble hands and helpless, groping blindly in the darkness, touch God's right hand in that darkness, and are lifted up and strengthened, listen to this simple story, to this song of Hiawatha. Ye who sometimes in your rambles through the green lanes of the country, where the tangled Barbary bushes hang their tufts of crimson berries over stone walls gray with mosses, pause by some neglected graveyard for a while to muse and ponder on a half-effaced inscription, written with little skill of song-craft, homely phrases, but each letter full of hope and yet of heartbreak, full of all the tender pathos of the here and the hereafter. Stay and read this rude inscription. Read this song of Hiawatha. He the master of life, descending on the red crags of the quarry, stood erect and called the nations, called the tribes of men together. From his footprints flowed a river, leaped into the light of morning or the precipice plunging downward, gleamed like Ishkudah the comet, and the spirit stooping earthward with his finger on the meadow traced a winding pathway for it, saying to it, run in this way. From the red stone of the quarry, with his hand he broke a fragment, moulded it into a pipe-head, shaped and fashioned it with figures. From the margin of the river took a long reed for a pipe-stem, with its dark green leaves upon it, filled the pipe with bark of willow, with the bark of the red willow. Breathed upon the neighbouring forest, made its great boughs chafe together, till in flame they burst and kindled, and erect upon the mountains, Gitche Manito the mighty, smoked the Calumet, the peace-pipe, as a signal to the nations, and the smoke rose slowly, slowly through the tranquil air of morning. First a single line of darkness, then a denser bluer vapor, then a snow-white cloud unfolding like the treetops of the forest, ever rising, rising, rising, till it touched the top of heaven, till it broke against the heaven, and rolled outward all around it. From the vale of Taua Sentha, from the valley of Wyoming, from the groves of Tuscaloosa, from the far-off Rocky Mountains, from the northern lakes and rivers, all the tribes beheld the signal, saw the distant smoke ascending, the puquana of the peace-pipe, and the prophets of the nations said, Behold it, the puquana, by the signal of the peace-pipe, bending like a wand of willow, waving like a hand that beckons, Gitche Manito the mighty, calls the tribes of men together, calls the warriors to his council. Down the rivers or the prairies came the warriors of the nations, came the Delaware's and Mohawks, came the Choctores and Comanches, came the Shoshonees and the Blackfeet, came the Pornies and O'Mahas, came the Mandans and the Dakotas, came the Hurons and Ojibwees, all the warriors drawn together by the signal of the peace-pipe, to the mountains of the prairie, to the great red pipe-stone quarry, and they stood there on the meadow with their weapons and their war-gear, painted like the leaves of autumn, painted like the sky of morning, wildly glaring at each other in their faces stern defiance, in their hearts the feuds of ages, the hereditary hatred, the ancestral thirst of vengeance. Gitche Manito, the mighty, the creator of the nations, looked upon them with compassion, with paternal love and pity, looked upon their wrath and wrangling, but as quarrels among children, but as feuds and fights of children. Over them he stretched his right hand to subdue their stubborn natures, to allay their thirst and fever by the shadow of his right hand, spake to them with voice majestic as the sound of far-off waters falling into deep abysses.  I have given you lands to hunt in, I have given you streams to fish in, I have given you bear and bison, I have given you row and reindeer, I have given you brant and beaver, filled the marshes full of wildfowl, filled the rivers full of fishes. Why, then, are you not contented? Why, then, will you hunt each other? I am weary of your quarrels, weary of your wars and bloodshed, weary of your prayers for vengeance, of your wranglings and dissensions.  Therefore be at peace hence-forward, and as brothers live together.  If you listen to his counsels, you will multiply and prosper. If his warnings pass unheeded, you will fade away and perish. Bathe now in the stream before you, wash the war-paint from your faces, wash the blood-stains from your fingers, bury your war-clubs and your weapons. Break the red stone from this quarry, mould and make it into peace-pipes.   Clear above them flowed the water, clear and limpid, from the footprints of the master of life descending. Dark below them flowed the water, soiled and stained with streaks of crimson, as if blood were mingled with it. From the river came the warriors clean and washed from all their war-paint. On the banks their clubs they buried, buried all their war-like weapons. Gitche Manito the mighty, the great spirit, the creator, smiled upon his helpless children. And in silence all the warriors broke the red stone of the quarry, smoothed and formed it into peace-pipes, broke the long reeds by the river, decked them with their brightest feathers, and departed each one homeward. While the master of life ascending through the opening of cloud-curtains, through the doorways of the heaven, vanished from before their faces in the smoke that rolled around him the bukuana of the peace-pipe. End of Section 1 Section 2 of the Song of Hiawatha This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Peter Yersley. The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wardsworth Longfellow. Section 2. The Four Winds Honour be to Mujiquis, cried the warriors, cried the old men, when he came in triumph homeward with the sacred belt of Wampum. The region of the North Wind from the Kingdom of Wabasso, from the land of the White Rabbit. He had stolen the belt of Wampum from the neck of Mishimokwa, from the great bear of the mountains, from the terror of the nations, as he lay asleep and cumbrous on the summit of the mountains, like a rock with mosses on it, spotted brown and grey with mosses. Suddenly he stole upon him till the red nails of the monster almost touched him, almost scarred him, till the hot breath of his nostrils warmed the hands of Mujiquis as he drew the belt of Wampum over the round ears that heard not, over the small eyes that saw not, over the long nose and nostrils, the black muffle of the nostrils, out of which the heavy breathing warmed the hands of Mujiquis. Then he swung aloft his war-club, shouted loud and long his war-cry, smote the mighty Mishimokwa in the middle of the forehead, right between the eyes he smote him.   Bear, you know our tribes are hostile, long have been at war together. Now you find that we are strongest, you go sneaking in the forest, you go hiding in the mountains.  Then again he raised his war-club, smote again the Mishimokwa in the middle of his forehead, broke his skull as ice is broken when one goes to fish in winter. Thus was slain the Mishimokwa, he the great bear of the mountains, he the terror of the nations. Honor be to Mujiquis, with a shout exclaimed the people. Honor be to Mujiquis, henceforth he shall be the west wind, and hereafter and forever shall he hold supreme dominion over all the winds of heaven. Call him no more, Mujiquis, call him Kabyun, the west wind. Thus was Mujiquis, chosen father of the winds of heaven. For himself he kept the west wind, gave the others to his children, unto Weibun gave the east wind, gave the south to Shondasi, and the north wind wild and cruel to the fierce Kabybanokka. Young and beautiful was Weibun, he it was who brought the morning, he it was whose silver arrows chased the dark, or hill and valley, he it was whose cheeks were painted with the brightest streaks of crimson, and whose voice awoke the village, called the deer and called the hunter. Lonely in the sky was Weibun, though the birds sang gaily to him, though the wild flowers of the meadow filled the air with odours for him, though the forests and the rivers sang and shouted at his coming, still his heart was sad within him, for he was alone in heaven. But one morning, gazing earthward while the village still was sleeping, and the fog lay on the river like a ghost that goes at sunrise, he beheld a maiden walking all alone upon a meadow, gathering water flags and rushes by a river in the meadow. Every morning, gazing earthward, still the first thing he beheld there was her blue eyes looking at him, two blue lakes among the rushes, and he loved the lonely maiden, who thus waited for his coming, for they both were solitary, she on earth and he in heaven, and he wooed her with caresses, wooed her with his smile of sunshine, with his flattering words he wooed her, with his sighing and his singing, gentlest whispers in the branches, softest music, sweetest odours, till he drew her to his