Through the vapours, on the left hand, Lives the envious Evil Spirit, The Wabeno, the magician, Who transformed you to an old man. Take heed lest his beams fall on you, For the rays he darts around him Are the power of his enchantment, Are the arrows that he uses." 'Many years, in peace and quiet On the peaceful star of evening Dwelt Osseo with his father; Many years in song and flutter, At the doorway of the wigwam, Hung the cage with rods of silver, And fair Oweenee, the faithful, Bore a son unto Osseo, With the beauty of his mother, With the courage of his father. 'And the boy grew up and prospered, And Osseo, to delight him, Made him little bows and arrows, Opened the great cage of silver, And let loose his aunts and uncles, All those birds with glossy feathers, For his little son to shoot at. 'Round and round they wheeled and darted, Filled the evening star with music, With their songs of joy and freedom; Filled the evening star with splendour, With the fluttering of their plumage; Till the boy, the little hunter, Bent his bow and shot an arrow, Shot a swift and fatal arrow, And a bird, with shining feathers, At his feet fell wounded sorely. 'But, O wondrous transformation! 'Twas no bird he saw before him, 'Twas a beautiful young woman, With the arrow in her bosom! 'When her blood fell on the planet, On the sacred star of evening, Broken was the spell of magic, Powerless was the strange enchantment, And the youth, the fearless bowman, Suddenly felt himself descending, Held by unseen hands, but sinking Downward through the empty spaces, Downward through the clouds and vapours, Till he rested on an island, On an island, green and grassy, Yonder in the big sea-water. 'After him he saw descending All the birds with shining feathers, Fluttering, falling, wafted downward, Like the painted leaves of autumn; And the lodge with poles of silver, With its roof like wings of beetles, Like the shining shards of beetles, By the winds of heaven uplifted, Slowly sank upon the island, Bringing back the good Osseo, Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. 'Then the birds, again transfigured, Resumed the shape of mortals, Took their shape, but not their stature; They remained as little people, Like the pigmies, the Puk-Wudjies; And on pleasant nights of summer, When the evening star was shining, Hand in hand they danced together On the island's craggy headlands, On the sand-beach low and level. 'Still their glittering lodge is seen there, On the tranquil summer evenings, And upon the shore the fisher Sometimes hears their happy voices, Sees them dancing in the starlight!'" MONARCHS, PRIESTS, PHILOSOPHERS, AND SUPERSTITION. CHAPTER XXIII.