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Painted like the leaves of Autumn,

       Painted like the sky of morning,

       Wildly glaring at each other;

       In their faces stern defiance,

       In their hearts the feuds of ages,

       The hereditary hatred,

       The ancestral thirst of vengeance.

      Gitche Manito, the mighty,

       The creator of the nations,

       Looked upon them with compassion,

       With paternal love and pity;

       Looked upon their wrath and wrangling

       But as quarrels among children,

       But as feuds and fights of children!

      Over them he stretched his right hand,

       To subdue their stubborn natures,

       To allay their thirst and fever,

       By the shadow of his right hand;

       Spake to them with voice majestic

       As the sound of far-off waters

       Falling into deep abysses,

       Warning, chiding, spake in this wise:—

      “O my children! my poor children!

       Listen to the words of wisdom,

       Listen to the words of warning,

       From the lips of the Great Spirit,

       From the Master of Life, who made you!

      “I have given you lands to hunt in,

       I have given you streams to fish in,

       I have given you bear and bison,

       I have given you roe and reindeer,

       I have given you brant and beaver,

       Filled the marshes full of wild fowl,

       Filled the rivers full of fishes;

       Why then are you not contented?

       Why then will you hunt each other?

      “I am weary of your quarrels,

       Weary of your wars and bloodshed,

       Weary of your prayers for vengeance,

       Of your wranglings and dissensions;

       All your strength is in your union,

       All your danger is in discord;

       Therefore be at peace henceforward,

       And as brothers live together.

      “I will send a Prophet to you,

       A Deliverer of the nations,

       Who shall guide you and shall teach you,

       Who shall toil and suffer with you.

       If you listen to his counsels,

       You will multiply and prosper;

       If his warnings pass unheeded,

       You will fade away and perish!

      “Bathe now in the stream before you,

       Wash the war-paint from your faces,

       Wash the blood-stains from your fingers,

       Bury your war-clubs and your weapons,

       Break the red stone from this quarry,

       Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes,

       Take the reeds that grow beside you,

       Deck them with your brightest feathers,

       Smoke the calumet together,

       And as brothers live henceforward!”

      Then upon the ground the warriors

       Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer-skin,

       Threw their weapons and their war-gear,

       Leaped into the rushing river,

       Washed the war-paint from their faces.

       Clear above them flowed the water,

       Clear and limpid from the footprints

       Of the Master of Life descending;

       Dark below them flowed the water,

       Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson,

       As if blood were mingled with it!

      From the river came the warriors,

       Clean and washed from all their war-paint;

       On the banks their clubs they buried,

       Buried all their warlike weapons,

       Gitche Manito, the mighty,

       The Great Spirit, the creator,

       Smiled upon his helpless children!

      And in silence all the warriors

       Broke the red stone of the quarry,

       Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes,

       Broke the long reeds by the river,

       Decked them with their brightest feathers,

       And departed each one homeward,

       While the Master of Life, ascending,

       Through the opening of cloud-curtains,

       Through the doorways of the heaven,

       Vanished from before their faces,

       In the smoke that rolled around him,

       The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe!

      II.

       The Four Winds.

       Table of Contents

      “Honor be to Mudjekeewis!”

       Cried the warriors, cried the old men,

       When he came in triumph homeward

       With the sacred Belt of Wampum,

       From the regions of the North-Wind,

       From the kingdom of Wabasso,

       From the land of the White Rabbit.

      He had stolen the Belt of Wampum

       From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa,

       From the Great Bear of the mountains,

       From the terror of the nations,

       As he lay asleep and cumbrous

       On the summit of the mountains,

       Like a rock with mosses on it,

       Spotted brown and gray with mosses.

      Silently he stole upon him,

       Till the red nails of the monster

       Almost touched him, almost scared him,

       Till the hot breath of his nostrils

       Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis,

       As he drew the Belt of Wampum

       Over the round ears, that heard not,

       Over the small eyes, that saw not,

       Over the long nose and nostrils,

       The black muffle of the nostrils,

       Out of which the heavy breathing

       Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis.

      Then he swung aloft his war-club,

       Shouted loud and long his war-cry,

       Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa

       In the middle of the forehead,

       Right

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