bosom, folded in his robes of crimson, till into a star he changed her, trembling still on his bosom, and forever in the heavens they are seen together walking, weibn and the weibn annung, weibn and the star of morning. But the fierce Kabybononka had his dwelling among icebergs in the everlasting snowdrifts, in the kingdom of Wabasso, in the land of the white rabbit. It was whose hand in autumn painted all the trees with scarlet, stained the leaves with red and yellow, he it was who sent the snowflake sifting, hissing through the forest, froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, drove the loon and seagull southward, drove the cormorant and curlew to their nests of sedge and sea-tang in the realms of Shawandasi. Once the fierce Kabybononka issued from his lodge of snowdrifts, from his home among the icebergs, and his hair with snow besprinkled, streamed behind him like a river, like a black and wintry river, as he howled and hurried southward over frozen lakes and moorlands. There among the reeds and rushes, founty shingibis, the diver, trailing strings of fish behind him, o'er the frozen fens and moorlands, lingering still among the moorlands, though his tribe had long departed to the land of Shawandasi. Cried the fierce Kabybononka, Who is this that dares to brave me, dares to stay in my dominions when the Wawa has departed? When the wild goose has gone southward and the heron, the shashuga long ago departed southward. I will go into his wigwam, I will put his smouldering fire out. And at night Kabybononka to the lodge came wild and wailing, heaped the snow in drifts about it, shouted down into the smoke-flu, shook the lodge-poles in his fury, flapped the curtain of the doorway. Shingibis, the diver, feared not. Shingibis, the diver, cared not. Four great logs had he for firewood, one for each moon of the winter, and for food the fishes served him.  Then Kabybononka entered, and though Shingibis the diver felt his presence by the coldness, felt his icy breath upon him, still he did not cease his singing, still he did not leave his laughing, only turned the log a little, only made the fire burn brighter, made the sparks fly up the smoke-flu, from Kabybononka's forehead, from his snow-besprinkled tresses, drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, making dints upon the ashes, as upon the eaves of lodges, as from drooping boughs of hemlock, drips the melting snow in springtime, making hollows in the snow-drifts. Till at last he rose, defeated, could not bear the heat and laughter, could not bear the merry singing, but rushed headlong through the doorway, stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts, stamped upon the lakes and rivers, made the snow upon them harder, made the ice upon them thicker, challenged Shingibis the diver to come forth and wrestle with him, to come forth and wrestle naked on the frozen fens and moorlands.  Hearing still the gusty laughter, hearing Shingibis the diver, singing, O Kabybononka, you are but my fellow mortal. Shawandasi, fat and lazy, had his dwelling far to southward in the drowsy, dreamy sunshine in the never-ending summer. He it was who sent the wood-birds, sent the robin, the opechi, sent the blue-bird, the owaesa, sent the shawshaw, sent the swallow, sent the wild goose, wawa, northward, sent the melons and tobacco, and the grapes in purple clusters. From his pipe the smoke ascending filled the sky with haze and vapour, filled the air with dreamy softness, gave a twinkle to the water, touched the rugged hills with smoothness, brought the tender Indian summer to the melancholy northland in the dreary moon of snowshoes. Listless, careless, Shawandasi, in his life he had one shadow, in his heart one sorrow had he. Once, as he was gazing northward far away upon a prairie, he beheld a maiden standing, saw a tall and slender maiden, all alone upon a prairie. Brightest green were all her garments, and her hair was like the sunshine. Day by day he gazed upon her, day by day he sighed with passion, day by day his heart within him grew more hot with love and longing for the maid with yellow tresses.  Yes, too indolent and easy to pursue her and persuade her, so he only gazed upon her, only sat and sighed with passion for the maiden of the prairie. Till one morning, looking northward, he beheld her yellow tresses, changed and covered o'er with whiteness, covered as with whitest snowflakes. Ah, my brother from the north land, from the kingdom of Wabasso, from the land of the white rabbit, you have stolen the maiden from me, you have laid your hand upon her, you have wooed and won my maiden with your stories of the north land. Thus the wretched Shawandasi breathed into the air his sorrow, and the south wind o'er the prairie wandered warm with sighs of passion, with the sighs of Shawandasi.  Nevermore did Shawandasi see the maid with yellow tresses. Poor deluded Shawandasi, it was no woman that you gazed at, it was no maiden that you sighed for, it was the prairie dandelion that through all the dreamy summer you had gazed at with such longing, you had sighed for with such passion, and had puffed away for ever, blown into the air with sighing, ah, deluded Shawandasi. Thus the four winds were divided, thus the sons of Mudjikiwis had their stations in the heavens, at the corners of the heavens. For himself the west wind only kept the mighty Mudjikiwis. End of Section 2 Section 3 of the Song of Hiawatha 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 grapevines. When her rival the rejected, full of jealousy and hatred, cut the leafy swing asunder, cut in twain the twisted grapevines, and Nokomis fell affrighted downward through the evening twilight on the musk-a-day, 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 musk-a-day, the meadow, in the moonlight and the starlight, fair Nokomis bore a daughter, and she called her name Winona as the firstborn 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, O beware of Mujiquis, of the west wind Mujiquis, 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 over the prairie, whispering to the leaves and blossoms, bending low the flowers and grasses, found the beautiful Winona 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 Wanda, but the daughter of Nokomis, Hiawatha's gentle mother, in her anguish, died, deserted by the west wind, false and faithless, by the heartless Mujiquis. For her daughter long and loudly wailed and wept the sad Nokomis, O that I were dead, she murmured, O that I were dead as thou art, no more work and no more weeping, wahano'in, wahano'in, by the shores of Gichigumi, by the shining big sea water, stood the wikwam of Nokomis, daughter of the moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, rose the black and gloomy pine trees, rose the furs 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, walked 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, Ewaia, my little Owlet, who is this that lights the wikwam?  Many things Nokomis taught him of the stars that shine in heaven, showed him Ishkudah the comet, Ishkudah 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.  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, his 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, it 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 owllet 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 when 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 when he met them, called them Hiawatha's brothers. Then he argued, the great boaster, he the marvellous storyteller, 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-bow made the arrows, tipped with flint and winged with feathers, and the cord he made of deerskin. Then he said to Hiawatha, go, my son, into the forest, where the red deer herd together, kill for us a famous row-buck, kill for us a deer with antlers. Forth into the forest, straight way, all alone walked Hiawatha, proudly with his bow and arrows, and the birds sang round him or him, do not shoot us, Hiawatha, sang the robin, the opechi, sang the bluebird, the owaesa, do not shoot us, Hiawatha. Up the oak-tree, close beside him, sprang the squirrel, a jidamo, 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 leapt 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 downwards to the river, to the ford across the river, and as one in slumber walked he. Hidden in the older 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 weary robuck started, stamped with all his hoofs together, listened with one foot uplifted, leapt as if to meet the arrow, ah, the stinging 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 exalted, as he bore the red deer homeward, and Iagu 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 honour. All the village came and feasted, all the guests praised Hiawatha, called him strong-heart, soon guitar-ha, called him loon-heart, man-go-tacey. The