Henry Wadsworth Longfellow For the CSET English Exam

The Song Of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(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.)

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!

II

The Four Winds

"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!" Cried the warriors, cried the
old men, When he came in triumph homeward With the sacred
Belt of Wampum, From the regions 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 Mishe-
Mokwa, 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 gray with mosses.

Silently he stole upon him Till the red nails of the
monster Almost touched him, almost scared him, Till the
hot breath of his nostrils Warmed the hands of
Mudjekeewis, 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 Mudjekeewis.

Then he swung aloft his war-club, Shouted loud and long
his war-cry, Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa In the middle of
the forehead, Right between the eyes he smote him.

With the heavy blow bewildered, Rose the Great Bear of the
mountains; But his knees beneath him trembled, And he
whimpered like a woman, As he reeled and staggered
forward, As he sat upon his haunches; And the mighty
Mudjekeewis, Standing fearlessly before him, Taunted him
in loud derision, Spake disdainfully in this wise:

"Hark you, Bear! you are a coward; And no Brave, as you
pretended; Else you would not cry and whimper Like a
miserable woman! 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! Had you conquered me in battle Not a groan
would I have uttered; But you, Bear! sit here and whimper,
And disgrace your tribe by crying, Like a wretched
Shaugodaya, Like a cowardly old woman!"

Then again he raised his war-club, Smote again the Mishe-
Mokwa In the middle of his forehead, Broke his skull, as
ice is broken When one goes to fish in Winter. Thus was
slain the Mishe-Mokwa, He the Great Bear of the mountains,
He the terror of the nations.

"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!" With a shout exclaimed the
people, "Honor be to Mudjekeewis! 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 Mudjekeewis, Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind!"

Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen Father of the Winds of Heaven.
For himself he kept the West-Wind, Gave the others to his
children; Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind, Gave the South to
Shawondasee, And the North-Wind, wild and cruel, To the
fierce Kabibonokka.

Young and beautiful was Wabun; He it was who brought the
morning, He it was whose silver arrows Chased the dark
o'er 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 Wabun; Though the birds sang gayly
to him, Though the wild-flowers of the meadow Filled the
air with odors 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 odors, Till he drew her
to his bosom, Folded in his robes of crimson, Till into a
star he changed her, Trembling still upon his bosom; And
forever in the heavens They are seen together walking,
Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, Wabun and the Star of Morning.

But the fierce Kabibonokka Had his dwelling among
icebergs, In the everlasting snow-drifts, In the kingdom
of Wabasso, In the land of the White Rabbit. He 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 snow-flake, Sifting, hissing through the forest, Froze
the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, Drove the loon and sea-
gull southward, Drove the cormorant and curlew To their
nests of sedge and sea-tang In the realms of Shawondasee.

Once the fierce Kabibonokka Issued from his lodge of snow-
drifts 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 Found he Shingebis, 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 Shawondasee.

Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, "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 Shuh-shuh-gah, Long ago departed southward? I
will go into his wigwam, I will put his smouldering fire
out!"

And at night Kabibonokka, To the lodge came wild and
wailing, Heaped the snow in drifts about it, Shouted down
into the smoke-flue, Shook the lodge-poles in his fury,
Flapped the curtain of the door-way. Shingebis, the diver,
feared not, Shingebis, 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. By his blazing fire he
sat there, Warm and merry, eating, laughing, Singing, "O
Kabibonokka, You are but my fellow-mortal!"

Then Kabibonokka entered, And though Shingebis, 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-flue.

From Kabibonokka's forehead, From his snow-besprinkled
tresses, Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, Making dints
upon the ashes, As along the eaves of lodges, As from
drooping boughs of hemlock, Drips the melting snow in
spring-time, 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 door-way, 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 Shingebis, the diver, To come forth and wrestle
with him, To come forth and wrestle naked On the frozen
fens and moorlands.

