你应该问我，这些故事是从哪里来的吗?这些传说和传统，从何而来?从何而来?从何而来?从何而来?从何而来?从何而来?从何而来?从何而来?从何而来?赛0我要回答、我要告诉你、从森林、草原、北方的大湖、从俄基伯地、从大哥他地、从山岭、旷野、和平原、就是雀鸟在芦苇和蒲草中觅食的地方。我重复它们，因为我从那瓦达哈的嘴里听到它们，音乐家，甜美的歌手。”如果你问娜瓦达哈在哪里发现这些狂野任性的歌曲，发现这些传说和传统，我会回答，我会告诉你，“在森林的鸟巢里，在海狸的小屋里，在野牛的蹄印里，在鹰的巢穴里!”所有的野禽都对他歌唱，在沼地，在沼泽地，在忧郁的沼泽地;鸟叫Chetowaik，鸟叫Mahng，野鹅叫Wawa，蓝鹭叫shuh shuh gah，松鸡叫Mushkodasa!”如果你再问我:“那瓦大是谁?”告诉我们这个那瓦达哈，“我应该用下面的话直接回答你的问题。“在塔瓦森塔山谷里，在碧绿寂静的山谷里，在怡人的溪水旁，住着歌唱家纳瓦达哈。 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 be 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, who sometimes, in your rambles Through the green lanes of the country, Where the tangled barberry-bushes Hang their tufts of crimson berries Over stone walls gray with mosses, Pause by some neglected graveyard, For a while to muse, and ponder On a half-effaced inscription, Written with little skill of song-craft, Homely phrases, but each letter Full of hope and yet of heart-break, Full of all the tender pathos Of the Here and the Hereafter; Stay and read this rude inscription, Read this Song of Hiawatha!