you in spite of your disguise. I said that you could not escape me," and
Hiawatha and his hunters beat Pau-Puk-Keewis with their heavy clubs
until the beaver's skull was broken into pieces.
Six tall hunters bore the body of the beaver homeward, and it was so
heavy that they had to carry it slung from poles and branches that
rested on their shoulders. But within the dead body Pau-Puk-Keewis still
lived, and thought and felt exactly as a man; and at last, with great
effort he gathered himself together, left the beaver's body and,
assuming once more his own form, he vanished in the forest.
Hiawatha saw the figure as it stole away amid the shadows of the
pine-trees, and with a shout he leaped to his feet and gave chase with
all his hunters, who followed the flying Pau-Puk-Keewis as the rain
follows the wind. The hunted man, all breathless and worn out, came to a
large lake in the middle of the forest, and there he saw the wild geese
that we call the brant, swimming and diving among the water-lilies and
enjoying themselves upon the water.
"O my brothers," called Pau-Puk-Keewis, "change me to a brant with
shining feathers and two strong wings to carry me wherever I will go,
and make me ten times larger than any of you!"
At once they changed him into a huge brant, ten times larger than the
others, and with loud cries and a clamor of wings they rose in the air
and flew high up into the sunlight. As they flew they said to
Pau-Puk-Keewis: "Take care that you do not look downward as you fly, or
something strange and terrible will happen to you."
But suddenly they heard a sound of shouting far beneath them, and
Pau-Puk-Keewis, who recognized the voice of Iagoo and the tones of
Hiawatha, forgot the warning about looking downward, and drew in his
long black neck to gaze upon the distant village. The swift wind that
was blowing behind him caught his mighty tail-feathers, tipped him over,
and Pau-Puk-Keewis, struggling in vain to get his balance, fell through
the clear air like a heavy stone. He heard the shouting of the people
grow louder and louder; he saw the brant become little specks in the air
above him, and plunging downward the great goose struck the ground with
a heavy, sullen thud and lay there dead.
But Pau-Puk-Keewis still lived in the crushed body of the giant bird,
and he swiftly took his own form again and rushed along the shore of the
Big-Sea-Water, with Hiawatha close upon his heels. And Hiawatha shouted
at him as they ran: "The world is not so rough and wide but I shall
catch you, Pau-Puk-Keewis. Hide where you will, but I shall reach you
with my anger!" and he was so close to Pau-Puk-Keewis that he shot out
his right hand to seize him by the shoulder. Pau-Puk-Keewis spun around
in a circle, whirled the dust into the air and leaped into a hollow oak
tree, where he changed himself into a serpent and came gliding out among
the roots.
Hiawatha broke the tree to pieces with a blow of his magic mittens; but
there was no Pau-Puk-Keewis inside of it, and Hiawatha saw him once
again in his own form, running like the wind along the beach.
They ran until they came to the painted sand-stone rocks where the Old
Man of the Mountain has his home, and the Old Man opened the doorway of
the rocks and gave Pau-Puk-Keewis a hiding-place in the gloomy caverns
underneath the mountains, shutting the rock doorway with a heavy crash
as Hiawatha threw himself upon it. With his magic mittens Hiawatha
knocked great holes in the rocks, crying out in tones of thunder: "Open!
Open! I am Hiawatha!" But the Old Man of the Mountain did not answer.
Then Hiawatha raised his hands to the heavens and implored the lightning
and the thunder to come to his aid and break the rocks of sand-stone
into fragments, and the lightning and the thunder came snarling and
rumbling over the Big-Sea-Water at the call of Hiawatha. Together
Hiawatha and the lightning split the rock doorway into fragments, and
the thunder boomed among the caverns, shouting: "Where is
Pau-Puk-Keewis!"
Pau-Puk-Keewis lay dead among the caves of sandstone, killed by Hiawatha
and the lightning and thunder. This time he was dead indeed, crushed by
the rocks that had fallen upon him, and killed in his own form so he
might never rise again.
Hiawatha took the ghost of Pau-Puk-Keewis and changed it into a great
eagle that wheels and circles in the air to this day, screaming from the
mountain peaks and gliding in great slants over deep and empty valleys.
In winter, when the wind whirled the snow in drifts and eddies around
the wigwams, the Indians would say to one another: "There is
Pau-Puk-Keewis, come from the mountains to dance once more among the
villages," and when we see great hills of sifted snow, heaped high and
white by winter wind, we may think of Pau-Puk-Keewis and his dance among
the sand dunes.
