The Song of Hiawatha, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

XVIII.

The Death of Kwasind.

Far and wide among the nations

Spread the name and fame of Kwasind;

No man dared to strive with Kwasind,

No man could compete with Kwasind.

But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies,

They the envious Little People,

They the fairies and the pygmies,

Plotted and conspired against him.

“If this hateful Kwasind,” said they,

“If this great, outrageous fellow

Goes on thus a little longer,

Tearing everything he touches,

Rending everything to pieces,

Filling all the world with wonder,

What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies?

Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies?

He will tread us down like mushrooms,

Drive us all into the water,

Give our bodies to be eaten

By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs,

By the Spirits of the water!”

So the angry Little People

All conspired against the Strong Man,

All conspired to murder Kwasind,

Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind,

The audacious, overbearing,

Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind!

Now this wondrous strength of Kwasind

In his crown alone was seated;

In his crown too was his weakness:

There alone could he be wounded,

Nowhere else could weapon pierce him,

Nowhere else could weapon harm him.

Even there the only weapon

That could wound him, that could slay him,

Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree,

Was the blue cone of the fir-tree.

This was Kwasind’s fatal secret,

Known to no man among mortals;

But the cunning Little People,

The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret,

Knew the only way to kill him.

So they gathered cones together,

Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree,

Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree,

In the woods by Taquamenaw,

Brought them to the river’s margin,

Heaped them in great piles together,

Where the red rocks from the margin

Jutting overhang the river.

There they lay in wait for Kwasind,

The malicious Little People.

‘T was an afternoon in Summer;

Very hot and still the air was,

Very smooth the gliding river,

Motionless the sleeping shadows:

Insects glistened in the sunshine,

Insects skated on the water

Filled the drowsy air with buzzing,

With a far-resounding war-cry.

Down the river came the Strong Man,

In his birch canoe came Kwasind,

Floating slowly down the current

Of the sluggish Taquamenaw,

Very languid with the weather,

Very sleepy with the silence.

From the overhanging branches,

From the tassels of the birch-trees,

Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended;

By his airy hosts surrounded,

His invisible attendants,

Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin;

Like the burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she,

Like a dragon fly, he hovered

O’er the drowsy head of Kwasind.

To his ear there came a murmur

As of waves upon a sea-shore,

As of far-off tumbling waters,

As of winds among the pine-trees;

And he felt upon his forehead

Blows of little airy war-clubs,

Wielded by the slumbrous legions

Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,

As of some one breathing on him.

At the first blow of their war-clubs,

Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind;

At the second blow they smote him,

Motionless his paddle rested;

At the third, before his vision

Reeled the landscape into darkness,

Very sound asleep was Kwasind.

So he floated down the river,

Like a blind man seated upright,

Floated down the Taquamenaw,

Underneath the trembling birch-trees,

Underneath the wooded headlands,

Underneath the war encampment

Of the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies.

There they stood, all armed and waiting,

Hurled the pine-cones down upon him,

Struck him on his brawny shoulders,

On his crown defenseless struck him.

“Death to Kwasind!” was the sudden

War-cry of the Little People.

There they stood, all armed and waiting

And he sideways swayed and tumbled,

Sideways fell into the river,

Plunged beneath the sluggish water

Headlong, as an otter plunges;

And the birch canoe, abandoned,

Drifted empty down the river,

Bottom upward swerved and drifted:

Nothing more was seen of Kwasind.

But the memory of the Strong Man

Lingered long among the people,

And whenever through the forest

Raged and roared the wintry tempest,

And the branches, tossed and troubled,

Creaked and groaned and split asunder,

“Kwasind!” cried they; “that is Kwasind!

He is gathering in his fire-wood!”

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Last updated Monday, March 17, 2014 at 16:49