Part 3

When it began to be dark, some one crept up to the window hole and said, “Hello.” It was the kind man, and happy indeed was the poor little boy to hear the voice of his friend.

The man was very much surprised to hear the boy’s answering “Hello,” and very much pleased, and said, “Last night, the wicked shaman transformed himself into a snake and went out. In the morning he came crawling back without his stomach, and died. You killed that shaman, I am sure. Now tonight your uncle sent for the very highest shaman of all, and told him he must kill you himself. I am afraid he will succeed this time, with his great magic. You must try your very best to save yourself any way.”

Leaving some food and water, the kind man went away, and the boy, shivering with cold and fright, crept back into his bag.

Pretty soon he heard a great noise by the door, and there was a bigger snake than before; a real monster this time. My! How scared that poor little boy was!

He looked about for a weapon to fight the snake with, but there was none.

Nearer and nearer came the horrible creature, with his mouth wide open.

Then the boy’s eyes fell upon the big stone lamp. It was very heavy, but he took it in his hands and went right up to the snake.

“If you are going to eat me, Snake,” he said, “open your mouth as wide as you can, and swallow me quick.” The snake hissed loudly, and opened his mouth very wide, and the boy threw the lamp right down the monster’s throat. When the snake had swallowed the lamp, he thought it was the boy and went out. After that the boy got into the bag as before and slept until morning.

As soon as it was daylight the chief came to see if the shaman had obeyed his command. He looked down through the window and saw the boy standing there looking up at him. He surely was surprised.

“How dare you be alive?” said he. “This is the last day for you anyway. If the shaman can’t kill you, I will do it myself.”

Long after the uncle had gone, when it began to be dark, some one came to the window hole and shouted, “Hello!” It was his friend, and how happy it made the little boy to hear that kind voice!

“I am thankful that you are alive,” said the voice. “When the shaman came back last night, he said he had something heavy inside of him, and this morning he was dead. I am sure you killed the wicked shaman, but I fear you will be dead tomorrow yourself. Your uncle has told every man to try to kill you, but I brought you a little spear, and a bow, and a crown; also a warm parka, and some oil. When you put on your clothes, take some of this oil and grease yourself all over, then take some coals from one of the lamps and blacken your face. When you have done this, sit still until your uncle calls you; then go out.”

After saying this and giving him the things, the man went away, and the boy was alone again; but this time he felt more hopeful, for did he not have a spear and a bow? And had he not a nice warm parka to put on? Then, too, he was going to get out, anything was better than staying there alone in the dark and cold.

In the morning the boy got up and put on his clothes, which fit as though made for him, and which felt so good and warm after having had no clothes at all for such a long time. He tried the little bow, and that was just the right size for him, too. When he had blackened his face, and put on the little crown, he sat down to wait for the chief.

He did not have long to wait. Pretty soon he heard the _crunch, crunch_, of footsteps coming over the snow; then the cruel voice of his uncle calling him to come out.

Now the little fellow knew that he was going through that door to be killed, but he took his spear and his bow, and went out as bravely as any man.

When he got outside he saw his uncle standing by the door with a big spear, and a crowd of people armed with spears and bows, all waiting to kill one little boy.

As soon as they saw him they raised a great howl, and hurled their spears at him and shot their arrows; but the weapons struck the oily surface of his parka and glanced aside without harming him at all. Then the boy hurled his spear at his uncle with all his might. It struck deep into his flesh, and the wicked man went off, howling like a dog, and never came back; for which every one was sincerely thankful.

After that the boy heard some one calling, and looking up he saw the kind man and his wife standing on the roof of their igloo, and they were shouting, “Let us make him chief! Let us make him chief!”

Then the people who wanted to kill him when the wicked uncle was there, shouted, “He will be our chief now! He will be our chief!” So the boy became chief, and went to live with the kind man and his wife, and took them for his parents and was good to them, just as they had been good to him when he was in trouble.

