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Longfellow Henry Wadsworth
«The Song of Hiawatha»

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water,Give our bodies to be eatenBy the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs,By the Spirits of the water!"So the angry Little PeopleAll 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 KwasindIn 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 weaponThat 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 marginJutting 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 currentOf 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 a burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she,Like a dragon-fly, he hoveredO'er the drowsy head of Kwasind.To his ear there came a murmurAs of waves upon a sea-shore,As of far-off tumbling waters,As of winds among the pine-trees;And he felt upon his foreheadBlows of little airy war-clubs,Wielded by the slumbrous legionsOf the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin,As of some one breathing on him.At
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