Forth went Shingebis, the diver, Wrestled all night with
the North-Wind, Wrestled naked on the moorlands With the
fierce Kabibonokka, Till his panting breath grew fainter,
Till his frozen grasp grew feebler, Till he reeled and
staggered backward, And retreated, baffled, beaten, To the
kingdom of Wabasso, To the land of the White Rabbit,
Hearing still the gusty laughter, Hearing Shingebis, the
diver, Singing, "O Kabibonokka, You are but my fellow-
mortal!"

Shawondasee, 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 Opechee, Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa, 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 vapor, 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 north-land, In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes.

Listless, careless Shawondasee! 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.
But he was too fat and lazy To bestir himself and woo her.
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 snow-flakes. "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 Shawondasee Breathed into the air his
sorrow; And the South-Wind o'er the prairie Wandered warm
with sighs of passion, With the sighs of Shawondasee, Till
the air seemed full of snow-flakes, Full of thistle-down
the prairie, And the maid with hair like sunshine Vanished
from his sight forever; Never more did Shawondasee See the
maid with yellow tresses!

Poor, deluded Shawondasee! 'T was no woman that you gazed
at, 'T was no maiden that you sighed for, 'T 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 forever, Blown into the
air with sighing. Ah! deluded Shawondasee!

Thus the Four Winds were divided Thus the sons of
Mudjekeewis Had their stations in the heavens, At the
corners of the heavens; For himself the West-Wind only
Kept the mighty Mudjekeewis.

III

Hiawatha's Childhood

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
grape-vines, When her rival the rejected, Full of jealousy
and hatred, Cut the leafy swing asunder, Cut in twain the
twisted grape-vines, And Nokomis fell affrighted Downward
through the evening twilight, On the Muskoday, 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 Muskoday, the meadow, In the moonlight and
the starlight, Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. And she
called her name Wenonah, As the first-born 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, "Oh, beware of Mudjekeewis, Of the West-Wind,
Mudjekeewis; 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
o'er the prairie, Whispering to the leaves and blossoms,
Bending low the flowers and grasses, Found the beautiful
Wenonah, 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
wonder; But the daughter of Nokomis, Hiawatha's gentle
mother, In her anguish died deserted By the West-Wind,
false and faithless, By the heartless Mudjekeewis.

For her daughter long and loudly Wailed and wept the sad
Nokomis; "Oh that I were dead!" she murmured, "Oh that I
were dead, as thou art! No more work, and no more weeping,
Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-
Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon,
Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black
and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs 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,
Rocked 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, "Ewa-yea! my
little owlet! Who is this, that lights the wigwam? With
his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little
owlet!"

Many things Nokomis taught him Of the stars that shine in
heaven; Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Ishkoodah, 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.

At the door on summer evenings Sat the little Hiawatha;
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, Heard the lapping
of the waters, Sounds of music, words of wonder; "Minne-
wawa!" said the Pine-trees, "Mudway-aushka!" said the
water.

Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the
dusk of evening, With the twinkle of its candle Lighting
up the brakes and bushes, And he sang the song of
children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him: "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!"

Saw the moon rise from the water Rippling, rounding from
the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Whispered,
"What is that, Nokomis?" 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; 'T is 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: "'T 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 owlet, 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 whene'er 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
whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers."

Then Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-
teller, 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-bough made the arrows, Tipped with
flint, and winged with feathers, And the cord he made of
deer-skin.

Then he said to Hiawatha: "Go, my son, into the forest,
Where the red deer herd together, Kill for us a famous
roebuck, Kill for us a deer with antlers!"

Forth into the forest straightway All alone walked
Hiawatha Proudly, with his bow and arrows; And the birds
sang round him, o'er him, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"
Sang the robin, the Opechee, Sang the bluebird, the
Owaissa, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"

Up the oak-tree, close beside him, Sprang the squirrel,
Adjidaumo, 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 Leaped 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 downward to the river, To the ford across the
river, And as one in slumber walked he.

