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was you who killed Wenonah,

      Took her young life and her beauty,

      Broke the Lily of the Prairie,

      Trampled it beneath your footsteps;

      You confess it! you confess it!"

      And the mighty Mudjekeewis

      Tossed upon the wind his tresses,

      Bowed his hoary head in anguish,

      With a silent nod assented.

       Then up started Hiawatha,

      And with threatening look and gesture

      Laid his hand upon the black rock,

      On the fatal Wawbeek laid it,

      With his mittens, Minjekahwun,

      Rent the jutting crag asunder,

      Smote and crushed it into fragments,

      Hurled them madly at his father,

      The remorseful Mudjekeewis,

      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 bulrush, the Apukwa,

      Dragged it with its roots and fibres

      From the margin of the meadow,

      From its ooze the giant bulrush;

      Long and loud laughed Hiawatha!

       Then began the deadly conflict,

      Hand to hand among the mountains;

      From his eyry screamed the eagle,

      The Keneu, 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 bulrush;

      And in masses huge and heavy

      Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek;

      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, "Baim-wawa!"

       Back retreated Mudjekeewis,

      Rushing westward o'er 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.

       "Hold!" at length cried Mudjekeewis,

      "Hold, my son, my Hiawatha!

      'T is impossible to kill me,

      For you cannot kill the immortal.

      I have put you to this trial,

      But to know and prove your courage;

      Now receive the prize of valor!

       "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 Wendigoes, the giants,

      All the serpents, the Kenabeeks,

      As I slew the Mishe-Mokwa,

      Slew the Great Bear of the mountains.

       "And at last when Death draws near you,

      When the awful eyes of Pauguk

      Glare upon you in the darkness,

      I will share my kingdom with you,

      Ruler shall you be thenceforward

      Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin,

      Of the home-wind, the Keewaydin."

       Thus was fought that famous battle

      In the dreadful days of Shah-shah,

      In the days long since departed,

      In the kingdom of the West-Wind.

      Still the hunter sees its traces

      Scattered far o'er hill and valley;

      Sees the giant bulrush growing

      By the ponds and water-courses,

      Sees the masses of the Wawbeek

      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 land of the Dacotahs,

      Where the Falls of Minnehaha

      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,

      Smoothed and sharpened at the edges,

      Hard and polished, keen and costly.

       With him dwelt his dark-eyed daughter,

      Wayward as the Minnehaha,

      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 water-fall he named her,

      Minnehaha, Laughing Water.

       Was it then for heads of arrows,

      Arrow-heads of chalcedony,

      Arrow-heads of flint and jasper,

      That my Hiawatha halted

      In the land of the Dacotahs?

       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 Minnehaha

      Gleaming, glancing through the branches,

      As one

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