XVIII
THE DEATH OF KWASIND
THE name and fame of Kwasind, the strong man, had spread among all
tribes of Indians, and in all the world there was nobody who dared to
wrestle or to strive with this mighty friend of Hiawatha. But the
little pigmy people, the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, plotted against
Kwasind, for they were very much afraid of him, and thought he would
destroy them.
"If this great fellow goes on breaking whatever he touches, tearing
things to pieces and filling the whole world with wonder at his deeds,
what will happen to us?" cried the Little People; "what will become of
the Puk-Wudjies? He will step on us as if we were mushrooms; he will
drive us into the water, and give our bodies to the wicked
_Nee-ba-naw-baigs_ to be eaten." And all the Little People plotted to
murder the cruel and wicked, dangerous, heartless Kwasind.
There was one secret about Kwasind that nobody on earth knew, except
himself and the clever Little People. All his strength and all his
weakness came from the crown of his head. Nowhere but on the crown of
his head could any weapon do him harm, and even there nothing would hurt
him except the blue seed-cone that grows upon the fir-tree. The Little
People had discovered this by their great skill in magic, and they
gathered together the blue cones of the fir-tree and piled them in great
heaps upon the red rock ledges that overhung the river Taquamenaw. There
they sat and waited until Kwasind should pass by in his canoe.
It was a hot summer afternoon when Kwasind, the strong man, in his birch
canoe came floating slowly down the Taquamenaw. The air was very still
and very warm; the insects buzzed and hummed above the silent water, and
the locust sang from the dry, sweet-smelling bushes on the shore.
In Kwasind's ears there was a drowsy murmur, and he felt the spirits of
sleep beat upon his forehead with their soft little war-clubs. At the
first blow his head nodded with slumber; at the second blow his paddle
trailed motionless in the water, and at the third his eyes closed and he
went fast asleep, sitting bolt upright in his canoe. The warm air
quivered on the water, the midges and the gnats sang in tiny voices, and
the locust once more struck up his shrill tune from the river bank, when
the sentinels of the Little People went scampering down the beach,
calling out shrilly that Kwasind was sound asleep in his canoe and
drifting nearer and nearer to the fatal red rocks that overhung the
river. And all the Little People climbed the rocks and peered down upon
the water, waiting until Kwasind should pass beneath.
At last the canoe swung sideways around a bend in the river and came
drifting down the slow-moving current as lightly as an alder-leaf, and
the Little People moved the fir-cones nearer to the edge and crouched
there waiting.
"Death to Kwasind!" they shouted in little voices as the canoe glided
underneath the rocks, "Death to Kwasind!" and they rained down showers
of blue fir-cones right on the defenseless head of the sleeping giant.
As a great boulder is tipped into a stream, Kwasind tottered sideways
from his canoe, struck the water with a sullen plunge that tossed the
spray high in the air, and the waters closed above him with a mighty
sob. Bottom upward his canoe drifted down the river, and nothing was
seen or heard of Kwasind from that day to this. But his memory lived
long among the Indians, who would tell their children of his great feats
of strength, and show to them the boulder that Kwasind had pitched into
the swift Pauwating River when he was little more than a boy.
When the gales of winter tossed the pine-trees and roared among the
branches until they groaned and split with a terrible noise of rending
wood, the Indians would say to one another, as they sat in their warm
wigwams and listened to the wind shake the forest to its roots: "There
goes Kwasind, gathering his firewood!" and in the country where he lived
near the Big-Sea-Water there are still many marks of his great strength
that will show, to any who care to see, what a mighty man this Kwasind
was.
XIX
THE GHOSTS
THE vulture never drops from the heavens to seize his prey upon the
desert but some other vulture views his plunge and follows swiftly.
Other vultures see the second, and in a few minutes their victim finds a
row of them before him and the air dark with their wings.
Just so do troubles come upon human beings, not one at a time but
together, until the unhappy man or woman finds the air as black as
midnight with their shadows, and in this way did troubles pursue the
unfortunate Hiawatha. First Chibiabos died--murdered by the evil
spirits. Then Kwasind was killed as he drifted down the stream asleep in
his canoe; and then in the dark winter, when the ice had bound the
rivers and the trees were naked in the bitter air, another sorrow came
upon Hiawatha. But before it came he had a strange adventure, and from
this he knew that he would be forced to undergo some mighty trial.
