WHY I LOVE HIAWATHA

OF all sweet poetic meters
That the bards have ever chanted,
From the days of old blind Homer
To the times of poet Tupper,
No one hath more pleasant chiming
Than Longfellow’s Indian legend
When he sings of Hiawatha—
Of heroic Hiawatha.
Reason good have I to love it,
Reason have I to be grateful,
And thereby a tale is hanging.

’Twas in frosty bright October
When the lofty sugar maples
Don their robes of golden glory,
When the graceful drooping birches
Put on lemon colored vestments,
When the walnuts or the beeches
All are garbed in russet yellow,
While the gentle, albic maples
Dress in royal robes of scarlet,
Royal robes of gorgeous scarlet;
Twas in brilliant hued October,
When the smoky Indian summer
Was upon the land in beauty,
When the outlines of the mountains
Seem like rolls of purple velvet,
That with tomahawk and rifle
Hied I to the primal forest—
To the grand and silent forest.

Oh the days of dreamy pleasure
That I passed upon the mountain;
And the nights of sleepy leisure
In my camp beside the fountain.

Resting with my dog beside me
Free from earthly botheration,
None to question me or chide me—
’Twas contentment’s culmination.

Summer rainbows are full pleasant
With their hues in beauty blending,
But they vanish with the present,
And all pleasures have an ending.

Thus it was on this occasion,
That an idle, thoughtless fellow
Of Milesian persuasion,
Who was fond of getting mellow,

Sought me over hill and mountain,
Sought me ever till he found me
In my camp beside the fountain
With my hunting kit around me.

Now, adieu to peace and quiet,
For he hath a gallon bottle;
And he loveth noise and riot—
With his cursed copper throttle.

All night long the drouthy creature
Howled and sang in his carouse,
Of the battle of “Boyne wather,”
And the “Woman wid three cows.”

Told me tales of “Ould Killarney,”
Sang the song of “Norah Kreena,”
And, when tired of song and blarney
Raised the deathly Irish “Keenah.”

Yelling wildly, laughing gayly,
With most impudent assurance
Flourishing a big shelala—
It was getting past endurance.

Kept it up throughout the morrow,
Howling like a dozen demons;
And I saw with dread and horror
That the fellow had the tremens,

Filling me with fear and loathing,
Loading me with foul abuse,
Seeing snakes upon his clothing,
Rats and spiders on his shoes.

And he threatened me with murder,
Murder in the lonely forest,
Thinking that I was a rival
For the favors of his Mary:
Mary in the isle of Erin,
On the verdant banks of Shannon.
Mary, who her troth had plighted
To this drunken son of Connaught—
To this wild, red headed paddy.

And he dared me to a duel,
Dared me to a deadly duel!
Swore that I should not escape him,
But should fight him in the forest,
He, with bottle and shelala,
I, with tomahawk and rifle.

Then to save my soul from murder,
From the deadly sin of murder,
Drew I forth a pocket volume
Of the poem, Hiawatha!
Drew it forth; and with a steady
And determined recitation;
With a mono-tonous droning
And undaunted resolution,
Fell upon the raving paddy
With the cadence of the rhythm.

And in vain was all his striving
’Gainst the measure of the poem.
Vain was all his fierce invective,
As I poured the soothing cadence
On his wild and savage spirit.
And he wilted at the drowsy
And unceasing intonation;
Wilted at the lethean measure
That, without remorse or pity,
Closed about him like a mantle.

And his eye grew calm and quiet;
Calm and quiet, and no longer
Saw the rats, or snakes and spiders
In his shoes, or on his clothing,
And his knees grew weak and shaky;
Dull and heavy grew his eyelids;

Till, his weary legs, jack-knifing,
Gave a lurch into the shanty.
In the shanty by the fountain,
By the fountain in the forest,
In the forest old and primal;
Where this wild shock-headed paddy
Sank in weariness and weakness
On my well-worn Indian blanket.

Then I placed the little volume
Where it served him for a pillow.
Placed it where his head, recumbent,
Rested on the blessed poem
That had saved my soul from murder—
From the fearful crime of murder;
Placed it there and quickly left him
To involuntary slumber,
While I mizzled for the clearings.

Three long months I left him sleeping
In the shanty by the fountain;
But at last my spirit smote me
For the trick that I had played him,
And again I took my rifle,
Took my tomahawk and rifle,
And my way into the forest,
Trusting I might find him sober!

White hands crossed upon his bosom,
Livid lips and nose ataunto,
Red hair streaming o’er the volume,
Sleeping sweetly, snoring softly—
Such the state in which I found him.
Then his shock-head I uplifted
And withdrew the little volume
Of the poem, Hiawatha!

Stirred he quickly in his slumber,
Then with gasp and snort awakened,
Sat on end, with eyes wild glaring,
Shook his red mane like a lion,
And roared out in tones of thunder:
“Holy Mither! Where’s the botthle?”