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      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,

      From whose branches trailed the mosses,

      And whose trunk was coated over

      With the Dead-man's Moccasin-leather,

      With the fungus white and yellow.

       Suddenly from the boughs above him

      Sang the Mama, the woodpecker:

      "Aim your arrows, 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,

      At the roots of his long tresses,

      And he reeled and staggered forward,

      Plunging like a wounded bison,

      Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison,

      When the snow is on the prairie.

       Swifter flew the second arrow,

      In the pathway of the other,

      Piercing deeper than the other,

      Wounding sorer than the other;

      And the knees of Megissogwon

      Shook like windy reeds beneath him,

      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,

      Heard his voice call in the darkness;

      At the feet of Hiawatha

      Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather,

      Lay the mightiest of Magicians.

       Then the grateful Hiawatha

      Called the Mama, the woodpecker,

      From his perch among the branches

      Of the melancholy pine-tree,

      And, in honor 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.

       Then he stripped the shirt of wampum

      From the back of Megissogwon,

      As a trophy of the battle,

      As a signal of his conquest.

      On the shore he left the body,

      Half on land and half in water,

      In the sand his feet were buried,

      And his face was in the water.

      And above him, wheeled and clamored

      The Keneu, the great war-eagle,