Passamaquoddy

Piche yut kʾchî wachok nit wigit welitasit mipis.

In the earliest time on the greatest mountain Lived merry Mĭpis, the Little Leaf; When spring is coming and sunlight is shining He climbs a tree, and there, all summer, Dressed in green he rocks in the branches, Listens all day to the birds and the breezes, And goes to sleep to the song of the owl.

When fall is coming and days are shorter, Mĭpis dresses himself in scarlet; Glad and gay in the Indian Summer; But as the nights grow cold and longer, He puts on a coat of brown or yellow, Curls himself up like a bear for winter, Lets go his hold and falls to the ground; There he sleeps, all under the snow-drift Till he hears in the spring the blue-bird calling, And the stream fighting its enemy ice— Carrying proudly in pieces as prisoners The foe which kept it a frozen captive, All the winter under its wigwam. Then little Mĭpis, the Leaf, awaking, Dresses in green and climbs in the sunshine, Up through a tree, and upon the branches, Lives as he did the summer before.

Merry Mĭpis on a bright May morning Was stretching himself in the warm sunshine When he heard afar a wonderful music, A sound like a flute and the voice of a maiden, Rippling melodies melting in one. Never before had he heard such singing; Then looking up he beheld before him A beautiful merry little bird-girl, Dressed in garments of brilliant scarlet, Just like his own in the Indian Summer. “O fairest of small birds!” said merry Mĭpis; “Who are you, and what is your name?” Thus she answered: “I am Squʿtes: The Little Fire. When I fly in the forest And meet in my way a bar of sunshine, I look as I enter and leave the shadow Like a red flame which leaps up in darkness, And then falls asleep in the night again. I have lived in the deep green forest, Even as you have, for many ages, Singing my songs to Kʾmûsomsʾn Unto our Father the mighty mountain, And because he well loved my music, For a reward he sent me hither To seek a youth whose name is Mĭpis, Whom he wills that I should wed. And as I think, and hope as I think it, You are truly the one whom I seek.”

Little Leaf listened in silence Being by nature very cunning, Trained to suspicion from his childhood; Thus his grandmother ever taught him: “My child—beware of all living creatures, Even the very smallest insect May eat your life out. A worm so little That it can pass through the prick of a needle Even as a rabbit runs through a valley, Or as a fish swims free up a river, May cut your stem or blight your beauty; Anything living may be your death.”

So to Squʿtes, Mĭpis listened, Charmed with her beauty yet still mistrusting, Liking her look yet deeply doubting, Wondering whether this lovely creature Was truly a friend or a false-hearted foe.

Beautiful Squʿtes, never heeding What the Leaf thought, began to warble; Pouring out in the pleasant sunshine Her morning song. As Mĭpis listened To the melodious trill, he melted; For the sweet tune filled all the forest, Every leaf on the tree was listening, Branches were waving in keeping cadence, Even the busy ants stopped running, The butterfly sat on a flower to hear; And as the music grew tender and stronger, And as in one long soft note it ended, Little Leaf said to her: “Be my own!”

So in the greenwood they lived together; Other singers often assembled, Other birds were often about them, Coming to see the beautiful stranger, Longing to try with hers their voices, But at every trial the Little Fire Flew in her melody far above them, Even as she went beyond them in beauty. One morning Squʿtes sang to the Leaf: “Let us go and visit Kʾmûsomsʾn Our mighty grandfather—the Mountain: He made us happy—let us thank him!” So the little Squʿtes and Mĭpis Went like a flame through the shades of the forest, Till they came to the cave of the grandsire. Glad the grandfather was when he saw them! Thus he spoke unto them—“Nosesak! Grandchildren! Heed well what I tell you! While you live never leave the mountain! While you are here you are always in safety: But when away from it, ever in danger From one who is ever seeking to kill you: The little Indian boy Monimques, Who, armed with a terrible bow and arrows, Shoots all the little birds of the forest, And carries them home to old Monimques, Who roasts them all in the fire and eats them. Even worse is another foeman, A dreadful little boy who is flying All the time over rivers and valleys, Aplasemwesit, the Little Whirlwind, Who never rests. He is always trying To blow the leaves away from the branches, And drives them headlong, in flocks together, To his grandfather the terrible Tempest, The great wild Whirlwind who kills them all.”

Taking the Leaf in her bill, the Red Bird Flew through the forest among the branches To the great tree which grew secluded In the safest place in all the mountain. On its topmost branch they built a wigwam; Bad little Indians never came near them Hunting for birds with their bows and arrows, Nor the wicked whirlwind looking for leaves. There they lived and were perfectly happy, Nothing but kind words passed between them, Only kind words and favorite songs.