Hidden in the alder-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 wary roebuck started, Stamped
with all his hoofs together, Listened with one foot
uplifted, Leaped as if to meet the arrow; Ah! the singing,
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 exulted, As he bore the
red deer homeward, And Iagoo 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 honor. All the village came and feasted, All the
guests praised Hiawatha, Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-
taha! Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!

END OF EXCERPT

-----------------------

Paul Revere's Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight
ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in
Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that
famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or
sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the
belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite
shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through
every Middlesex village and farm For the country folk to
be up and to arm,"

Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar Silently
rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over
the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The
Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each
mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a
huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection
in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders
and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around
him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The
sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured
tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on
the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, By the
wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber
overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the
sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving
shapes of shade,--By the trembling ladder, steep and tall
To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to
listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-
encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and
still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The
watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent
to tent And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment
only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the
secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For
suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something
far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,--A line
of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a
bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and
spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked
Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at
the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the
earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But
mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of
the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the
hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as
he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a
gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he
turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A
second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the
moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the
pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying
fearless and fleet: That was all!  And yet, through the
gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that
night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his
flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has
left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him,
tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the
ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the
tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the
bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the
cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the
damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into
Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the
moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows,
blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if
they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would
look upon.

It was two by the village clock, When he came to the
bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the
flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt
the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows
brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the
bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying
dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest.  In the books you have read, How the
British Regulars fired and fled,--How the farmers gave
them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard
wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing
the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of
the road, And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the
night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and
farm,--A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the
darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo
forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of
darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and
listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And
the midnight message of Paul Revere.

-----------------

Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

This is the forest primeval.  The murmuring pines and the
hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green,
indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with
voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with
beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky
caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in
accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that
beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the
woodland the voice of the huntsman Where is the thatch-
roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--Men whose
lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of
heaven? Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers
forever departed! Scattered like dust and leaves, when the
mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft,
and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean Naught but tradition
remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and
is patient, Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of
woman's devotion, List to the mournful tradition still
sung by the pines of the forest; List to a Tale of Love in
Acadie, home of the happy.

PART THE FIRST

I

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre
Lay in the fruitful valley.  Vast meadows stretched to the
eastward, Giving the village its name, and pasture to
flocks without number. Dikes, that the hands of the
farmers had raised with labor incessant, Shut out the
turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the
meadows. West and south there were fields of flax, and
orchards and cornfields Spreading afar and unfenced o'er
the plain; and away to the northward Blomidon rose, and
the forests old, and aloft on the mountains Sea-fogs
pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station
descended There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the
Acadian village. Strongly built were the houses, with
frames of oak and of hemlock, Such as the peasants of
Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. Thatched were
the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projecting Over
the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. There
in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the
sunset Lighted the village street and gilded the vanes on
the chimneys, Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps
and in kirtles Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs
spinning the golden Flax for the gossiping looms, whose
noisy shuttles within doors Mingled their sound with the
whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens, Solemnly
down the street came the parish priest, and the children
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless
them. Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons
and maidens, Hailing his slow approach with words of
affectionate welcome. Then came the laborers home from the
field, and serenely the sun sank Down to his rest, and
twilight prevailed.  Anon from the belfry Softly the
Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village Columns
of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, Rose
from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and
contentment. Thus dwelt together in love these simple
Acadian farmers,--Dwelt in the love of God and of man.
Alike were they free from Fear, that reigns with the
tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. Neither locks had
they to their doors, nor bars to their windows; But their
dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners;
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in
abundance.

