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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

       Table of Contents

HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD

      

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