HIAWATHA’S CHILDHOOD.

At the door on summer evenings Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, Heard the lapping of the water, Sounds of music, words of wonder; “Minne-wawa!” said the pine trees, “Mudway-aushka!” said the water. Saw the firefly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening With the twinkle of his candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes, And he sang the song of children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him: “Wah-wah-taysee, little firefly. Little, flitting, white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me, Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!” Forth into the forest straightway All alone walked Hiawatha Proudly, with his bow and arrows; And the birds sang round him, o’er him, “Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!” Sang the robin, the Opechee, Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, “Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!” Up the oak-tree, close beside him, Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, In and out among the branches, Coughed, and chattered from the oak-tree, Laughed, and said between his laughing, “Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!” But he heeded not, nor heard them, For his thoughts were with the red deer; On their tracks his eyes were fastened, Leading downward to the river, To the ford across the river, And as one in slumber walked he.