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of
Minas, Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of
Grand-Pre, Dwelt on his goodly acres: and with him,
directing his household, Gentle Evangeline lived, his
child, and the pride of the village. Stalworth and stately
in form was the man of seventy winters; Hearty and hale
was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes; White as
the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the
oak-leaves. Fair was she to behold, that maiden of
seventeen summers. Black were her eyes as the berry that
grows on the thorn by the wayside, Black, yet how softly
they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses! Sweet
was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the
meadows. When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers
at noontide Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth
was the maiden, Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while
the bell from its turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the
air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the
congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the
long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her
missal, Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and
the ear-rings, Brought in the olden time from France, and
since, as an heirloom, Handed down from mother to child,
through long generations. But a celestial brightness--a
more ethereal beauty--Shone on her face and encircled her
form, when, after confession, Homeward serenely she walked
with God's benediction upon her. When she had passed, it
seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the
farmer Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and
a shady Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine
wreathing around it. Rudely carved was the porch, with
seats beneath; and a footpath Led through an orchard wide,
and disappeared in the meadow. Under the sycamore-tree
were hives overhung by a penthouse, Such as the traveller
sees in regions remote by the roadside, Built o'er a box
for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. Farther down,
on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the
horses. Shielding the house from storms, on the north,
were the barns and the farm-yard, There stood the broad-
wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;
There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his
feathered seraglio, Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed
the cock, with the selfsame Voice that in ages of old had
startled the penitent Peter. Bursting with hay were the
barns, themselves a village.  In each one Far o'er the
gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase, Under
the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.
There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent
inmates Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant
breezes Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of
mutation.

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of
Grand-Pre Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed
his household. Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and
opened his missal, Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of
his deepest devotion; Happy was he who might touch her
hand or the hem of her garment! Many a suitor came to her
door, by the darkness befriended, And, as he knocked and
waited to hear the sound of her footsteps, Knew not which
beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron; Or at
the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,
Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he
whispered Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the
music. But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was
welcome; Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the
blacksmith, Who was a mighty man in the village, and
honored of all men; For, since the birth of time,
throughout all ages and nations, Has the craft of the
smith been held in repute by the people. Basil was
Benedict's friend.  Their children from earliest childhood
Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father
Felician, Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had
taught them their letters Out of the selfsame book, with
the hymns of the church and the plain-song. But when the
hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, Swiftly
they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.
There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to
behold him Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse
as a plaything, Nailing the shoe in its place; while near
him the tire of the cart-wheel Lay like a fiery snake,
coiled round in a circle of cinders. Oft on autumnal eves,
when without in the gathering darkness Bursting with light
seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice, Warm
by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows, And
as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the
ashes, Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into
the chapel. Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the
swoop of the eagle, Down the hillside hounding, they
glided away o'er the meadow. Oft in the barns they climbed
to the populous nests on the rafters, Seeking with eager
eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow Brings from
the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its
fledglings; Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest
of the swallow! Thus passed a few swift years, and they no
longer were children. He was a valiant youth, and his
face, like the face of the morning, Gladdened the earth
with its light, and ripened thought into action. She was a
woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. "Sunshine
of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the
sunshine Which, as the farmers believed, would load their
orchards with apples She, too, would bring to her
husband's house delight and abundance, Filling it full of
love and the ruddy faces of children.

II

Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder
and longer, And the retreating sun the sign of the
Scorpion enters. Birds of passage sailed through the
leaden air, from the ice-bound, Desolate northern bays to
the shores of tropical islands, Harvests were gathered in;
and wild with the winds of September Wrestled the trees of
the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. All the signs
foretold a winter long and inclement. Bees, with prophetic
instinct of want, had hoarded their honey Till the hives
overflowed; and the Indian bunters asserted Cold would the
winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. Such was
the advent of autumn.  Then followed that beautiful
season, Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of
All-Saints! Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical
light; and the landscape Lay as if new-created in all the
freshness of childhood. Peace seemed to reign upon earth,
and the restless heart of the ocean Was for a moment
consoled.  All sounds were in harmony blended. Voices of
children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,
Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of
pigeons, All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love,
and the great sun Looked with the eye of love through the
golden vapors around him; While arrayed in its robes of
russet and scarlet and yellow, Bright with the sheen of
the dew, each glittering tree of the forest Flashed like
the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and
jewels.