One black, wintry evening after the sun had set, Nokomis and Minnehaha
were sitting together in their wigwam waiting for Hiawatha to return
from the hunt, when they heard light and measured footsteps on the snow,
and the curtain that hung in the doorway of their lodge was slowly
lifted. Two shadowy figures entered--two women, who seemed strangers in
the village; and, without a word, they took their seats in the darkest
corner of the wigwam and crouched there silently and sadly, shivering
with cold. Their faces were very white, their clothes were thin and
torn, and they would not answer anything that Nokomis or Minnehaha said
to them.
Was it the wind blowing down the smoke-flue, or was it the hooting of
the owl that made both Minnehaha and Nokomis think that they heard a
voice come out of the darkness and say to them: "These are dead people
that sit before you and share your fire! They are ghosts from the Land
of the Hereafter, who have come to haunt you!" At all events they
thought that such a voice cried out to them, and they were very much
afraid when Hiawatha entered, fresh from hunting, and laid the red deer
he had been carrying at the feet of Minnehaha.
Never before did Hiawatha appear so handsome, and Minnehaha thought him
even nobler than when he came to woo her by the waterfall in the land of
the Dacotahs.
Turning Hiawatha saw the two strange guests who had not said a word when
he had entered, but crouched silently in the darkest corner of the
wigwam, with their hoods drawn over their white faces. Only their eyes
gleamed like dull coals as they gazed upon the firelight. But Hiawatha
did not ask a single question, although he wondered greatly, and he set
about preparing the deer for their evening meal.
When the meat was ready, the two guests, still without saying a word,
sprang like wolves from their corners, seized upon the choicest parts,
the white fat that Hiawatha had saved for Minnehaha, and retreated with
their portions back to the shadow of their corner. And although Hiawatha
and Minnehaha and Nokomis were amazed by the strange actions of their
guests, they did not show it by word or look, but acted as if nothing
had happened. Only Minnehaha found time to whisper to Hiawatha: "They
are famished; let them eat of what they will."
Many days passed, and the two strange women still sat cowering in their
corner of the wigwam; but at night, when everybody slept, they went out
into the gloomy forest and brought back wood and pine-cones for the
fire. Whenever Hiawatha returned from hunting or fishing, and the
evening meal had been prepared, they would leap from their dark corner,
seize the very choicest portions that had been set aside for Minnehaha,
and without any question being asked them, or any blame for their
strange conduct, they would flit back into the darkest shadow and devour
their food like hungry wolves.
Never once did Nokomis or Minnehaha or Hiawatha reprove them by a single
word or look, preferring to endure the insult rather than to break in
any way the law of hospitality and the sacred custom of free-giving; and
through it all the pale, sad women never said a word.
One night, however, Hiawatha lay awake, watching the embers of the fire,
when he heard loud groans and sobbing, and saw the two strange guests
sitting bolt upright on their couches, weeping bitterly. And Hiawatha
asked them: "O my guests, why is it that you are so unhappy and weep
together in the middle of the night? Has old Nokomis or Minnehaha
wronged you in any way or failed to treat you with proper courtesy?"
The two women left off weeping, and answered in low and gentle voices:
"Hiawatha, we are spirits. We are the souls of those who once lived here
on earth, and we have come from the kingdom of Chibiabos to warn you.
"Every cry of sorrow for the dead is heard in the Land of Spirits, and
calls back those of us for whom you mourn. We are much saddened by this
useless sorrow, and we have come from the Blessed Islands to ask you to
tell all your people what we say. Do not vex our ears with weeping, and
do not lay upon our graves so many robes, and kettles, and wampum-belts,
for the spirits find these a heavy burden. Only give us food to carry
with us on our journey, and see that a fire is lighted for us on the
four nights following our death. For the journey to the Land of Spirits
takes four days and four nights, and the cheerful firelight saves us
from groping in the darkness. Now farewell, Hiawatha. We have put you to
a great trial and have found you brave and noble. Do not fail in the
greater trial and the harder struggle that you will shortly have to
suffer."
Their voices died away, and sudden darkness filled the wigwam. Hiawatha
heard the rustle of their garments as they passed him, saw a gleam of
starlight as they lifted the curtain from the doorway; and when he
rekindled the fire he found that the pale, sad women, his strange
guests, had disappeared.
