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The Song of Hiawatha
THE SONG OF HIAWATHA
Henry W. Longfellow
CONTENTS
Introductory Note Introduction I. The Peace-Pipe II. The
Four Winds III. Hiawatha's Childhood IV. Hiawatha and
Mudjekeewis V. Hiawatha's Fasting VI. Hiawatha's Friends
VII. Hiawatha's Sailing VIII. Hiawatha's Fishing IX.
Hiawatha and the Pearl-Feather X. Hiawatha's Wooing XI.
Hiawatha's Wedding-Feast XII. The Son of the Evening Star XIII.
Blessing the Corn-Fields XIV. Picture-Writing XV. Hiawatha's
Lamentation XVI. Pau-Puk-Keewis XVII. The Hunting of
Pau-Puk-Keewis XVIII. The Death of Kwasind XIX. The Ghosts XX.
The Famine XXI. The White Man's Foot XXII. Hiawatha's Departure
Vocabulary
Introductory Note
The Song of Hiawatha is based on the legends and stories of many North
American Indian tribes, but especially those of the Ojibway Indians of
northern Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. They were collected by
Henry Rowe Schoolcraft, the reknowned historian, pioneer explorer, and
geologist. He was superintendent of Indian affairs for Michigan from
1836 to 1841.
Schoolcraft married Jane, O-bah-bahm-wawa-ge-zhe-go-qua (The Woman of
the Sound Which the Stars Make Rushing Through the Sky), Johnston.
Jane was a daughter of John Johnston, an early Irish fur trader, and
O-shau-gus-coday-way-qua (The Woman of the Green Prairie), who was a
daughter of Waub-o-jeeg (The White Fisher), who was Chief of the
Ojibway 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 25, 1854, he completed it on March
29, 1855, and it was published November 10, 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 had used the meter of
the Kalevala; but as for the legends, he openly gave credit to
Schoolcraft in his notes to the poem.
I would add a personal note here. My father's roots include Ojibway
Indians: his mother, Margaret Caroline Davenport, was a daughter of
Susan des Carreaux, O-gee-em-a-qua (The Chief Woman), Davenport whose
mother was a daughter of Chief Waub-o-jeeg. Finally, my mother used to
rock me to sleep reading portions of Hiawatha to me, especially:
"Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, Little, flitting, white-fire insect
Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little
candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me, Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!"
Woodrow W. Morris April 1, 1991
The Song of Hiawatha Introduction
Should you ask me, whence these stories? Whence these legends and
traditions, With the odors 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
Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors,
and fen-lands Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 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 where Nawadaha Found these songs so wild and wayward,
Found these legends and traditions, I should answer, I should tell
you, "In the bird's-nests of the forest, In the lodges of the beaver,
In the hoofprint of the bison, In the eyry of the eagle!
"All the wild-fowl sang them to him, In the moorlands and the
fen-lands, In the melancholy marshes; Chetowaik, the plover, sang
them, Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa, The blue heron, the
Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!"
If still further you should ask me, Saying, "Who was Nawadaha? Tell us
of this Nawadaha," I should answer your inquiries Straightway in such
words as follow.
"In the vale of Tawasentha, 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 corn-fields, 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 Spring-time, By the alders in the
Summer, By the white fog in the Autumn, By the black line in the
Winter; And beside them dwelt the singer, In the vale of Tawasentha,
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 be 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 snow-storm, 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
eyries;-- 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 barberry-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 heart-break, Full of all the
tender pathos Of the Here and the Hereafter; Stay and read this rude
inscription, Read this Song of Hiawatha!
I
The Peace-Pipe
On the Mountains of the Prairie, On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 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,
O'er the precipice plunging downward Gleamed like Ishkoodah, 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 neighboring 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 tree-tops 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 Tawasentha, 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 Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe.
And the Prophets of the nations Said: "Behold it, the Pukwana! 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, o'er the prairies, Came the warriors of the nations,
Came the Delawares and Mohawks, Came the Choctaws and Camanches, Came
the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, Came the Pawnees and Omahas,
Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, Came the Hurons and Ojibways, 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 stem 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, Warning, chiding, spake in this
wise:
"O my children! my poor children! Listen to the words of wisdom,
Listen to the words of warning, From the lips of the Great Spirit,
From the Master of Life, who made you!
"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 roe and
reindeer, I have given you brant and beaver, Filled the marshes full
of wild-fowl, 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; All
your strength is in your union, All your danger is in discord;
Therefore be at peace henceforward, And as brothers live together.
"I will send a Prophet to you, A Deliverer of the nations, Who shall
guide you and shall teach you, Who shall toil and suffer with you. 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, Take the reeds that grow beside you, Deck them
with your brightest feathers, Smoke the calumet together, And as
brothers live henceforward!"
Then upon the ground the warriors Threw their cloaks and shirts of
deer-skin, Threw their weapons and their war-gear, Leaped into the
rushing river, Washed the war-paint from their faces. 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
warlike 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 Pukwana
of the Peace-Pipe!