From that time on, the Eskimos have continued the custom of adopting little orphan children into their homes, and taking care of them; being very kind, and never like the wicked uncle at all.

A RACE BETWEEN A REINDEER AND A TOM-COD

Long ago somewhere on the shore of the Arctic Ocean a reindeer was taking a walk on the beach, enjoying the fine air, and the sea salt of which the reindeer are so fond. As he passed a little point on the beach jutting out into the ocean, a fish called tom-cod said, “Well, Deer, how do you do?” The deer stopped to say good-morning to the fish, and asked him if he did not think it would be fun to run a race, and settle for all time which could go the fastest, a reindeer or a fish.

The tom-cod thought about it for a while; then said, “I am very busy today, Reindeer, but if you will come this time tomorrow morning, we shall race, and I shall beat you.”

“We shall see,” said the deer, and went home.

When the deer was out of sight the fish sent a message to all the tom-cods near that shore. He told them that the next morning he would have a race with a deer, and that they must answer the deer ever time he said, “Fish, are you there?”

At sunrise the next day the deer came to the meeting-place and said, “Fish, are you there?”

“Yes,” answered the tom-cod. “I am waiting for you.”

The reindeer walked along the shore, but the tom-cod laughed to himself in fish language, and stayed quietly in the same place in the water.

After walking about a mile, the reindeer said, “Fish, are you there?”

Then another fish answered him, and said, “Yes, Reindeer, I am here, and I could go much faster if I did not have to wait for you.”

The reindeer hurried on a little faster. After a while he said, “Fish, are you there?” and still another fish answered him and said, “Yes, Reindeer, I am here, but I could go much faster if I did not have to wait for you.”

Then the reindeer, who thought it was the same fish all the time, ran as fast as the wind for a little way. When he stopped he asked, “Fish, are you there?” and still another fish answered, “O yes, I am here, but you are too slow for me.”

After that the deer fell exhausted on the beach and could run no more. So in that way the tom-cod won the race.

WHY THEY HAVE SUMMER ON ST. LAWRENCE ISLAND

Long, long ago, on St. Lawrence Island, there lived an old woman with her little grandson. They were very poor, so poor that the old woman had a hard time to feed and care for the boy.

It was always cold and stormy, and sometimes they had almost nothing to eat for days at a time, because the wind blew so hard that the little boy could not stay out to catch tom-cods.

One time when it had been stormy for many days, and the old grandmother was nearly dying of hunger, the little boy said to her, “Grandma, do you know what makes storms like this?”

“No,” said she; “I only know that it is always cold and windy; only some days are worse than others. In some places they have sunshine, but never here. We will die of hunger and cold, but the wind will go on blowing just the same, and the snow will fall.”

The poor grandmother bowed her head, and the tears fell on her cheeks.

The boy said, “How is it, Grandma, that you live so long and do not know what makes storms? I shall find out myself.”

The grandmother had to laugh, weak and sad as she was. “Why, how can you find out such things? You are only a little boy.”

He stood up beside her and tried to look very big and strong.

“Grandma,” said he, “I will teach you about storms myself, even if I am only a little boy. I will find out how to stop these storms.”

Then he asked her to mend his mukluks and his mittens, and to be sure there were no holes in his parka, for he was going out.

The old woman said “No” at first, and begged him not to go, but seeing how determined he was she let him have his way, and got his things ready as he had asked her to do.

When she had finished, the little fellow put the parka over his head, and with his high fur mukluks, and good mittens, he was well protected from the wind.

Outside the igloo he stopped to watch the storm and which way the snow was drifting. After studying it for a while he said to himself, “I know now where the storm comes from,” and putting his head down he took a long breath and started to walk against the wind, which was so strong that it took him a long time to make any progress at all. The snow was thick and caused him to stop every few steps, and turn his back to the wind, to rest and get his breath.