End of Section 3 Out of childhood into manhood, now head-grown by Hiawatha, skilled in all the craft of hunters, learned in all the law of old men, in all youthful sports and pastimes, in all manly arts and labours. Swift of foot was Hiawatha. He could shoot an arrow from him and run forward with such fleetness that the arrow fell behind him. Strong of arm was Hiawatha. He could shoot ten arrows upward, shoot them with such strength and swiftness that the tenth had left the bow-string ere the first to earth had fallen. He had mittens, Minjikawun, magic mittens made of deerskin. When upon his hands he wore them he could smite the rocks asunder, he could grind them into powder. He had moccasins enchanted, magic moccasins of deerskin. When he bound them round his ankles, when upon his feet he tied them, at each stride a mile he measured. Much he questioned old Nokomis of his father, Mudjikewis, learned from her the fatal secret of the beauty of his mother, of the falsehood of his father, and his heart was hot within him like a living coal his heart was. Then he said to old Nokomis, I will go to Mudjikewis, see how fares it with my father at the doorways of the west wind at the portals of the sunset. From his lodge went Hiawatha, dressed for travel armed for hunting, dressed in deerskin shirt and leggings, richly wrought with quills and wampum.   But the fearless Hiawatha he did not her woman's warning. Forth he strode into the forest, as each stride a mile he measured. Lurid seemed the sky above him, lurid seemed the earth beneath him, hot and close the air around him, filled with smoke and fiery vapours as of burning woods and prairies. For his heart was hot within him, like a living coal his heart was. So he journeyed westward, westward, left the fleetest deer behind him, left the antelope and bison, crossed the rushing Eskenaba, crossed the mighty Mississippi, passed the mountains of the prairie, passed the land of crows and foxes, passed the dwellings of the blackfeet, came unto the rocky mountains, to the kingdom of the west wind, where upon the gusty summits sat the ancient Mujiquiwis, ruler of the winds of heaven. Filled with awe was Hiawatha at the aspect of his father. On the air about him, wildly tossed and streamed his cloudy tresses, gleamed like drifting snow his tresses, glared like Ishkudar the comet, like the star with fiery tresses. Filled with joy was Mujiquiwis when he looked on Hiawatha, saw his youth rise up before him in the face of Hiawatha, saw the beauty of Wenona from the grave rise up before him. Welcome, said he, Hiawatha, to the kingdom of the west wind. Long have I been waiting for you. Youth is lovely, age is lonely, youth is fiery, age is frosty.    And he looked at Hiawatha with a wise look and benignant, with a countenance paternal, looked with pride upon the beauty of his tall and graceful figure, saying, O my Hiawatha, is there anything can harm you, anything you are afraid of? But the wary Hiawatha paused a while as if uncertain, held his peace, as if resolving, and then answered, there is nothing, nothing but the bull-rush yonder, nothing but the great Apukwa. And as Mujiquiwis, rising, stretched his hand to pluck the bull-rush, Hiawatha cried in terror, cried in well-dissembled terror, Kego, Kego, do not touch it! Ah, Kawim, said Mujiquiwis, no indeed, I will not touch it. Then they talked of other matters, first of Hiawatha's brothers, first of Weyburn of the east wind, of the south wind, Shawandasi of the north, Khabibonokka, then of Hiawatha's mother, of the beautiful Wenona, of her birth upon the meadow, of her death, as old Nakomis had remembered and related.   Then up started Hiawatha, and with threatening look and gesture, laid his hand upon the black rock, on the fatal war-beak laid it, with his mittens minjikawon, rent the jutting crag asunder, smote and crushed it into fragments, hurled them madly at his father, the remorseful Mujiquiwis, for his heart was hot within him, like a living coal his heart was. But the ruler of the west wind blew the fragments backward from him, with the breathing of his nostrils, with the tempest of his anger, blew them back at his assailant, seized the bullrush, the apukwa, dragged it with its roots and fibres from the margin of the meadow, from its ooze the giant bullrush. Long and loud laughed Hiawatha. Then began the deadly conflict hand to hand among the mountains. From his eerie screamed the eagle, the kenyu, the great war eagle, sat upon the crags around them, wheeling, flapped his wings above them. Like a tall tree in the tempest, bent and lashed the giant bullrush, and in masses huge and heavy, crashing fell the fatal war-beak, till the earth shook with the tumult and confusion of the battle, and the air was full of shoutings and the thunder of the mountains, starting, answered, Be'imwawa. Back retreated Mujiquiwis, rushing westward over the mountains, stumbling westward down the mountains. Three whole days retreated, fighting, still pursued by Hiawatha to the doorways of the west wind, to the portals of the sunset, to the earth's remotest border, where, into the empty spaces, sinks the sun, as a flamingo drops into her nest at nightfall, in the melancholy marshes.  I have put you to this trial, but to know and prove your courage. Now receive the prize of valour. Go back to your home and people, live among them, toil among them, cleanse the earth from all that harms it, clear the fishing grounds and rivers, slay all monsters and magicians, all the wendigos, the giants, all the serpents, the Kennebeaks, as I slew the Mish'imwawa, slew the great bear of the mountains.  Ruler shall you be thenceforward of the north-west wind, Kiwadin, of the home-wind, the Kiwadin. Thus was fought that famous battle in the dreadful days of Shasha, in the days long since departed, in the kingdom of the west wind. Still the hunter sees its traces scattered far over hill and valley, sees the giant bullrush growing by the ponds and water-courses, sees the masses of the war-beak, lying still in every valley. Homeward now went Hiawatha. Pleasant was the landscape round him, pleasant was the air above him, for the bitterness of anger had departed wholly from him. From his brain the thought of vengeance, from his heart the burning fever. Only once his pace he slackened, only once he paused or halted, paused to purchase heads of arrows of the ancient arrow-maker in the lands of the Dakotas, where the falls of Minihaha flash and gleam among the oak trees laugh and leap into the valley. There the ancient arrow-maker made his arrow-heads of sandstone, arrow-heads of chalcedony, arrow-heads of flint and jasper, smooth and sharpened at the edges, hard and polished, keen and costly. With him dwelt his dark-eyed daughter, wayward as the Minihaha, with her moods of shade and sunshine, eyes that smiled and frowned alternate, feet as rapid as the river, tresses flowing like the water, and as musical a laughter, and he named her from the river, from the waterfall he named her, Minihaha, laughing water. Was it then for heads of arrows, arrow-heads of chalcedony, arrow-heads of flint and jasper, that my hire-whother halted in the land of the Dakotas? Was it not to see the maiden, see the face of laughing water, peeping from behind the curtain, hear the rustling of her garments from behind the waving curtain? As one sees the Minihaha gleaming, glancing through the branches, as one hears the laughing water from behind its screen of branches. Who shall say what thoughts and visions fill the fiery brains of young men? Who shall say what dreams of beauty filled the heart of hire-whother? All he told to old Nokomis when he reached the lodge at sunset, was the meeting with his father, was his fight with Mujikewis. Not a word, he said, of arrows, not a word of laughing water. End of Section 4 Section 5 of the Song of Hire-whother This Slibrivox recording is in the public domain, recorded by Peter Yersley. The Song of Hire-whother by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Section 5. Hire-whother's Fasting You shall hear how Hire-whother prayed and fasted in the forest, not for greater skill in hunting, not for greater craft in fishing, not for triumphs in the battle and renown among the warriors, but for profit of the people, for advantage of the nations. First he built a lodge for fasting, built a wigwam in the forest by the shining big-sea water, in the blithe and pleasant springtime, in the moon of leaves he built it, and with dreams and visions many, seven whole days and nights he fasted. On the first day of his fasting, through the leafy woods he wandered, saw the deer start from the thicket, saw the rabbit in his burrow, heard the pheasant, beiner, drumming, heard the squirrel, Agidamo, rattling in his horde of acorns, heard the pigeon, the omemi, building nests among the