XX
THE FAMINE
OH, the cruel and bitter winter that followed! The ice on the rivers and
lakes became thicker and harder than ever before; the snow on the fields
and in the forests was so deep that the Indians could hardly force their
way out of their buried wigwams. No game ran through the frozen
thickets, no birds flew among the trees. In the level snow the starving
hunters could not find a single track of deer or rabbit, and the corn in
the village became less and less until it was all gone. Then the
children began to cry with hunger, the women went about with faces
pinched and drawn, and the men drew their belts tighter day by day. At
night the stars in the heavens seemed to glare like the eyes of famished
wolves, and the cold wind moaned among the trees as if the very air were
suffering from want. It was an evil time.
When the famine was at its worst, two more strange guests came to the
wigwam of Hiawatha; nor did they linger at the doorway and wait to be
invited in. They entered without a word, and with sunken eyes they gazed
at Minnehaha, and one of them said in a hollow voice: "Look on me! My
name is Famine," and the other one cried out: "I am Fever!"
The lovely Minnehaha shivered when she saw them, and a great chill came
over her. She lay down on her bed and hid her face, and as the wicked
guests continued to gaze she felt first burning heat, then icy coldness
dart like arrows through her body. Hiawatha rushed into the forest to
find some food for Minnehaha and to drive away the awful visitors; but
the forest was bleak and empty, and there was no food to be had. "Ah
Great Manito!" cried out Hiawatha, "give me food for my dying Minnehaha,
before the Fever and Famine tear her from me forever!" But the Great
Manito did not answer, and the silent forest only murmured dully,
echoing the words of Hiawatha. With his bow and arrows he strode for
miles through the deserted woods where he had once led his young bride
homeward from the land of the Dacotahs. But now no animals peeped at him
from amid the tree trunks, and there was no cheerful fluttering and
singing from the branches; everything was deathly silent, muffled in a
mighty cloak of snow.
[Illustration: "SEVEN LONG DAYS AND NIGHTS HE SAT THERE"--_Page 293_]
While he was searching in vain for food, the two dark figures in the
wigwam drew closer and closer to Minnehaha, until they crouched at
either side of her bed of branches, and one of them said in hollow
tones: "My name is Famine," and the other cried out: "I am Fever!" and
they leaned over the bed and fixed their sunken eyes on Minnehaha, and
Nokomis could not frighten them away.
"Hark!" said Minnehaha as the Fever gazed upon her, "I hear a rushing
and a roaring. I hear the falls of Minnehaha calling to me from the land
of the Dacotahs!"
"No, my child," said Nokomis, "it is nothing but the wind of night that
blows amid the pine trees."
"Look!" said Minnehaha, as the Fever drew still closer to her bed. "I
see my father standing in his doorway. I see him beckoning to me from
his wigwam!"
"Ah no, my child," said Nokomis sadly; "it is nothing but the smoke of
our fire curling upward to the smoke-flue."
"Oh," said Minnehaha, "I see the eyes of Death glaring at me in the
darkness! I feel his icy fingers clasping mine! Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"
The wretched Hiawatha, miles away in the dark forest, heard Minnehaha
cry to him and he hurried homeward with a sinking heart, but before he
reached his wigwam he heard the voice of Nokomis wailing through the
night. What a sight met his eyes as he burst into his dreary lodge!
Nokomis was rocking sadly to and fro, moaning and weeping; and Minnehaha
lay, cold and dead, upon her bed of branches!
Hiawatha gave such a cry of sorrow that the forest shuddered and
groaned, and even the stars in heaven trembled. Then he sat down at the
feet of Minnehaha, and covered his face with both his hands. Seven days
and nights he sat there without moving or speaking, and he did not know
whether it was night or day.
At last he rose and wrapped Minnehaha in her softest robes of ermine,
and they made a grave for her in the snow beneath the hemlock trees.
Four nights they kindled a fire on her grave, so that her soul might
have cheerful light upon its journey to the Blessed Islands, and
Hiawatha watched from the doorway of his wigwam to see that the fire was
burning brightly so she might never be left in darkness, and he said:
"Farewell, my Minnehaha! My heart is buried with you, and before long my
task here will be finished and I will join you in the Blessed Islands.
Soon I shall follow in your footsteps to the Land of Hereafter!"