Leaves like men are never contented, When all’s for the best they never know it; So it came to pass that Mĭpis one morning Saw far away in the pleasant sunlight A land of beautiful lakes and mountains, Lovelier far than the place they lived in; And felt in his heart an earnest longing To wander away. So he said to the Red Bird: “Look, my dear, at that beautiful country! There we are sure to be perfectly happy: I can no longer live here on the mountain!”

Taking the Leaf in her little bill, The Red Bird flew over rock and river, Till she came to the beautiful country; Again on a tree they built their wigwam, And Squʿtes sat and sang on the branches: The little Indian boy Monimques Never had heard such beautiful singing, Never beheld such wonderful feathers; Amazed he stood for a while and listened, Then bending his bow let fly an arrow. Down fell the Red Bird, sorely wounded, And proud of his prey the boy ran homeward. Then another foe came rushing after, Aplasemwesit the Little Whirlwind, Seeing the Red Leaf soon he seized it, Took it in triumph unto his grandsire The mighty Storm; when the chief beheld it, “This,” he said, “is no common capture, This is the Leaf of the Leaves, my grandson! He shall not die. I will keep him a prisoner: He has come from afar. We must guard him with care.”

Greatly the Storm Chief fears the Mountain Who stops the wind in its wildest flight. That night there came a dream to Kʾmûsomsʾn And he learned that the Leaf had been taken prisoner, By Aplasemwesit and kept as captive. Waking in anger he called to his son: “Go to the chief of the storms and tell him To send me the Leaf!” His son departed And when he came to the mighty Whirlwind Said: “Give me the Leaf! Else, ere the evening All of our tribe will be on the war path.” Gladly the Whirlwind gave up his captive, And the son of the Mountain carried him home.

Soon the Leaf was safe in his wigwam On the great tree. He lived in sorrow, And when the notes of a bird came ringing Out of the forest, his grief was greater; His life was gone with the Little Fire, And the fire of his life was all in ashes.

Thus it fared with the beautiful Red Bird; When the old Monimques beheld her, Long he was silent, then said: “My grandson! This is truly no common capture! Well it is that thou didst not kill it! Let the bird live in peace in our wigwam! But take good care lest it escape!”

Day after day the Red Bird grew better And soon her color was as bright as ever, Until one morning when least expected, Her voice broke forth like a brook into sunshine. These were her words: “Could the Wind but hear me, I should not long be kept a captive, Soon he would carry the news to the Mountain! Soon the Mountain would send a warrior, Soon the warrior would give me freedom! Soon I should be with the Leaf again!”

As the old Monimques heard her singing: His heart at the words grew weak with fear: “Truly it was a bad beginning That ever my grandson shot this singer, And truly, ’twould have a woful ending, If the Mountain should learn she is here! It is madness to keep her a captive, But certain death if we let her go free!”

While he thought it over his grandson returned Bringing a burden of birds of the forest, And little singers who live by the rivers: And when they were cooked, and the chief had eaten, Down by the fire he lay on a bear skin, Smoking himself into silent sleep. The door was closed, nor was there a crevice Through which the Red Bird could creep to freedom When all at once she thought of the opening Through which the smoke from the fire ascended Ever upward so densely pouring Nobody deemed she would dare to pass it.

As the head of Monimques drooped on his shoulder And as the pipe stem dropped from his fingers And as the little Wʾnagʾmeswuk The tiny fairies who tap the eyelids, Soothed him into deepest slumber, Softly the Red Bird rose and taking A birchen bucket, filled it with water. Dipping her wing in the water she sprayed it Little by little upon the fire; Little by little the fire, like Monimques Sunk to sleep, and the bright red flame Lay down to rest in the dull gray ashes. Out of the smoke-hole, in careful silence Flitted Squʿtes, and when far from the wigwam, In the fresh air and the beautiful sunshine, Heard other song-birds far beneath her. As she went flying over the forest, Leaving death behind, with love before her, She had never been half so happy. And what was her joy when she reached the mountain And saw from afar on the great tree rising A bright Red Leaf which shone in the sunset; Straight was her flight as that of an arrow, Fast as an arrow, when she beheld him. And the Red Leaf leapt as if smit by an arrow, When all in an instant her arms were round him. Then without an instant’s warning All his darkness was turned to daylight, And the Red Wing burst into tears of rapture.

It was long ago, even in the morning Of the first moons that this all happened; Trees had not mouldered as yet in the valleys, To the cold depths of many a river Fishes as yet had not found their way, And all the secret roads of the forest Had not been learned by the bear or woodchuck; But even then the Squʿtes and Mĭpis Lived all the summer upon the mountain, Sung in its shadows and shone in the sunshine Still as of yore they are singing and shining; And so it will be while the mountain is there. L.