pine trees, and in flocks the wild goose, wow-wow, flying to the fennlands northwards, whirring, wailing far above him. Master of life, he cried, desponding, must our lives depend on these things? On the next day of his fasting, by the river's brink he wandered, through the muscaday the meadow, saw the wild rice, manamoni, saw the blueberry, meenagar, and the strawberry, odamin, and the gooseberry, shabomin, and the grapevine, the bimargut, trailing o'er the older branches, filling all the air with fragrance. Master of life, he cried, desponding, must our lives depend on these things? On the third day of his fasting, by the lake he sat and pondered, by the still, transparent water, saw the sturgeon, nama, leeping, scattering drops like beads of wampum, saw the yellow perch, the sour, lack a sun-beam in the water, saw the pike, the maskinoja, and the herring, okahawis, and the shogasi, the crawfish. Master of life, he cried, desponding, must our lives depend on these things? On the fourth day of his fasting, in his lodge he lay exhausted, from his couch of leaves and branches, gazing with half-open eyelids full of shadowy dreams and visions, on a dizzy, swimming landscape, on the gleaming of the water, on the splendour of the sunset, and he saw a youth approaching, dressed in garments green and yellow, coming through the purple twilight, through the splendour of the sunset. Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead, and his hair was soft and golden. Standing at the open doorway, long he looked at Hiawatha, looked with pity and compassion, on his wasted form and features, and in accents like the sighing of the south wind in the treetops, said he, O my Hiawatha, all your prayers are heard in heaven, for you pray not like the others, not for greater skill in hunting, not for greater craft in fishing, not for triumph in the battle, nor renown among the warriors, but for profit of the people, or advantage of the nations. From the master of life descending, I, the friend of man Mondamin, come to warn you and instruct you, how by struggle and by labour you shall gain what you have prayed for. Rise up from your bed of branches, rise, O youth, and wrestle with me! Faint with famine, Hiawatha started from his bed of branches, from the twilight of his wigwam forth into the flush of sunset, came and wrestled with Mondamin. At his touch he felt new courage throbbing in his brain and bosom, felt new life and hope, and vigor run through every nerve and fibre. So they wrestled there together in the glory of the sunset, and the more they strove and struggled, stronger still grew Hiawatha, till the darkness fell around them, and the heron, the Shushuga, from her nest among the pine trees, gave a cry of lamentation, gave a scream of pain and famine. "'Tis enough!' then said Mondamin, smiling upon Hiawatha, "'But tomorrow, when the sun sets, I will come again to try you.' And he vanished, and was seen not, whether sinking as the rain sinks, whether rising as the mists rise, Hiawatha saw not, knew not, only saw that he had vanished, leaving him alone and fainting, with the misty lake below him and the reeling stars above him. On the morrow and the next day, when the sun through heaven descending, like a red and burning cinder from the hearth of the Great Spirit, fell into the western waters, came Mondamin for the trial, for the strife with Hiawatha, came as silent as the dew comes, from the empty air appearing, into empty air returning, taking shape when earth it touches, but invisible to all men in its coming and its going. Thrice they wrestled there together, in the glory of the sunset, till the darkness fell around them, till the heron, the Shushuga, from her nest among the pine trees, uttered her loud cry of famine, and Mondamin paused to listen. Tall and beautiful he stood there, in his garments green and yellow, to and fro, his plumes above him waved and nodded with his breathing, and the sweat of the encounter stood like drops of dew upon him.  Then he smiled and said, Tomorrow is the last day of your conflict, is the last day of your fasting, you will conquer and overcome me. Make a bed for me to lie in, where the rain may fall upon me, where the sun may come and warm me. Strip these garments green and yellow, strip this nodding plumage from me, lay me in the earth, and make it soft and loose, and light above me.  Only come, yourself, to watch me, till I wake and start and quicken, till I leap into the sunshine, and, thus saying, he departed. Peacefully slept Hiawatha, but he heard the Wama Naisa, heard the Whippawil, complaining, perched upon his lonely wig-wam, heard the rushing Sebuisha, heard the rivulet rippling near him, talking to the darksome forest, heard the sighing of the branches, as they lifted and subsided at the passing of the night wind, heard them as one hears in slumber far off murmurs dreamy whispers. Peacefully slept Hiawatha. On the morrow came Nokomis on the seventh day of his fasting, came with food for Hiawatha, came imploring and bewailing, lest his hunger should o'ercome him, lest his fasting should be fatal, but he tasted not and touched not, only said to her, Nokomis, wait until the sun is setting, till the darkness falls around us, till the heron, the Shushuga, crying from the desolate marshes, tells us that the day is ended. Homeward weeping went Nokomis, sorrowing for her Hiawatha, fearing lest his strength should fail him, lest his fasting should be fatal. He meanwhile sat weary, waiting for the coming of Mondamin, till the shadows pointing eastward, lengthened over field and forest, till the sun dropped from the heaven, floating on the waters westward, as a red leaf in the autumn falls and floats upon the water, falls and sinks into its bosom. And behold, the young Mondamin with his soft and shining tresses, with his garments green and yellow, with his long and glossy plumage, stood and beckoned at the doorway, and as one in slumber walking, pale and haggard, but undaunted, from the wigwam Hiawatha came and wrestled with Mondamin. Round about him spun the landscape, sky and forest reeled together, and his strong heart leaped within him, as the sturgeon leaps and struggles in a net to break its meshes, like a ring of fire around him, blazed and flared the red horizon, and a hundred suns seemed looking at the combat of the wrestlers. Suddenly upon the greensward all alone stood Hiawatha, panting with his wild exertion, palpitating with the struggle, and before him breathless, lifeless, lay the youth with hair dishevelled, plumage torn and garments tattered, dead he lay there in the sunset. And victorious Hiawatha made the grave as he commanded, stripped the garments from Mondamin, stripped his tattered plumage from him, laid him in the earth, and made it soft and loose and light above him, and the heron, the Shushuga, from the melancholy Moorlands, gave a cry of lamentation, gave a cry of pain and anguish. Homeward then went Hiawatha to the lodge of Old Nokomis, and the seven days of his fasting were accomplished and completed. But the place was not forgotten where he wrestled with Mondamin, nor forgotten nor neglected was the grave where lay Mondamin, sleeping in the rain and sunshine, where his scattered plumes and garments faded in the rain and sunshine. Day by day did Hiawatha go to wait and watch beside it, kept the dark mould soft above it, kept it clean from weeds and insects, drove away with scoffs and shouting, ka-gagi the king of ravens. Till at length a small green feather from the earth shot slowly upward, then another and another, and before the summer ended stood the maize in all its beauty with its shining robes about it, and its long, soft, yellow tresses, and in rapture Hiawatha cried aloud, It is Mondamin! Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin! Then he called to Old Nokomis and Iago, the great boaster, showed them where the maize was growing, told them of his wondrous vision of his wrestling and his triumph of this new gift to the nations which should be their food for ever. And still later when the autumn changed the long green leaves to yellow, and the soft and juicy kernels grew like wampum hard and yellow, then the ripened ears he gathered stripped the withered husks from off them, as he once had stripped the wrestler, gave the first feast of Mondamin and made known unto the people this new gift of the great spirit. The 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 Quassind. Straight between them ran the pathway never grew the grass upon it, singing birds that utter falsehoods, storytellers, 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 sebovisha, ceased to murmur in the woodland, that the wood-birds ceased from singing, and the squirrel, Adjidamo, ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, and the rabbit, the wabasso, sat upright to look and listen. Yes, the brook, the sebovisha, pausing said, Oh Chibiabos, teach my waves to flow in music, softly as your words in singing. Yes, the bluebird, the owaisa, envious said, Oh Chibiabos, teach me tones as wild and wayward, teach me songs as full of frenzy.  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 Ponema, 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 quassined, he the strongest of all mortals, he the mightiest among many, for his very strength he loved him, for his strength allied to goodness. Idol in his youth was quassined, 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 quassined, 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 over 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 ring them, yinadize, go and dry them in the sunshine. Slowly from the ashes quassined rose, 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 ring them without breaking, such the strength was in his fingers.  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 quassined lifted, to the right hand, to the left hand, shot the pine trees swift as arrows, hurled the cedars, light as lances. Lazy quassined, said the young man, 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 quotes together. Lazy quassined, 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 Powatting, where it still is seen in summer. Once as down that foaming river, down the rapids of Powatting, quassined sailed with his companions. In the stream he saw a beaver, saw Amik, the king of beavers, struggling with the rushing currents, rising, sinking in the water, without speaking, without pausing, quassined leapt into the river, plunged beneath the bubbling surface, threw the whirlpools, chased the beaver, followed him among the islands, stayed so long beneath the water, that his terrified companions cried, Alas, goodbye to quassined, we shall nevermore see quassined, 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, Chibi Arbos, the musician, and the very strong man, quassined, long they lived in peace together, spake with naked hearts together, pondering much and much contriving how the tribes of men might prosper. Give me of your bark, o' birch tree, of your yellow bark, o' birch tree. Growing by the rushing river, tall and stately in the valley, I, a light canoe, will build me. Build a swift chimaun for sailing that shall float upon the river like a yellow leaf in autumn, like a yellow water lily.  Thus aloud cried Hiawatha in the solitary forest, by the rushing tachquamenu, where the birds were singing gaily, in the moon of leaves were singing, and the sun from sleep awaking started up and said, Behold me, hee-sus, the great sun, Behold me! And the tree with all its branches rustled in the breeze of morning, saying, with a sigh of patience, Take my cloak, o Hiawatha! With his knife the tree he girdled, just beneath its lowest branches, just above the roots he cut it, till the sap came oozing outward, down the trunk from top to bottom, sheer he cleft the bark asunder, with a wooden wedge he raised it, stripped it from the trunk, unbroken. Give me of your boughs, o Cedar, of your strong and pliant branches, my canoe, to make more steady, make more strong and firm beneath me. Through the summit of the Cedar went a sound, a cry of horror, went a murmur of resistance, but it whispered, bending downwards, Take my boughs, o Hiawatha! Down he hewed the boughs of Cedar, shaped them straightway to a framework, like two bows he formed and shaped them, like two bended bows together. Give me of your roots, o Tamarack, of your fibrous roots, o Larch Tree, my canoe, to bind together, so to bind the ends together, that the water may not enter, that the river may not wet me. And the larch, with all its fibres, shivered in the air of mourning, touched his forehead with its tassels, said, with one long sigh of sorrow, Take them all, o Hiawatha! From the earth he tore the fibres, tore the tough roots of the larch Tree, closely sowed the bark together, bound it closely to the framework. Give me of your balm, o Furtree, of your balsam and your resin, so to close the seams together, that the water may not enter, that the river may not wet me. And the Furtree, tall and somber, sobbed through all its robes of darkness, rattled like a shore with pebbles, answered wailing, answered weeping, Take my balm, o Hiawatha! And he took the tears of balsam, took the resin of the Furtree, smeared there with each seam and fissure, made each crevice safe from water. Give me of your quills, o Hedgehog, all your quills, o Carg, the Hedgehog, I will make a necklace of them, make a girdle for my beauty, and two stars to deck her bosom. From a hollow tree, the Hedgehog with its sleepy eyes looked at him, shot his shining quills like arrows, saying with a drowsy murmur through the tangle of his whiskers, Take my quills, o Hiawatha! From the ground the quills he gathered, all the little shining arrows, stained them red and blue and yellow with the juice of roots and berries. Into his canoe he wrought them, round its waist a shining girdle, round its boughs a gleaming necklace, on its breast two stars resplendent. Thus the birch canoe was builded in the valley by the river, in the bosom of the forest, and the forest's life was in it, all its mystery and its magic, all the lightness of the birch tree, all the toughness of the cedar, all the larches supple sinews, and it floated on the river like a yellow leaf in autumn, like a yellow water lily. Paddles none had Hiawatha, paddles none he had or needed, for his thoughts as paddles served him, and his wishes served to guide him, swift or slow at will he glided, veered to right or left at pleasure. Then he called aloud to Quassind, to his friend the strongman, Quassind, saying, Help me clear this river of its sunken logs and sandbars. Straight into the river, Quassind plunged as if he were an otter, dived as if he were a beaver, stood up to his waist in water, to his armpits in the river, swam and scouted in the river, tugged at sunken logs and branches. With his hands he scooped the sandbars, with his feet the ooze and tangle. And thus sailed my Hiawatha down the rushing taquamain, or sailed through all its bends and windings, sailed through all its deeps and shallows. While his friend the strongman, Quassind, swam the deeps, the shallows waded. Up and down the river went they, in and out among its islands, cleared its bed of root and sandbar, dragged the dead trees from its channel, made its passage safe and certain, made a pathway for the people from its springs among the mountains, to the waters of Powatting, to the bay of Taquamain, or... The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wordsworth Longfellow, Section 8, Hiawatha's Fishing Fourth upon the Gitchigumi, on the shining big sea water, with his fishing-line of cedar, of the twisted bark of cedar, fourth to catch the sturgeon, Nama, Mishé Nama, king of fishes, in his birch canoe exalting, all alone went Hiawatha. Through the clear, transparent water, he could see the fishes swimming far down in the depths below him. See the yellow perch, the sour, like a sunbeam in the water. See the shogashii, the crawfish, 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 morning played as in the hemlock branches. On the boughs with tail erected by the coral Ajidama, in his fur the breeze of morning played as in the prairie grasses. On the white sand of the bottom lay the monster Mishé Nama, 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 side and back and shoulders, plates of bone with spines projecting. Painted 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 Hiawatha in his birch canoe came sailing with his fishing-line of cedar. Take my bait, tried Hiawatha, down into the depths beneath him. Take my bait, O sturgeon Nama, come up from below the water, let us see which is the stronger. And he dropped his line of cedar through 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 Nama, fanning slowly in the water, looking up at Hiawatha, listening to his call and clamour, his unnecessary tumult, till he wearied of the shouting, and he said to the canoja, to the pike, the maskinoja, take the bait of this rude fellow, break the line of Hiawatha.  As he drew it in, it tugged so that the birch canoe stood end-wise, like a birch log in the water, with the squirrel Adjidamo perched and frisking on the summit. Full of scorn was Hiawatha when he saw the fish rise upward, saw the pike, the maskinoja, coming nearer, nearer to him, and he shouted through the water, Essa, Essa, shame upon you, you are but the pike canoja, you are not the fish I wanted, you are not the king of fishes? Reeling downward to the bottom, sank the pike in great confusion, and the mighty surgeon Nama said to Ubudwash the sunfish, 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 Ubudwash the sunfish, seized the line of Hiawatha, and 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 water reached the far-off sandy beaches, till the water flags and rushes nodded on the distant margins.  Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming, sank the Ubudwash the sunfish, and again the sturgeon, Nama, heard the shout of Hiawatha, heard his challenge of defiance, the unnecessary tumult, ringing far across the water, from the white sand of the bottom up he rose with angry gesture, quivering in each nerve and fibre, clashing all his plates of armour gleaming bright with all his war-paint, in his wroth he darted upward, flashing leaped into the sunshine, opened his great jaws, and swallowed both canoe and Hiawatha. Down into that darksome cavern, plunged the headlong Hiawatha, as a log on some black river shoots 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 Nama, felt the mighty king of fishes shudder through each nerve and fibre, heard the water gurgle round him as he leaped and staggered through it, sick at heart and faint and weary. Crosswise then did Hiawatha drag his birch canoe for safety, lest from out the jaws of Nama in the turmoil and confusion, forth he moaned, and perish, and the squirrel Ajidamo frisked and chatted very gaily, toiled and tugged with Hiawatha till the labour was completed.   Then he heard a clang and flapping 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 Nama, saw the glittering eyes of seagulls, of Kayoshk, the seagulls peering, gazing at him through the opening, heard them saying to each other, Tis our brother, Hiawatha, and he shouted from below them, cried exalting from the caverns, O ye seagulls, O my brothers, I have slain the surgeon Nama, make the rifts a little larger, with your claws the openings widen, set me free from this dark prison, and hence forward and for ever men shall speak of your achievements, calling you Kayoshk, the seagulls, yes, Kayoshk, the noble scratchers, and the wild and clamorous seagulls, toiled with beak and claws together, made the rifts and openings wider in the mighty ribs of Nama, and from peril and from prison, from the body of the surgeon, 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 surgeon Nama, lying lifeless on the pebbles with the seagulls feeding on him, I have slain the Mishay Nama, slain the king of fishes, said he, look the seagulls feed upon him, yes my friends Kayoshk, the seagulls, drive them not away Nokomis, they have saved me from great peril in the body of the surgeon, wait until their meal is ended, till their claws are full with feasting, till they home would 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 sunset, till the pallid moon, the night sun, rose above the tranquil water, till Kayoshk, the sated seagulls, from their banquet rose with clamour, and across the fiery sunset winged their way to far off islands, to their nests among the rushes. To his sleep went Hiawatha and Nokomis to her labour, toiling, patient in the moonlight, till the sun and moon changed places, till the sky was red with sunrise, and Kayoshk, the hungry seagulls came back from the reedy islands, clamorous, for their morning banquet. Three whole days and nights alternate, Holdonokomis and the seagulls stripped the oily flesh of Nama, till the waves washed through the rib bones, till the seagulls came no longer, and upon the sands lay nothing but the skeleton of Nama. End of Section 8 Section 9 of the Song of Hiawatha On the shores of Gichigumi 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 descending burned his way along the heavens, sets 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, and Nokomis, the old woman, pointing with her finger westward, spake these words to Hiawatha. Yonder dwells the great pearl feather, Megisogwon 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 Kinabik, the great serpents, coiling, playing in the water. You can see the black pitch water stretching 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 vapours, sends the poisonous exhalations, sends the white fog from the fennlands, sends the white fog from the fennlands, sends disease and death among us.  Slay this merciless magician, the fennlands, and avenge my father's murder. Straightway then my Hiawatha armed himself with all his war-gear, launched his birch canoe for sailing.  Forward leaped Chimorn exalting, and the noble Hiawatha sang his war-song wild and woeful. And above him the war-eagle, the canoe, the great war-eagle, master of all fouls with feathers, screamed and hurtled through the heavens. Soon he reached the fiery serpents, the kanabic, the great serpents, lying huge upon the water, sparkling, rippling in the water, lying coiled across the passage, blazing crests uplifted, breathing fiery fogs and vapours so that none could pass beyond them. But the fearless Hiawatha cried aloud and spake in this wise, let me pass my way, kanabic, let me go upon my journey.  Then the angry Hiawatha raised his mighty bow of ashtree, seized his arrows jasper-headed, shot them fast among the serpents.  Every whizzing of an arrow was a death-song of kanabic.  Then he took the oil of Nama, and the bows and sides anointed, smeared them well with oil, that swiftly he 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 of 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 a sugema, the mosquito, sang his war-song, and the fireflies, Stacey, waved their torches to mislead him, and the bullfrog, 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 fennlands, and the heron, the shushuga, far off on the reedy margin, heralded the heroes coming. Westward thus fared Hiawatha toward the realm of Megisogwan, toward the land of the pearl-feather, till the level-moon stared at him, in his face steered pale and haggard, till the sun was hot behind him, till it burned upon his shoulders, and before him on the upland he could see the shining wigwam of the manator of Wampum, of the mightiest of magicians. Then once more chimon he patted, to his birch canoe said, onward, and it stirred in all its fibres, and with one great bound of triumph leaped across the water lilies, leaped through tangled flags and rushes, and upon the beach beyond them dry 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, just beheaded, 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 wigwam came the mighty Megisogwan, tall of statua, broad of shoulder, dark and terrible in aspect, clad from head to foot in Wampum, 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, oh sure-good-ire, 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.  Then began the greatest battle that the son 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 Hiawatha, harmless, hit the shirt of Wampum. Harmless fell the blows he dealt it, with his mittens, Minjukarwin. Harmless fell the heavy war-club, it could dash the rocks asunder, but it could not break the meshes of that magic shirt of Wampum.  Suddenly from the boughs above him sang the marmar, the woodpecker, aim your arrow's Hiawatha at the head of Megisogwon, 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 Megisogwon, 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 Pejaqui, 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, wounded soreer than the other, and the knees of Megisogwon shook like windy reeds beneath him, bent and trembled like the rushes. But the third and latest arrow, swiftest flew, and wounded soreest, and the mighty Megisogwon, saw the fiery eyes of Powgook, saw the eyes of death glare at him, heard his voice call in the darkness. At the feet of Hiawatha, lifeless, lay the great pearl feather, lay the mightiest of magicians. Then the grateful Hiawatha called the mama, the woodpecker, from his perch among the branches of the melancholy pine-tree, and in honour of his service, stained with blood, the tuft of feathers on the little head of mama. Even to this day he wears it, wears the tuft of crimson feathers as a symbol of his service. Then he stripped the shirt of Wampum from the back of Megisogwon as a trophy of the battle, as a symbol of his conquest. On the shore he left the body, half on land and half in water. In the sand his feet were buried, and his face was in the water. And above him, wheeled and clamoured the canoe, the great war-eagle, sailing round in narrower circles, hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. From the wickwam Hiawatha bore the wealth of Megisogwon, all his wealth of skins and Wampum, furs of bison and of beaver, furs of sable and of ermine. Wampum belts and strings and pouches, quivers wrought with beads of Wampum, filled with arrows silver-headed. Homeward then he sailed, exulting. Homeward through the black pitch-water, Homeward through the weltering serpents, with the trophies of the battle, with a shout and song of triumph. On the shore stood old