At last, when he began to despair of getting any farther, he saw something big and dark moving through the snow. It was a man, a very big man. He had on a fine parka with a big band of wolverine fur about the hood, that stood out from his face like the rays of the sun; only the little boy had never seen the sun, so he never thought of that.

Luckily the man had his back to the boy, and of course could not hear him in such a howling wind.

Back and forth, the man walked in the snow, intent upon his work, and not looking about him at all.

The boy watched him closely, and saw that he had a spear, and a big shovel made from the shoulder-bone of a whale. First the man would break up a lot of snow with the spear, then he would scoop it up with his shovel, and with a great shout fling that snow wildly about in every direction. He seemed to be singing some kind of a wild song, and as he waved his shovel high in the air the snow flew thick and fast, whirling away in the great blast of wind made by the fanning of the shovel.

The boy listened for the words of the song. They sounded something like this:

“Whir-r-r-r away. Away blow. Fill the day, With flying snow. Here you go. There you go. Blow, blow, BLOW!”

At the last “BLOW” he would give a great shout, and whirl around so fast, and fling the snow so hard, that he would almost lose his balance and fall over on the ground.

How do you think the boy felt when he realized that he had all unexpectedly come upon the Storm Man himself? He was so excited he forgot to feel cold or tired, and began to wonder what he could do, he, a little boy, as his dear old grandmother had so rightly said, to stop the Storm Man from making any more storms. The man was very big and fierce and strong, and he himself was so very little, and had had so little to eat for a long time that he was not strong at all.

Watching the Storm Man, he noticed that every time he got through chopping a lot of snow, he would drop the spear behind him, and stoop to pick up the shovel; so, waiting until the man was entirely absorbed in his shovel and his song, the little boy grabbed the big spear and scampered off across the snow for dear life.

My! How heavy that spear did feel, and how the boy did run! For in spite of his burden, he was so sure the Storm Man was after him that Fear lent wings to his feet and he fairly flew over the snow toward his grandmother’s little house.

Safely he reached the door, and fell breathless on the floor behind his grandmother with the spear in his hand. Almost at his heels, he heard the Storm Man shouting behind him, “Give me my spear! Give me my spear!”

The old woman roused herself, opened her eyes, and saw the boy.

“My son,” said she, “if you have anything belonging to that man, give it to him or he will kill us.”

“Grandmother, dear Grandmother, don’t make me give back the spear, for that is the Storm Man, and if I give it back now, he will make a terrible big storm and we shall die anyhow. If I keep it he cannot make the storms.”

Then the man shouted louder than ever, “If you do not give me back my spear the sky will fall on you! You will be killed and every one on St. Lawrence Island will die, too; but if you give it back right away, it will be summer when you wake up tomorrow morning. The sun will be shining, and the salmon-berries will be ripening all about the house. Then go down to the river and set your nets, and they will quickly be full of fine salmon. Hurry! Hurry! Give me my spear!”

The grandmother again said, “Boy, give that man his spear.”

The little boy was very angry, because he did not believe the Storm Man, and thought they would be killed anyway, but he did not dare disobey the grandmother, so he took the spear to the fireplace and struck the point against the stone lamp to make it dull. When he had finished, he threw it out of the window hole, and called, “There is your spear. I know you are the Storm Man.”

The Storm Man only laughed, and said, “Konnu has sharpened my spear.” Now “Konnu” was the boy’s name.

After that the grandmother and the boy heard the howling song of the Storm Man grow fainter and fainter in the distance, until they both fell asleep to its soothing sound.

Early in the morning the boy was awakened by a strange dazzling light in his eyes. It was the sun. True to his word, the Storm Man had let the summer come.

Outside it was warm. Sunshine was everywhere, making everything look bright and beautiful. The ground about the house was thick with ripening salmon berries, and the sky was blue, with little white puffy clouds floating over it.

Konnu took his nets down to the river, and saw the salmon swimming lazily about. His heart was full of joy, for he knew the Storm Man had kept his word, that this was summer, and they need not be hungry and cold any more.

