Chibiabos, the musician,

And the very strong man, Kwasind,
And of happiness and plenty
In the land of the Ojibways,
In the pleasant land and peaceful.
"After many years of warfare,
Many years of strife and bloodshed,
There is peace between the Ojibways
And the tribe of the Dacotahs."
Thus continued Hiawatha,

And then added, speaking slowly,
"That this peace may last forever,
And our hands be clasped more closely,
And our hearts be more united,
Give me as my wife this maiden,
Minnehaha, Laughing Water,
Loveliest of Dacotah women!"

And the ancient Arrow-maker
Paused a moment ere he answered,
Smoked a little while in silence,
Looked at Hiawatha proudly,
Fondly looked at Laughing Water,
And made answer very gravely:
"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes;

Let your heart speak, Minnehaha !"
And the lovely Laughing Water
Seemed more lovely as she stood there,
Neither willing nor reluctant,

As she went to Hiawatha,

Softly took the seat beside him,

While she said, and blushed to say it,

"I will follow you, my husband!"
This was Hiawatha's wooing!
Thus it was he won the daughter
Of the ancient Arrow-maker,
In the land of the Dacotahs!

From the wigwam he departed,
Leading with him Laughing Water;
Hand in hand they went together,

Through the woodland and the meadow,
Left the old man standing lonely
At the doorway of his wigwam,
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha
Calling to them from the distance,
Crying to them from afar off,
"Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!"
And the ancient Arrow-maker
Turned again unto his labor,
Sat down by his sunny doorway
Murmuring to himself, and saying:
"Thus it is our daughters leave us,
Those we love, and those who love us!
Just when they have learned to help us,
When we are old and lean upon them,
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers,
With his flute of reeds, a stranger
Wanders piping through the village,
Beckons to the fairest maiden,

And she follows where he leads her,
Leaving all things for the stranger!"
Pleasant was the journey homeward,
Through interminable forests,
Over meadow, over mountain,
Over river, hill, and hollow.
Short it seemed to Hiawatha,

Though they journeyed very slowly,
Though his pace he checked and slackened
To the steps of Laughing Water.

Over wide and rushing rivers

In his arms he bore the maiden;
Light he thought her as a feather,
As the plume upon his head-gear;
Cleared the tangled pathway for her,
Bent aside the swaying branches,
Made at night a lodge of branches,
And a bed with boughs of hemlock,
And a fire before the doorway
With the dry cones of the pine-tree.

All the traveling winds went with them, O'er the meadows, through the forest; All the stars of night looked at them, Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber; From his ambush in the oak-tree Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, Watched with eager eyes the lovers; And the rabbit, the Wabasso, Scampered from the path before them. Peering, peeping from his burrow, Sat erect upon his haunches, Watched with curious eyes the lovers. Pleasant was the journey homeward! All the birds sang loud and sweetly Songs of happiness and heart's-ease; Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, "Happy are you, Hiawatha, Having now a wife to love you!" Sang the robin, the Opechee, "Happy are you, Laughing Water, Having such a noble husband!"

From the sky the sun benignant

Looked upon them through the branches,
Saying to them, "O my children,
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow,
Life is checkered shade and sunshine,
Rule by love, O Hiawatha !"

From the sky the moon looked at them,
Filled the lodge with mystic splendors,
Whispered to them, "O my children,
Day is restless, night is quiet,
Man imperious, woman feeble;

Half is mine, although I follow;

Rule by patience, Laughing Water!"

Thus it was they journeyed homeward;

Thus it was that Hiawatha

To the lodge of old Nokomis

Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, Brought the sunshine of his people,、

Minnehaha, Laughing Water,
Handsomest of all the women
In the land of the Dacotahs,

In the land of handsome women.

5. John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892), the Quaker poet, was reared on a farm and never went to college. He became an abolitionist and devoted himself to the cause of the slave. Emancipation was the theme of many of his poems before the Civil War. It was after the war (in 1866) that he published his masterpiece Snow-Bound, which gives a vivid picture of New England farm life in winter. This ranks with Goldsmith's Deserted Village and Burns's The Cotter's Saturday Night as one of the best pictures of homely domestic life.

THE FROST SPIRIT

He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now

On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow.

He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth,

And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.

He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes !—from the frozen Labrador,

From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o'er,

Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below

In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!

He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes !—on the rushing Northern blast,

And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past.

With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow

On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes !—and the quiet lake shall feel

The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's heel;

And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass,

Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

He comes, he comes, the Frost Spirit comes!-let us meet him as we may,

And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power

away;

And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high,

And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!

MAUD MULLER

Maud Muller, on a summer's day
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast,—