Nokomis, on the shore stood Chibiabos, and the very strongman Quassind, waiting for the heroes coming, listening to his songs of triumph, and the people of the village welcomed him with songs and dances, made a joyous feast and shouted Honor be to Hiawatha! He has slain the great pearl-feather, slain the mightiest of nations, him who sent the fiery fever, sent the white fog from the Fenlands, sent disease and death among us. Ever dear to Hiawatha was the memory of Marmar, and in token of his friendship, as a mark of his remembrance he adorned and decked his pipe-stem with the crimson tuft of feathers, with the blood-red crest of Marmar, but the wealth of Megisogwon, and all the trophies of the battle he divided with his people, shared it equally among them. End of Section 9 Section 10 of the Song of Hiawatha this Librivox recording is in the public domain recording by Peter Yersley the Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wordsworth Longfellow Section 10 Hiawatha's wooing As unto the bow the cord is so unto the man is woman though she bends him she obeys him though she draws him yet she follows useless each without the other thus the youthful Hiawatha said within himself and pondered much perplexed by various feelings listless, longing, hoping, fearing dreaming still of Minnehaha of the lovely laughing water in the land of the Dakotas wed a maiden of your people warning said the old Nokomis go not eastward go not westward for a stranger whom we know not like a fire upon the hearthstone is a neighbour's homely daughter like the starlight or the moonlight is the handsomest of strangers thus dissuading spake Nokomis and my Hiawatha answered only this Nokomis very pleasant is the firelight but I like the starlight better better do I like the moonlight gravely then said old Nokomis bring not here an idle maiden bring not here a useless woman hands unskillful feet unwilling bring a wife with nimble fingers hearts and hands that move together feet that run on willing errands smiling answered Hiawatha in the land of the Dakotas lives the arrow maker's daughter Minnehaha laughing water handsomest of all the women I will bring her to your wigwem she shall run upon your errands be your starlight moonlight, firelight be the sunlight of my people still dissuading said Nokomis bring not to my lodge a stranger from the land of the Dakotas very fierce are the Dakotas often is there war between us there are feuds yet unforgotten wounds that ache and still may open laughing answered Hiawatha for that reason if no other would I wed the fair Dakota that our tribes might be united that old feuds might be forgotten and old wounds be healed forever thus departed Hiawatha to the lands of the Dakotas the land of handsome women striding over moor and meadow through interminable forests through uninterrupted silence with his moccasins of magic at each stride a mile he measured yet the way seemed long before him and his heart outran his footsteps and he journeyed without resting till he heard the cataracts laughter heard the falls of Minnehaha calling to him through the silence pleasant is the sound he murmured pleasant is the voice that calls me on the outskirts of the forests twixed the shadow and the sunshine herds of fallow deer were feeding but they saw not Hiawatha to his bow he whispered fail not to his arrow whispered swerve not sent it singing on its errand to the red heart through the buck through the deer across his shoulder and sped forward without pausing at the doorway of his wigwam sat the ancient arrow maker in the land of the Dakotas making arrowheads of Jasper arrowheads of Chalcedony at his side in all her beauty sat the lovely Minnehaha sat his daughter laughing water platting mats of flags and rushes of the past the old man's thoughts were and the maidens of the future he was thinking as he sat there of the days when with such arrows he had struck the deer and bison on the muskadee the meadow shot the wild goose flying southward on the wing the clamorous wah-wah thinking of the great war parties how they came to buy his arrows could not fight without his arrows ah, no more such noble warriors could be found on earth as they were now the men were all like women only used their tongues for weapons she was thinking of a hunter from another tribe and country young and tall and very handsome who, one morning in the springtime came to buy her father's arrows sat and rested in the wigwam lingered long about the doorway looking at him and he sat there lingered long about the doorway looking back as he departed she had heard her father praise him praise his courage and his wisdom would he come again for arrows to the falls of Minnehaha on the mat her hands lay idle and her eyes were very dreamy through their thoughts they heard a footstep heard a rustling in the branches and with glowing cheek and forehead with the deer upon his shoulders suddenly from out the woodlands Hiawatha stood before them straight the ancient arrow maker looked up gravely from his labour laid aside the unfinished arrow bad him enter at the doorway saying as he rose to meet him Hiawatha you are welcome at the feet of laughing water Hiawatha laid his burden through the red deer from his shoulders and the maiden looked up at him looked up from her mat of rushes said with gentle look and accent you are welcome Hiawatha very spacious was the wigwam made of deer skins dressed and whitened with the gods of the Dakotas drawn and painted on its curtains and so tall the doorway hardly Hiawatha stooped to enter hardly touched his eagle feathers as he entered at the doorway then up rose the laughing water from the ground fair Mini Hiawatha laid aside her mat unfinished brought forth food and set before them water brought them from the brooklet gave them food in earthen vessels gave them drink in bowls of basswood listened while the guest was speaking listened while her father answered but not once her lips she opened not a single word she uttered yes as in a dream she listened to the words of Hiawatha as he talked of old Nokomis who had nursed him in his childhood as he told of his companions Chibi Arbos the musician and the very strong man Quassind and of happiness and plenty in the land of the Ojibwe in the pleasant land and peaceful after many years of warfare many years of strife and bloodshed there is peace between the Ojibwe's and the tribe of the Dakotas thus continued Hiawatha and then added speaking slowly that this peace may last forever and our hands be clasped more closely and our hearts be more united give me as my wife this maiden Mini Hiawatha laughing water loveliest of Dakota women and the ancient hero maker paused a moment ere he answered smoked a little while in silence looked at Hiawatha proudly fondly looked at laughing water and made answer very gravely yes if Mini Hiawatha wishes let your heart speak Mini Hiawatha and the lovely laughing water seemed more lovely as she stood there neither willing nor reluctant as she went to Hiawatha softly took the seat beside him while she said and blushed to say it I will follow you my husband this was Hiawatha's wooing thus it was he won the daughter of the ancient arrow maker in the land of the Dakotas from the wigwam he departed leading with him laughing water hand in hand they went together through the woodland and the meadow left the old man standing lonely at the doorway of his wigwam heard the falls of Mini Hiawatha calling to them from the distance crying to them from afar off fare thee well, oh Mini Hiawatha and the ancient arrow maker turned again unto his labour sat down by his sunny doorway murmuring to himself and saying thus it is our daughters leave us those we love and those who love us just when they have learnt to help us when we are old and lean upon them comes a youth with flaunting feathers with his flute of reeds a stranger wanders piping through the village beckons to the fairest maiden and she follows where he leads her leaving all things for the stranger pleasant was the journey homeward through interminable forests over meadow over mountain over river hill and hollow short it seemed to Hiawatha though they journeyed very slowly though his pace he checked and slackened to the steps of laughing water over wide and rushing rivers in his arms he bore the maiden light he thought her as a feather as the plume upon his headgear cleared the tangled pathway for her bent aside the swaying branches made at night a lodge of branches and a bed with boughs of hemlock and a fire before the doorway with the dry cones of the pine tree all the travelling winds went with them o'er the meadows through the forest all the stars of night looked at them watched with sleepless eyes their slumber from his ambush in the oak tree peeped the squirrel Adjudalmo watched with eager eyes the lovers and the rabbit the Wabasso scampered from the path before them peering peeping from his burrow sat erect upon his haunches watched with curious eyes the lovers pleasant was the journey homeward all the birds sang loud and sweetly songs of happiness and heart's ease sang the bluebird the Owaesa happy are you Hiawatha having such a wife to love you sang the robin the Opeci happy are you laughing water having such a noble husband from the sky the sun benignant looked upon them through the branches saying to them oh my children love is sunshine hate is shadow life is checkered shade and sunshine ruled by love O Hiawatha from the sky the moon looked at them filled the lodge with mystic splendours whispered to them oh my children day is restless night is quiet man imperious woman feeble half is mine although I follow rule by patience laughing water thus it was they journeyed homeward thus it was that Hiawatha to the lodge of old Nokomis brought the moonlight starlight, firelight brought the sunshine of his people Minnehaha laughing water handsomest of all the women in the land of the Dakotas in the land of handsome women End of section 10