XXI
THE WHITE MAN'S FOOT
IN a lodge built close beside a frozen river sat an old man, whose hair
was whiter than the whitest snow, and he shook and trembled as he sat
there, hearing nothing but the gale that raged outside and seeing
nothing but the flakes of snow that leaped and whirled about his chilly
wigwam. All the coals of his fire were covered with white ashes and the
fire itself was dying away unheeded, when a bright youth with red blood
in his cheeks walked lightly through the open doorway. On his head was a
crown of fresh and sweet-smelling grasses; his lips were curved in a
beautiful smile, and he carried in his hand a bunch of flowers that
filled the lodge with the fragrance of the wildwood.
"Ah, my son," said the old man, "it does my old eyes good to gaze upon
you! Take a seat beside my fire, and we will pass the night together!
Tell me of your travels and your strange adventures, and let me tell you
of all the wonderful deeds that I have done."
The old man drew a peace-pipe from his pouch, filled it with willow-bark
and handed it to the beautiful young stranger, who smoked in silence
while he listened to the old man's words.
"When I blow my breath about me," said the old man, "the water becomes
as hard as stone and the rivers cannot move."
"When I breathe upon the meadows and the woodlands," answered the young
stranger with a sunny smile, "the flowers rise like magic, and the
rivers, with a song, go rushing on again."
"When I shake my long white hair," said the old man scowling, "the land
is buried with snow and the leaves all fade away and fall to earth. When
I raise my voice the ground becomes like flint, the wild fowl fly away
and the wild beasts of the forest hide for fear."
"When I shake my flowing ringlets," said the young man with a light
laugh, "the warm rain falls on the hills and fields, and the wild geese
and the heron come back to the marshes. Homeward flies the swallow, and
the robin and the bluebird sing for joy. Wherever I go the woodlands
ring with music, and the meadows become blue with violets."
While they were speaking, the great sun leaped up above the horizon and
shot his beams of orange gold through the doorway of the wigwam. The air
became warm and pleasant, and in the light of morning the young stranger
saw the icy face of the old man and knew that he had spent the night
with Peboan, the winter. From the old man's eyes the tears were running
in two streams, the water was dripping from his hair, and his body
shrank until it vanished into the ground. And on the hearth-stone where
the old man's fire had been smoking, blossomed the earliest flower of
springtime.
Thus did the young stranger, Spring, come back again and drive away the
icy chill of that dreadful winter of famine and death. To the northward
passed the wild swans, calling to one another, and the bluebirds and the
pigeons and the robins sang in the thicket, until the grieving Hiawatha
heard their voices and went forth from his gloomy wigwam to gaze up into
the warm, blue sky.
From his wanderings in the east returned Iagoo, the great boaster, full
of stories more wonderful than any that he had ever told, and the people
laughed as they listened to him, saying: "Cold and famine have not
harmed Iagoo; he is just the same as ever, and has seen more wonders in
his travels than the Great Manito himself."
"I have seen a water greater than the Big-Sea-Water," cried Iagoo, "much
greater! And over it came a huge canoe, with large white wings that
carried it along!"
"It can't be true!" cried all the Indians, laughing at Iagoo; "we don't
believe one word of what you say."
"From the canoe," went on Iagoo, "came thunder and lightning, and a
hundred warriors landed on the beach. Their faces were painted white,
and there was hair upon their chins."
"What lies you tell us!" shouted all the people. "Do not think that we
believe you!" Hiawatha only did not join in the roar of laughter that
Iagoo's words called forth from all the men and women and children who
were listening.
"What he tells is true," said Hiawatha, "I have seen it all in a dream.
I have seen the great canoe of the white-faced people come sailing from
the Land of Sunrise. I have seen these people moving swiftly westward
under the guidance of the Great Manito, until the fires of their wigwams
smoked in all the valleys, while their canoes rushed over all the lakes
and rivers. Let us welcome them," said Hiawatha; "let us give them of
our best and call them brothers, for the Great Manito has sent them and
they come to do his bidding.
"Then I had another vision," Hiawatha went on sadly. "I saw our people
fighting with one another, forgetful of the warning of the Great Manito.
And the forests where we hunted, and the rivers where we fished and
trapped the beaver, knew our faces and our voices no more; for our
people were scattered like the autumn leaves, until no Indians were left
upon the earth." And when his voice died away, the Indians all sat in
silence and looked at one another with a sudden fear.
XXII
HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE