"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!" 
Cried the warriors, cried the old men, 
When he came in triumph homeward 
With the sacred Belt of Wampum, 
From the regions of the North-Wind, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White Rabbit.
He had stolen the Belt of Wampum 
From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa, 
From the Great Bear of the mountains, 
From the terror of the nations, 
As he lay asleep and cumbrous 
On the summit of the mountains, 
Like a rock with mosses on it, 
Spotted brown and gray with mosses.
Silently he stole upon him 
Till the red nails of the monster 
Almost touched him, almost scared him, 
Till the hot breath of his nostrils 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis, 
As he drew the Belt of Wampum 
Over the round ears, that heard not, 
Over the small eyes, that saw not, 
Over the long nose and nostrils, 
The black muffle of the nostrils, 
Out of which the heavy breathing 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis.
Then he swung aloft his war-club, 
Shouted loud and long his war-cry, 
Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa
In the middle of the forehead, 
Right between the eyes he smote him.
With the heavy blow bewildered, 
Rose the Great Bear of the mountains; 
But his knees beneath him trembled, 
And he whimpered like a woman, 
As he reeled and staggered forward, 
As he sat upon his haunches; 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 
Standing fearlessly before him, 
Taunted him in loud derision, 
Spake disdainfully in this wise:
"Hark you, Bear! you are a coward; 
And no Brave, as you pretended; 
Else you would not cry and whimper 
Like a miserable woman! 
Bear! you know our tribes are hostile, 
Long have been at war together; 
Now you find that we are strongest, 
You go sneaking in the forest, 
You go hiding in the mountains! 
Had you conquered me in battle 
Not a groan would I have uttered; 
But you, Bear! sit here and whimper, 
And disgrace your tribe by crying, 
Like a wretched Shaugodaya, 
Like a cowardly old woman!"
Then again he raised his war-club, 
Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of his forehead, 
Broke his skull, as ice is broken 
When one goes to fish in Winter. 
Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa, 
He the Great Bear of the mountains, 
He the terror of the nations.
"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!" 
With a shout exclaimed the people, 
"Honor be to Mudjekeewis!
Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind, 
And hereafter and forever 
Shall he hold supreme dominion 
Over all the winds of heaven. 
Call him no more Mudjekeewis, 
Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind!"
Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen 
Father of the Winds of Heaven. 
For himself he kept the West-Wind, 
Gave the others to his children; 
Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind, 
Gave the South to Shawondasee, 
And the North-Wind, wild and cruel, 
To the fierce Kabibonokka.
Young and beautiful was Wabun; 
He it was who brought the morning, 
He it was whose silver arrows 
Chased the dark o'er hill and valley; 
He it was whose cheeks were painted 
With the brightest streaks of crimson, 
And whose voice awoke the village, 
Called the deer, and called the hunter.
Lonely in the sky was Wabun; 
Though the birds sang gayly to him, 
Though the wild-flowers of the meadow 
Filled the air with odors for him; 
Though the forests and the rivers 
Sang and shouted at his coming, 
Still his heart was sad within him, 
For he was alone in heaven.
But one morning, gazing earthward, 
While the village still was sleeping, 
And the fog lay on the river, 
Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise, 
He beheld a maiden walking 
All alone upon a meadow, 
Gathering water-flags and rushes 
By a river in the meadow.
Every morning, gazing earthward, 
Still the first thing he beheld there 
Was her blue eyes looking at him, 
Two blue lakes among the rushes. 
And he loved the lonely maiden, 
Who thus waited for his coming; 
For they both were solitary, 
She on earth and he in heaven.
And he wooed her with caresses, 
Wooed her with his smile of sunshine, 
With his flattering words he wooed her, 
With his sighing and his singing, 
Gentlest whispers in the branches, 
Softest music, sweetest odors, 
Till he drew her to his bosom, 
Folded in his robes of crimson, 
Till into a star he changed her, 
Trembling still upon his bosom; 
And forever in the heavens 
They are seen together walking, 
Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, 
Wabun and the Star of Morning.
But the fierce Kabibonokka 
Had his dwelling among icebergs, 
In the everlasting snow-drifts, 
In the kingdom of Wabasso, 
In the land of the White Rabbit. 
He it was whose hand in Autumn 
Painted all the trees with scarlet, 
Stained the leaves with red and yellow; 
He it was who sent the snow-flake, 
Sifting, hissing through the forest, 
Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers, 
Drove the loon and sea-gull southward, 
Drove the cormorant and curlew 
To their nests of sedge and sea-tang 
In the realms of Shawondasee.
Once the fierce Kabibonokka
Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts 
From his home among the icebergs, 
And his hair, with snow besprinkled, 
Streamed behind him like a river, 
Like a black and wintry river, 
As he howled and hurried southward, 
Over frozen lakes and moorlands.
There among the reeds and rushes 
Found he Shingebis, the diver, 
Trailing strings of fish behind him, 
O'er the frozen fens and moorlands, 
Lingering still among the moorlands, 
Though his tribe had long departed 
To the land of Shawondasee.
Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, 
"Who is this that dares to brave me? 
Dares to stay in my dominions, 
When the Wawa has departed, 
When the wild-goose has gone southward, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Long ago departed southward? 
I will go into his wigwam,
I will put his smouldering fire out!" 
And at night Kabibonokka,
To the lodge came wild and wailing, 
Heaped the snow in drifts about it, 
Shouted down into the smoke-flue, 
Shook the lodge-poles in his fury, 
Flapped the curtain of the door-way. 
Shingebis, the diver, feared not, 
Shingebis, the diver, cared not; 
Four great logs had he for firewood, 
One for each moon of the winter, 
And for food the fishes served him.
By his blazing fire he sat there, 
Warm and merry, eating, laughing, 
Singing, "O Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal!"
Then Kabibonokka entered, 
And though Shingebis, the diver, 
Felt his presence by the coldness, 
Felt his icy breath upon him, 
Still he did not cease his singing, 
Still he did not leave his laughing, 
Only turned the log a little, 
Only made the fire burn brighter, 
Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue.
From Kabibonokka's forehead, 
From his snow-besprinkled tresses, 
Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, 
Making dints upon the ashes, 
As along the eaves of lodges, 
As from drooping boughs of hemlock, 
Drips the melting snow in spring-time, 
Making hollows in the snow-drifts.
Till at last he rose defeated, 
Could not bear the heat and laughter, 
Could not bear the merry singing, 
But rushed headlong through the door-way, 
Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts, 
Stamped upon the lakes and rivers, 
Made the snow upon them harder, 
Made the ice upon them thicker, 
Challenged Shingebis, the diver, 
To come forth and wrestle with him, 
To come forth and wrestle naked 
On the frozen fens and moorlands.
Forth went Shingebis, the diver, 
Wrestled all night with the North-Wind, 
Wrestled naked on the moorlands 
With the fierce Kabibonokka,
Till his panting breath grew fainter, 
Till his frozen grasp grew feebler, 
Till he reeled and staggered backward, 
And retreated, baffled, beaten,
To the kingdom of Wabasso, 
To the land of the White Rabbit, 
Hearing still the gusty laughter, 
Hearing Shingebis, the diver, 
Singing, "O Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal!"
Shawondasee, fat and lazy, 
Had his dwelling far to southward, 
In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, 
In the never-ending Summer. 
He it was who sent the wood-birds, 
Sent the robin, the Opechee, 
Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow, 
Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, 
Sent the melons and tobacco, 
And the grapes in purple clusters.
From his pipe the smoke ascending 
Filled the sky with haze and vapor, 
Filled the air with dreamy softness, 
Gave a twinkle to the water, 
Touched the rugged hills with smoothness, 
Brought the tender Indian Summer 
To the melancholy north-land, 
In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes.
Listless, careless Shawondasee! 
In his life he had one shadow, 
In his heart one sorrow had he. 
Once, as he was gazing northward, 
Far away upon a prairie 
He beheld a maiden standing, 
Saw a tall and slender maiden 
All alone upon a prairie; 
Brightest green were all her garments, 
And her hair was like the sunshine.
Day by day he gazed upon her, 
Day by day he sighed with passion, 
Day by day his heart within him 
Grew more hot with love and longing
For the maid with yellow tresses. 
But he was too fat and lazy 
To bestir himself and woo her. 
Yes, too indolent and easy 
To pursue her and persuade her; 
So he only gazed upon her, 
Only sat and sighed with passion 
For the maiden of the prairie.
Till one morning, looking northward, 
He beheld her yellow tresses 
Changed and covered o'er with whiteness, 
Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. 
"Ah! my brother from the North-land, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White Rabbit! 
You have stolen the maiden from me, 
You have laid your hand upon her, 
You have wooed and won my maiden, 
With your stories of the North-land!"
Thus the wretched Shawondasee 
Breathed into the air his sorrow; 
And the South-Wind o'er the prairie 
Wandered warm with sighs of passion, 
With the sighs of Shawondasee, 
Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, 
Full of thistle-down the prairie, 
And the maid with hair like sunshine 
Vanished from his sight forever; 
Never more did Shawondasee 
See the maid with yellow tresses!
Poor, deluded Shawondasee!
'T was no woman that you gazed at, 
'T was no maiden that you sighed for, 
'T was the prairie dandelion 
That through all the dreamy Summer 
You had gazed at with such longing, 
You had sighed for with such passion, 
And had puffed away forever,
Blown into the air with sighing. 
Ah! deluded Shawondasee!
Thus the Four Winds were divided 
Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis 
Had their stations in the heavens, 
At the corners of the heavens; 
For himself the West-Wind only 
Kept the mighty Mudjekeewis. 

Poet: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Poem: The Four Winds
Volume: The Song of Hiawatha

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