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straw he wrung them,

      Like a wisp of straw he broke them,

      Could not wring them without breaking,

      Such the strength was in his fingers.

       "Lazy Kwasind!" said his father,

      "In the hunt you never help me;

      Every bow you touch is broken,

      Snapped asunder every arrow;

      Yet come with me to the forest,

      You shall bring the hunting homeward."

       Down a narrow pass they wandered,

      Where a brooklet led them onward,

      Where the trail of deer and bison

      Marked the soft mud on the margin,

      Till they found all further passage

      Shut against them, barred securely

      By the trunks of trees uprooted,

      Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise,

      And forbidding further passage.

       "We must go back," said the old man,

      "O'er these logs we cannot clamber;

      Not a woodchuck could get through them,

      Not a squirrel clamber o'er them!"

      And straightway his pipe he lighted,

      And sat down to smoke and ponder.

      But before his pipe was finished,

      Lo! the path was cleared before him;

      All the trunks had Kwasind lifted,

      To the right hand, to the left hand,

      Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows,

      Hurled the cedars light as lances.

       "Lazy Kwasind!" said the young men,

      As they sported in the meadow:

      "Why stand idly looking at us,

      Leaning on the rock behind you?

      Come and wrestle with the others,

      Let us pitch the quoit together!"

       Lazy Kwasind made no answer,

      To their challenge made no answer,

      Only rose, and slowly turning,

      Seized the huge rock in his fingers,

      Tore it from its deep foundation,

      Poised it in the air a moment,

      Pitched it sheer into the river,

      Sheer into the swift Pauwating,

      Where it still is seen in Summer.

       Once as down that foaming river,

      Down the rapids of Pauwating,

      Kwasind sailed with his companions,

      In the stream he saw a beaver,

      Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers,

      Struggling with the rushing currents,

      Rising, sinking in the water.

       Without speaking, without pausing,

      Kwasind leaped into the river,

      Plunged beneath the bubbling surface,

      Through the whirlpools chased the beaver,

      Followed him among the islands,

      Stayed so long beneath the water,

      That his terrified companions

      Cried, "Alas! good-by to Kwasind!

      We shall never more see Kwasind!"

      But he reappeared triumphant,

      And upon his shining shoulders

      Brought the beaver, dead and dripping,

      Brought the King of all the Beavers.

       And these two, as I have told you,

      Were the friends of Hiawatha,

      Chibiabos, the musician,

      And the very strong man, Kwasind.

      Long they lived in peace together,

      Spake with naked hearts together,

      Pondering much and much contriving

      How the tribes of men might prosper.

VII

       Table of Contents

HIAWATHA'S SAILING

       Table of Contents

      "Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!

      Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!

      Growing by the rushing river,

      Tall and stately in the valley!

      I a light canoe will build me,

      Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing,

      That shall float on the river,

      Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,

      Like a yellow water-lily!

       "Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree!

      Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,

      For the Summer-time is coming,

      And the sun is warm in heaven,

      And you need no white-skin wrapper!"

       Thus aloud cried Hiawatha

      In the solitary forest,

      By the rushing Taquamenaw,

      When the birds were singing gayly,

      In the Moon of Leaves were singing,

      And the sun, from sleep awaking,

      Started up and said, "Behold me!

      Gheezis, the great Sun, behold me!"

       And the tree with all its branches

      Rustled in the breeze of morning,

      Saying, with a sigh of patience,

      "Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!"

       With his knife the tree he girdled;

      Just beneath its lowest branches,

      Just above the roots, he cut it,

      Till the sap came oozing outward;

      Down the trunk, from top to bottom,

      Sheer he cleft the bark asunder,

      With a wooden wedge he raised it,

      Stripped it from the trunk unbroken.

       "Give me of your boughs, O Cedar!

      Of your strong and pliant branches,

      My canoe to make more steady,

      Make more strong and firm beneath me!"

       Through the summit of the Cedar

      Went a sound, a cry of horror,

      Went a murmur of resistance;

      But it whispered, bending downward,

      'Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!"

       Down he hewed the boughs of cedar,

      Shaped them straightway to a framework,

      Like two bows he formed and shaped them,

      Like two bended bows together.

       "Give me of your roots, O Tamarack!

      Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree!

      My

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