Introduction.

       Table of Contents

      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 hoof-prints 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,

       Mahn, 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 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 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