So what's the actual purpose of life? I'm on my farm. Winter time, horses are enjoying not doing any work, eh? How you been, girl? What's the actual purpose of life? It's interesting, you can ask this question to a lot of people and you get a lot of answers and some more portable chicken pens there. An interesting question, and Sigmund Freud in his book, Civilization as Discontent. Probably the greatest book nobody knows about. If you ask, people always ask me, Ty, what's like a book that, you know, is a game changer? I'm like, civilization is discontent. One of the second chapter he basically says, you know, what is the purpose of life? He said, this is a question that's been asked without end, by millions of people, by great philosophers. And he said, and it seems nobody has an answer. And he said, maybe that's because there is no answer. But he says, as to the behavior of men and women, we can ascertain that they seek pleasure and avoid pain or simply they seek happiness. But I give a more nuanced answer. Little sacrifice lot, we call it in the winter time, so horses can be out. You gotta rotate those around every year. So, I'm gonna give you a different answer though. I've thought a lot about this. I would say the purpose of life is love, but not Hollywood love. Not what everybody talks about when I say, I hate to even say the word love. So actually, what if I said the word social life? The purpose, and I'm not talking about what the purpose of life is after death. That's not something I know much about. But as to the purpose of life on earth, I'd say it's social slash love. So in my 67 steps, it's divided four categories, the four pillars, health, wealth, love, happiness. Love, the third pillar, breaks into three subsets. So those three subsets are friends, family, romance. I would say, as a practical matter, the purpose of life is friends, family, romance. Which you can call that love or you can call that social. You know, there's three types of love in like old Greek or Latin, you know? There's agape, eros and phileo. And like agape is like family love, unconditional love you have for your kids. Oh, I've got some more horses that wanna come see these horses. How you doing? They got their winter coat, they're kinda shaggy right now. This is my Amish homestead farm. When I was younger, I lived with the Amish for two and a half years. I wasn't Amish, but I lived with them in their homes and farm and I have a farm in the middle of an Amish community. So, in fact some of the Amish are keep boarding their horses here this winter. Anyway, so I will say the purpose of life on earth, a simpler version is social or love. Agape, phileo and eros. So that's friends family romance. Agape is like the family love, unconditional love. Phileo is like the friendship love. My friend Zach tragically just died. You know, been close friends is like insane. It's still kind of a blur. Like I go to text him something funny, you know? You've seen him on my social funny. Always been a comedian even when we were teenagers. But I had phileo type love for him as a friend, you know?   And then you have eros. That's where the word erotic comes from. That's romance, that's sexual love. That's what makes the world go around. So to me, the reason you make money, the reason you stay in shape physically, even the reason you seek happiness. See, I would slightly disagree with Sigmund Freud if I may, even though I consider him such an underrated person. So many people in the model world are like, oh, Sigmund Freud, didn't he? You know, the id, the super ego. Hasn't this guy's methodologies and hypotheses been disproven? I'm like, yeah, that was in, you know, late 1800s, early 1900s. The man, I don't know if I've ever read anyone at some level more genius than what he wrote, the simplicity of complex, that he laid out super complex subjects. But if you think about this, okay? Happiness, he said, it seems by the behavior of humans that we seek happiness. We may seek it, but it doesn't mean it's the purpose. Happiness is the fuel that allows you to get out of bed, but ultimately humans are social creatures. This is a great book by Matt Lieberman, former Harvard, now he's at UCLA, neuroscientist. And he has all this advanced research he's done with FMRI machines where you study the brain, brain function, it's all social. It's all social. We dream about social situations. Our fears are social. Our ambitions are social. Our appetites are rooted in social. Here come the big horses, you can hear them thundering. Some big Belgian. You guys having fun out there? They got the time of their life. This farm's a good farm for work. They have a good life here. So everything, if you read that book social, by Matt Lieberman, by the way, I'll put some show notes and some links to this quick little podcast. So tylopez.com slash podcast 322-23. If you go to that link, tylopez.com slash podcast 322-23, today's date. You can grab links and I'll put some references that I talk about here in that blog notes, show notes. So the purpose of life at an fMRI level, functional magnetic resonance imaging machine, when you study the brain, no matter what people say, the scans don't lie. We think in social terms, we live in social terms. The great billionaire, what was his name? Anastasia, the Greek billionaire who married JFK's widow. He said, all the money in the world doesn't matter if there wasn't women. That was his take on it. But if you read deeper, that was a social, he was saying that at a core level, the other pillars of the good life, health, wealth and happiness, they exist to support your movement towards a better social life. So, today's episode, I try to, on my podcast and my vlogs, I try to talk about, Monday I talk about health, Tuesday I talk about wealth. Today's Wednesday, I talk about love, social. So that's why I'm on this subject. But purpose of life for you is to do the things that support an insanely fulfilling social life on all three of those social subtenants, foundations. So the four pillars break into three each and those are the 12 foundations. So the three foundations of love are friends, family and romance. So it's simple, you ask yourself, are you surrounded by close friends, loyal friends? People would take a bullet for you, you'd take a bullet for them.  All the muscles in the world, if you're a gym rat, doesn't matter. Even being happy, being happy alone in a cave. And I know some people will disagree with me people are very esoteric, hyper quote unquote spiritual. I'm not trying to knock anybody, but I don't buy it. I don't buy it, you're not living. Well, Matt Lieberman's proven that fMRI machines don't lie. You can't change your DNA, not significantly.  You're locked in, there's a biological imperative. And so you can't be happy alone. People say, ah, you should, like I'm so, I'm a very counterculture person. I'm contrarian through and through. Like people are like, before you find love, you have to love yourself alone.  What, how about this? It appears to be true, but at closer examination, it fails the test of truth. And you might say, what is truth? Well, you really think people, you really think that's the solution?  You found happiness in the tribe. Now, you may take times like the Sioux Indians would take times where they did a spiritual quest, you know, where they go off for three to five days and they fast and don't drink water and stare into the sun, they call that vision quest. That's fine, but they return to the tribe. There was no prolonged, I'm gonna live in a, you know, in a cave on top of a mountain in Nepal. No offense to people who do that. There may be people who that's their life quest, but the vast majority of us, you will find your life.