THE LOST SON

Long ago, in a village on the Arctic coast of Alaska, there lived a man and his wife, with their only son.

The boy was clever and brave, and a good hunter. Every spring he went out with his harpoon and killed a whale, but he did not worship the whales as his father did. The father thought the whales had great power, and he used to pray to them.

One winter while the young man was out hunting, the ice broke and drifted away from land, leaving him on the ice floe with a great expanse of shining sea between himself and the shore. There was no way for him to reach land, and, to make matters worse, a storm arose, and the wind blew and howled, and the waves grew so big that they looked like mountains. Pretty soon the ice was all broken up, so that he found himself on a very small, high iceberg. He had scarcely room to turn around, and all night long he clung there, cramped up and cold.

When daylight came again, and he saw that he was all alone on a little piece of ice, floating on a big black ocean, without even a glimpse of land to cheer him, he fell into deep despair. Very miserably he waited there, looking out over the sea until night began to fall once more; then he could bear it no longer. Taking his hunting knife from its sheath, he made ready to kill himself. As he raised the knife, a hand from above seized his hand, and a great voice spoke in his heart, saying, “You must not do that. It is wrong.” On hearing this, he dropped the knife in the water, and suddenly he felt himself being drawn up swiftly through the air. When he recovered his breath and looked about him, he was in heaven. It was very light, and he was not cold or sad any more.

While he stood there enjoying the balmy air and warm sunshine, a kind man came along, and took him to his home, where he was as well fed and treated as by a loving father.

Now his own father and mother were in great distress, and scarcely knew how to live without him. The neighbors were sorry for them, and every one in the village spoke kindly of the young man, whom they looked upon as lost forever.

At the far end of the village, in a tiny hut, there lived an old woman with her little granddaughter.

One day the little girl said, “Grandma, I wish I might bring back that young man.”

“Indeed, my dear, I wish so too,” answered the old woman; “but how could one little girl do what all the wise people in the village have not been able to accomplish?”

But the little girl kept on thinking about it and wishing she could bring the young man back to his unhappy parents; until at last she could think of nothing else, and could neither eat nor sleep for thinking of it.

One night, while her grandmother slept, the little girl lay looking at the old stone lamp, dreaming of the sadness that had come over her village because the boy, whom they all loved, was lost. She fancied the flickering light, from its wick of moss, winked at her, as much as to say, “I know something you would like to know.” So she began to talk to it in a low voice, that she might not awaken her grandmother. “Lamp, dear Lamp, can’t you go and find that boy? Your eyes are so bright, and you look so wise. Won’t you please go and find him?”

She sat up on her little heels, with her hands clasped, speaking eagerly.

The old grandmother stirred uneasily among her bear skins on the floor. The lamp twinkled and flickered, then, trembling a little, began to hop with short quick hops at first, then higher and higher, until at last, waving a bright goodby to her, the little lamp shot right out through the hole that is in the roof of every Eskimo house, and went straight up to heaven to get the young man, and bring him home.

“O Grandmother!” cried the little girl. “Our lamp has gone after him.”

The grandmother shivered, for without the lamp which supplied their heat and light, she felt cold. Drawing the little girl down beside her, she snuggled under the big fur rugs and went to sleep.

When the lamp reached heaven it went straight to the house where the young man was. It hopped so quickly through the ventilator, into the house, that some of the oil spilled out on the floor. The man who lived there tried to grab it, but each time he thought he had caught it, the lamp slipped from his fingers, and hopped away through the air, beckoning to the young man to come. Quickly jumping into the bowl of the lamp, the boy sat there and was carried straight down to the little girl.

When the little girl opened her eyes in the morning, she was disappointed to see the old lamp twinkling away in its accustomed place, looking very innocent indeed. The child thought it must have been a dream. Then a shadow came between her and the lamp, and she saw the boy standing, smiling down at her and the grandmother, and she knew that her dream had come true.