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and
stillness. Day with its burden and heat had departed, and
twilight descending Brought back the evening star to the
sky, and the herds to the homestead. Pawing the ground
they came, and resting their necks on each other, And with
their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of
evening. Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's
beautiful heifer, Proud of her snow-white hide, and the
ribbon that waved from her collar, Quietly paced and slow,
as if conscious of human affection. Then came the shepherd
back with his bleating flocks from the seaside, Where was
their favorite pasture.  Behind them followed the watch-
dog, Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride
of his instinct, Walking from side to side with a lordly
air, and superbly Waving his bushy tail, and urging
forward the stragglers; Regent of flocks was he when the
shepherd slept; their protector, When from the forest at
night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.
Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the
marshes, Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with
its odor. Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their
manes and their fetlocks, While aloft on their shoulders
the wooden and ponderous saddles, Painted with brilliant
dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, Nodded in
bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their
udders Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in
regular cadence Into the sounding pails the foaming
streamlets descended. Lowing of cattle and peals of
laughter were heard in the farm-yard, Echoed back by the
barns.  Anon they sank into stillness; Heavily closed,
with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the
farmer Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames
and the smoke-wreaths Struggled together like foes in a
burning city.  Behind him, Nodding and mocking along the
wall, with gestures fantastic, Darted his own huge shadow,
and vanished away into darkness. Faces, clumsily carved in
oak, on the back of his arm-chair Laughed in the
flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the
sunshine. Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols
of Christmas, Such as at home, in the olden time, his
fathers before him Sang in their Norman orchards and
bright Burgundian vineyards. Close at her father's side
was the gentle Evangeline seated, Spinning flax for the
loom, that stood in the corner behind her. Silent awhile
were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle, While
the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a
bagpipe, Followed the old man's songs and united the
fragments together. As in a church, when the chant of the
choir at intervals ceases, Footfalls are heard in the
aisles, or words of the priest at the altar, So, in each
pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and,
suddenly lifted, Sounded the wooden latch, and the door
swung back on its hinges. Benedict knew by the hob-nailed
shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, And by her beating
heart Evangeline knew who was with him. "Welcome!" the
farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the
threshold. "Welcome, Basil, my friend!  Come, take thy
place on the settle Close by the chimney-side, which is
always empty without thee; Take from the shelf overhead
thy pipe and the box of tobacco; Never so much thyself art
thou as when through the curling Smoke of the pipe or the
forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams Round and red as
the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes." Then,
with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the
blacksmith, Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by
the fireside:--"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy
jest and thy ballad! Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou,
when others are filled with Gloomy forebodings of ill, and
see only ruin before them. Happy art thou, as if every day
thou hadst picked up a horseshoe." Pausing a moment, to
take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, And with a coal
from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:--"Four
days now are passed since the English ships at their
anchors Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon
pointed against us. What their design may be is unknown;
but all are commanded On the morrow to meet in the church,
where his Majesty's mandate Will be proclaimed as law in
the land.  Alas! in the mean time Many surmises of evil
alarm the hearts of the people." Then made answer the
farmer:--"Perhaps some friendlier purpose Brings these
ships to our shores.  Perhaps the harvests in England By
untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, And
from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and
children." "Not so thinketh the folk in the village,"
said, warmly, the blacksmith, Shaking his head, as in
doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:--"Louisburg is
not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. Many
already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its
outskirts, Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of
to-morrow. Arms have been taken from us, and warlike
weapons of all kinds; Nothing is left but the blacksmith's
sledge and the scythe of the mower." Then with a pleasant
smile made answer the jovial farmer:--"Safer are we
unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,
Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,
Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.
Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of
sorrow Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the
night of the contract. Built are the house and the barn.
The merry lads of the village Strongly have built them and
well; and, breaking the glebe round about them, Filled the
barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.
Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and
inkhorn. Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy
of our children?" As apart by the window she stood, with
her hand in her lover's, Blushing Evangeline heard the
words that her father had spoken, And, as they died on his
lips, the worthy notary entered.

END OF EXCERPT