Song of Hiawatha. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

traditional art. But the classic art of that unknown country called the Orient was revealed to Meyer through Hokusai.

      Meyer's attitude in absorbing the traditions of both the East and the West is honest and unpretentious. I consider particularly praiseworthy his ability to assimilate influences, making them so perfectly his own. His works would immediately strike a Japanese viewer as being very American. Hokusai can be regarded as the most Japanese of artists; I find a deep interest in Meyer's pride in being an American, vividly seen in these works based on the folklore of the native American Indian.

      "My flower grew up among weeds. Up to the time I went to work at 21 (commercial art) my ideal was purely military—Edward Detaille and such. When I got well into the commercial grind this was of course quickly forgotten. I think I was 23 when I first saw (in the old Lenox Library) the 100 Views of Fuji by Hokusai. This opened up a startling new and enchanting world to me—I saw life through art—very differently. What I learned I employed in my Hiawatha pictures. . . .

      France freed me—I mean my two years of living there. Then I threw everything overboard and found myself I found my real mode of expression in Vermont.

      So—in review let me say that the two who played the most powerful part in planting my flower in a garden were first—Hokusai—then Cezanne. And that is really why I now paint as I do."

      —From Herbert Meyer's Notebooks, 1933

      THE SONG

       of

       HIAWATHA

       INTRODUCTION

      Should you ask me, whence these stories?

       Whence these legends and traditions,

       With the odors of the forest,

       With the dew and damp of meadows,

       With the curling smoke of wigwams,

       With the rushing of great rivers,

       With their frequent repetitions,

       And their wild reverberations,

       As of thunder in the mountains?

      I should answer, I should tell you,

       "From the forests and the prairies,

       From the great lakes of the Northland,

       From the land of the Ojibways,

       From the land of the Dacotahs,

       From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands

       Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,

       Feeds among the reeds and rushes.

       I repeat them as I heard them

       From the lips of Nawadaha,

       The musician, the sweet singer."

      Should you ask where Nawadaha

       Found these songs so wild and wayward,

       Found these legends and traditions,

       I should answer, I should tell you,

       "In the bird's-nests of the forest,

       In the lodges of the beaver,

       In the hoof-prints of the bison,

       In the eyry of the eagle!

      "All the wild-fowl sang them to him,

       In the moorlands and the fen-lands,

       In the melancholy marshes;

       Chetowaik, the plover, sang them,

       Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa,

       The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,

       And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!"

      If still further you should ask me,

       Saying, "Who was Nawadaha?

       Tell us of this Nawadaha,"

       I should answer your inquiries

       Straightway in such words as follow.

      "In the Vale of Tawasentha,

       In the green and silent valley,

       By the pleasant water-courses,

       Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.

       Round about the Indian village

       Spread the meadows and the corn-fields,

       And beyond them stood the forest,

       Stood the groves of singing pine-trees,

       Green in Summer, white in Winter,

       Ever sighing, ever singing.

      "And the pleasant water-courses,

       You could trace them through the valley,

       By the rushing in the Spring-time,

       By the alders in the Summer,

       By the white fog in the Autumn,

       By the black line in the Winter;

       And beside them dwelt the singer,

       In the Vale of Tawasentha,

       In the green and silent valley.

      "There he sang of Hiawatha,

       Sang the Song of Hiawatha,

       Sang his wondrous birth and being,

       How he prayed and how he fasted,

       How he lived, and toiled, and suffered,

       That the tribes of men might prosper,

       That he might advance his people!"

      Ye who love the haunts of Nature,

       Love the sunshine of the meadow,

       Love the shadow of the forest,

       Love the wind among the branches,

       And the rain-shower and the snow-storm,

       And the rushing of great rivers

       Through their palisades of pine-trees,

       And the thunder in the mountains,

       Whose innumerable echoes

       Flap like eagles in their eyries;—

       Listen to these wild traditions,

       To this Song of Hiawatha!

      Ye who love a nation's legends,

       Love the ballads of a people,

       That like voices from afar off

       Call to us to pause and listen,

       Speak in tones so plain and childlike,

       Scarcely can the ear distinguish

       Whether they are sung or spoken;—

       Listen to this Indian Legend,

       To this Song of Hiawatha!

      Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple,

       Who have faith in God and Nature,

       Who believe, that in all ages

       Every human heart is human,

       That in even savage bosoms

       There are longings, yearnings, strivings

       For the good they comprehend not,

       That the feeble hands and helpless,

       Groping blindly in the darkness,

       Touch God's right hand in that darkness

       And are lifted up and strengthened;—

       Listen to this simple story,

       To this Song of Hiawatha!

      Ye,