When they had recovered from their astonishment, and the boy had asked all about his parents and his friends, they talked a long while together and arranged a fine plan to give his father and mother a surprise.

The grandmother was to go to his house at once and ask his parents to give her some clothes, for those he had on were shabby and soiled, but she was to make believe that she wanted them for herself.

When the old woman reached the boy’s home, the parents welcomed her very kindly and asked what they could do for her.

“Let me have some of your son’s clothes,” said she. “My little granddaughter and I are very poor, and the weather is cold.”

“Alas!” sighed the man. “Our son is lost to us, and I fear he will not want his clothes any more. He would be happy to know that they were of use to you.”

They gave her the very best parka and mukluks the boy had, also some food. She thanked them heartily, and went home as fast as she could, for the sight of their sad faces made her feel that no time must be lost in making them happy again.

By the time the boy was dressed, and they had all had some food, it was evening. Then the two children ran hand in hand to the kasga, where the people were gathering to sing songs and play games.

The little girl went in first, and asked if she too might sing. They gave her a drum, and she sang a wonderful song, all about a dream she had had, which really was the story of how the lamp had found the boy and brought him home.

The sad parents were there, and the mother began to cry for her son, and the father said, “I wish that dream would come true!”

Just as he said this, the boy gave a shout and rushed into the room. You can imagine how surprised they all were, and how happy too.

Then the little girl slipped quietly out and went home with a shining face.

“Grandmother,” said she, “I can sleep well tonight, for I know everybody is glad again.”

The next day the boy came to the grandmother, and asked her and her granddaughter to come to live at his home with his father and mother.

They went with him, and after that they were always happy and comfortable, for the boy became a famous hunter, and kept them all supplied with good things to eat, and plenty of fur skins to keep them warm.

The little girl grew big, and the old grandmother bossed them all. Grandmothers always do in Eskimo Land.

THE CROW AND THE OWL

Long ago, when crows were white, a crow and an owl sat on a log, talking together.

The crow said he did not like his color, and the owl said, “I wish I had some pretty spots on my back.”

“So do I,” said the crow. “Let us paint each other with black oil from the lamp.”

“To-whit, to-whoo,” said the owl. “What fun that would be!”

Now when a clay lamp gets old there is a lot of thick black oil in the bottom of it. The Eskimos make chewing-gum out of this oil.

The crow took one of the owl’s feathers, dipped it into the oil, and painted beautiful black spots all over the owl’s body. He did it very well and made the owl look fine.

Then came the owl’s turn to paint the crow. At first he liked to do it, and made such pretty round spots that the crow began to feel very proud indeed; but before he was half through, the owl got tired of working so hard; and taking the lamp, he turned it upside down, and poured the black oil all over the crow.

How angry that crow was when he found himself black all over! He tried his best to get it off, but it was no use. The black stuck fast.

Ever since then, the crow has been the blackest of all birds.

THE RUNNING STICK

Long ago, in the village of Na-ki-a-ki-a-mute, there lived a strong man, or chief, with his wife, to whom he was very devoted. They had no children, but among their neighbors was a little girl who lived in a tiny house with her grandmother. These two were very poor, but the chief was rich, and the chief’s wife loved the little girl and had her often with her. Indeed the child used to come every day to fetch water for the chief’s wife, from the water hole through the ice in the river nearby.

One day the man went off hunting, and when he came back with a fine fat seal for their food his wife was gone. He called and called her, but she did not answer. Then he went to all his neighbors seeking her, but no one had seen her, and no trace of her could he find anywhere. There was not even a footprint to show in which direction she had gone.

The poor man was nearly crazy with grief and anger, for he felt sure some one must have taken his wife away from him. He became fierce and sullen, brooding over his troubles and loneliness, and would speak to no one. In fact no one dared to come near him for fear of being killed.

All day long he would sit out in front of his house with his big bow and quiver full of arrows, watching; and at night he did not sleep, nor could he eat.