 22. by the shore of Gitchigumi by the shining big sea water At the doorway of his wigwam in the pleasant summer morning, fire-water stood and waited. All the air was full of freshness, all the earth was bright and joyous, and before him through the sunshine westward toward the neighbouring forest, past in golden swarms the armo, past the bees the honey-makers, burning, singing in the sunshine. Bright above him shone the heavens, level spread the lake before him, from its bosom leapt the sturgeon, sparkling, flashing in the sunshine. On its margin the great forest stood reflected in the water. Every treetop had its shadow motionless beneath the water. From the brow of Hiawatha gone was every trace of sorrow, as the fog from off the water, as the mist from off the meadow, with a smile of joy and triumph, with a look of exultation, as of one who in a vision sees what is to be but is not stood and waited Hiawatha. Toward the sun his hands were lifted, both the palms spread out against it, and between the parted fingers fell the sunshine on his features, flecked with light his naked shoulders, as it falls and flecks an oak tree through the rifted leaves and branches. Over the water floating, flying, circling in the hazy distance, something in the mists of morning loomed and lifted from the water, now seemed floating, now seemed flying, coming nearer, nearer, nearer. Was it Shingibis, the diver, or the pelican, the sharda, or the heron, the shushuga, or the white goose, Wabewawa, with the water dripping, flashing, from its glossy neck and feathers? It was neither goose nor diver, nor pelican, nor heron, or the water floating, flying, through the shiny mist of morning, but a birch canoe with paddles rising, sinking on the water, dripping, flashing in the sunshine, and within it came a people from the distant land of Weyburn, from the farthest realms of morning came the black robe chief, the prophet, he the priest of prayer, the pale face, with his guides and his companions. And the noble Hiawatha, with his hands aloft extended, held aloft in sign of welcome, waited, full of exultation, till the birch canoe with paddles grated on the shining pebbles, stranded on the sandy margin, till the black robe chief, the pale face, with the cross upon his bosom, landed on the sandy margin. Then the joyous Hiawatha cried aloud and spake in this wise, beautiful is the sun, O strangers, when you come so far to see us. All our town in peace awaits you, all our doors stand open for you, you shall enter all our wigwams, for the hearts right hand we give you. Never bloomed the earth so gaily, never shone the sun so brightly, as today they shine and blossom when you come so far to see us. Never was our lake so tranquil, nor so free from rocks and sandbars, for your birch canoe in passing has removed both rock and sandbar. Never before had our tobacco such a sweet and pleasant flavour, never the broad leaves of our cornfields were so beautiful to look on, as they seemed to us this morning when you come so far to see us. And the black robe chief made answer, stammered in his speech a little, speaking words yet unfamiliar. Peace be with you, Hiawatha, peace be with you and your people, peace of prayer and peace of pardon, peace of Christ and joy of Mary. Then the generous Hiawatha led the strangers to his wigwam, seated them on skins of bison, seated them on skins of ermine, and the careful old Nokomis, brought them food in bowls of basswood, water brought in birch and dippers, and the kalumet, the peace-pipe, filled and lighted for their smoking. All the old men of the village, all the warriors of the nation, all the Jocerkeeds, the prophets, the magicians, the Wabanos, and the medicine men, the Maedas, came to bid the strangers welcome. It is well, they said, O brothers, that you come so far to see us. In a circle round the doorway with their pipes they sat in silence, waiting to behold the strangers, waiting to receive their message. Till the black robe chief, the pale face, from the wigwam came to greet them, stammering in his speech a little, speaking words yet unfamiliar. It is well, they said, O brother, that you come so far to see us. Then the black robe chief, the prophet, told his message to the people, told the purport of his mission, told them of the Virgin Mary and her blessed son the Saviour, how in distant lands and ages he had lived on earth as we do, how he fasted, prayed and laboured, how the Jews, the tribe accursed, mocked him, scourged him, crucified him, how he rose from where they laid him, walked again with his disciples, and ascended into heaven. And the chiefs made answer, saying, We have listened to your message, we have heard your words of wisdom, we will think on what you tell us. It is well for us, O brothers, that you come so far to see us. Then they rose up and departed, each one homeward to his wigwam, to the young men and the women, told the story of the strangers, whom the master of life had sent them, from the shining land of Weyburn. Heavy with the heat and silence grew the afternoon of summer, with a drowsy sound the forest whispered round the sultry wigwam, with a sound of sleep the water rippled on the beach below it, from the cornfields shrill and ceaseless sang the grasshopper, par poquina, and the guests of Hiawatha, weary with the heat of summer, slumbered in the sultry wigwam. Slowly, o'er the simmering landscape fell the evening's dusk and coolness, and the long and level sunbeams shot their spears into the forest, breaking through its shields of shadow, rushed into each secret ambush, searched each thicket, dingle, hollow, still the guests of Hiawatha, slumbered in the silent wigwam. From his place rose Hiawatha, bade farewell to old Nakomis, spake in whispers, spake in this wise, did not wake the guests that slumbered. I am going, O Nakomis, on a long and distant journey, to the portals of the sunset, to the realms of the home-wind, of the north-west wind, Ghiwadin. But these guests I leave behind me, in your watch and ward I leave them, see that never harm comes near them, see that never fear molests them, never danger nor suspicion, never want of food or shelter in the lodge of Hiawatha. Fourth into the village went he, bade farewell to all the warriors, bade farewell to all the young men, spake persuading, spake in this wise. I am going, O my people, on a long and distant journey, many moons and many winters will have come and will have vanished, ere I come again to see you. But my guests I leave behind me, listen to their words of wisdom, listen to the truth they tell you, for the master of life has sent them from the land of light and morning. On the shore stood Hiawatha, turned and waved his hand at parting. On the clear and luminous water launched his birch canoe for sailing. From the pebbles of the margin shoved it forth into the water, whispered to it, westward, westward, and with speed it darted forward. And the evening sun descending set the clouds on fire with redness, burned the broad sky like a prairie, left upon the level water, one long track and trail of splendour, down whose stream has down a river, westward, westward, Hiawatha, sailed into the fiery sunset, sailed into the purple vapours, sailed into the dusk of evening, and the people from the margin watched in floating, rising, sinking, till the birch canoe seemed lifted high into that sea of splendour, till it sank into the vapours like the new moon, slowly, slowly sinking in the purple distance, and they said, fair well for ever, said, fair well, Hiawatha, and the forests, dark and lonely, moved through all their depths of darkness, sighed, fair well, Hiawatha, and the waves upon the margin, rising, rippling on the pebbles, sobbed, fair well, Hiawatha, and the heron, the shushuga from her haunts among the fennlands, screamed, fair well, Hiawatha! Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha, the beloved, in the glory of the sunset, in the purple mists of evening, to the regions of the home wind, of the northwest wind, Kiwadin, to the islands of the blessed, to the kingdom of Pomeyna, to the land of the hereafter. End of Section 21 and the End of the Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wordsworth Longfellow