No More Learning

Straightway from the shining wigwam
Came the mighty Megissogwon,
Tall of stature, broad of shoulder,
Dark and terrible in aspect,
Clad from head to foot in wampum,
Armed with all his warlike weapons,
Painted like the sky of morning,
Crested with great eagle feathers,
Streaming upward, streaming outward.
Then began the greatest battle
That the sun had ever looked on.
All a summer's day it lasted;
For the shafts of Hiawatha
Harmless hit the shirt of wampum;
Harmless were his magic mittens,
Harmless fell the heavy war-club;
It could dash the rocks asunder,
But it could not break the meshes
Of that magic shirt of wampum.
Till at sunset, Hiawatha,
Leaning on his bow of ash-tree,
Wounded, weary, and desponding,
With his mighty war-club broken,
With his mittens torn and tattered,
And three useless arrows only,
Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree.
Suddenly, from the boughs above him
Sang the Mama, the woodpecker:
"Aim your arrow, Hiawatha,
At the head of Megissogwon,
Strike the tuft of hair upon it,
At their roots the long black tresses;
There alone can he be wounded! "
Winged with feathers, tipped with jasper,
Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow,
Just as Megissogwon, stooping
Raised a heavy stone to throw it.
Full upon the crown it struck him,
And he reeled and staggered forward.
Swifter flew the second arrow,
Wounding sorer than the other;
And the knees of Megissogwon
Bent and trembled like the rushes.
But the third and latest arrow
Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest,
And the mighty Megissogwon
Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk,
Saw the eyes of Death glare at him;
At the feet of Hiawatha
Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather.
Then the grateful Hiawatha
Called the Mama, the woodpecker,
From his perch among the branches,
And in honour of his service,
Stained with blood the tuft of feathers
On the little head of Mama;
Even to this day he wears it,
Wears the tuft of crimson feathers,
As a symbol of his service.


_III. --Hiawatha's Life with His People and His Departing Westward_

When Hiawatha was returning from his battle with Mudjekeewis he had
stopped at the wigwam of the ancient Arrow-maker to purchase heads
of arrows, and there and then he had noticed the beauty of the
Arrow-maker's daughter, Minnehaha, Laughing Water. Her he now took
to wife, and celebrated his nuptials by a wedding-feast at which
Chibiabos sang, and the handsome mischief-maker, Pau-Puk-Keewis,
danced. Minnehaha proved another blessing to the people. In the
darkness of the night, covered by her long hair only, she walked all
round the fields of maize, making them fruitful, and drawing a magic
circle round them which neither blight nor mildew, neither worm nor
insect, could invade.
About this same time, too, to prevent the memory
of men and things fading, Hiawatha invented picture-writing, and
taught it to his people. But soon misfortunes came upon him. The evil
spirits, the Manitos of mischief, broke the ice beneath his friend
Chibiabos, and drowned him; Pau-Puk-Keewis put insult upon him, and
had to be hunted down; and the envious Little People, the mischievous
Puk-Wudjies, conspired against Kwasind, and murdered him. After this
ghosts paid a visit to Hiawatha's wigwam, and famine came upon the
land.

Oh, the long and dreary winter!
Oh, the cold and cruel winter!
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker
Froze the ice on lake and river;
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape,
Fell the covering snow, and drifted
Through the forest, round the village.
All the earth was sick and famished;
Hungry was the air around them,
Hungry was the sky above them,
And the hungry stars in heaven
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them!
Into Hiawatha's wigwam
Came two other guests, as silent
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy.
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow
At the face of Laughing Water.
And the foremost said, "Behold me!
I am Famine, Buckadawin! "
And the other said, "Behold me!
I am Fever, Ahkosewin! "
And the lovely Minnehaha
Shuddered as they looked upon her,
Shuddered at the words they uttered;
Lay down on her bed in silence.
Forth into the empty forest
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha;
In his heart was deadly sorrow,
In his face a stony firmness;
On his brow the sweat of anguish
Started, but it froze and fell not.