Chapter 3

At the time when the animals reigned on the earth they had killed all but a girl and her little brother, and these two were living in fear and seclusion. The boy was a perfect pigmy, never growing beyond the stature of a small infant, but the girl increased with her years, so that the labour of providing food and lodging devolved wholly on her. She went out daily to get wood for their lodge fire, and took her brother with her so that no accident might happen to him, for he was too little to leave alone--a big bird might have flown away with him. She made him a bow and arrows, and said to him one winter day--

"I will leave you behind where I have been chopping; you must hide yourself, and you will see the gitshee-gitshee-gaun ai see-ug, or snow-birds, come and pick the worms out of the wood, where I have been chopping. Shoot one of them and bring it home."

He obeyed her, and tried his best to kill one, but came home unsuccessful. She told him he must not despair, but try again the next day. She accordingly left him at the place where she got wood and returned home. Towards nightfall she heard his footsteps on the snow, and he came in exultingly, and threw down one of the birds he had killed.

"My sister," said he, "I wish you to skin it and stretch the skin, and when I have killed more I will have a coat made out of them."

"What shall we do with the body?" asked she, for as yet men had not begun to eat animal food, but lived on vegetables alone.

"Cut it in two," he answered, "and season our pottage with one-half of it at a time."

She did so. The boy continued his efforts, and succeeded in killing ten birds, out of the skins of which his sister made him a little coat.

"Sister," said he one day, "are we all alone in the world? Is there nobody else living?"

His sister told him that they two alone remained; that the beings who had killed all their relations lived in a certain quarter, and that he must by no means go in that direction. This only served to inflame his curiosity and raise his ambition, and he soon after took his bow and arrows and went to seek the beings of whom his sister had told him. After walking a long time and meeting nothing he became tired, and lay down on a knoll where the sun had melted the snow. He fell fast asleep, and while sleeping the sun beat so hot upon him that it singed and drew up his birdskin coat, so that when he awoke and stretched himself, he felt, as it were, bound in it. He looked down and saw the damage done, and then he flew into a passion, upbraided the sun, and vowed vengeance against it.

"Do not think you are too high," said he; "I shall revenge myself."

On coming home he related his disaster to his sister, and lamented bitterly the spoiling of his coat. He would not eat. He lay down as one that fasts, and did not stir or move his position for ten days, though his sister did all she could to arouse him. At the end of ten days he turned over, and then lay ten days on the other side. Then he got up and told his sister to make him a snare, for he meant to catch the sun. At first she said she had nothing, but finally she remembered a little piece of dried deer's sinew that her father had left, and this she soon made into a string suitable for a noose. The moment, however, she showed it to her brother, he told her it would not do, and bade her get something else. She said she had nothing--nothing at all. At last she thought of her hair, and pulling some of it out made a string. Her brother again said it would not answer, and bade her, pettishly, and with authority, make him a noose. She replied that there was nothing to make it of, and went out of the lodge. When she was all alone she said--

"Neow obewy indapin."

Meanwhile her brother awaited her, and it was not long before she reappeared with some tiny cord. The moment he saw it he was delighted.

"This will do," he cried, and he put the cord to his mouth and began pulling it through his lips, and as fast as he drew it changed to a red metal cord of prodigious length, which he wound around his body and shoulders. He then prepared himself, and set out a little after midnight that he might catch the sun before it rose. He fixed his snare on a spot just where he thought the sun would appear; and sure enough he caught it, so that it was held fast in the cord and could not rise.

The animals who ruled the earth were immediately put into a great commotion. They had no light. They called a council to debate the matter, and to appoint some one to go and cut the cord--a very hazardous enterprise, for who dare go so near to the sun as would be necessary? The dormouse, however, undertook the task. At that time the dormouse was the largest animal in the world; when it stood up it looked like a mountain. It set out upon its mission, and, when it got to the place where the sun lay snared, its back began to smoke and burn, so intense was the heat, and the top of its carcass was reduced to enormous heaps of ashes. It succeeded, however, in cutting the cord with its teeth and freed the sun, but was reduced to a very small size, and has remained so ever since. Men call it the Kug-e-been-gwa-kwa.

THE MAID IN THE BOX.

There once lived a woman called Monedo Kway (female spirit or prophetess) on the sand mountains, called The Sleeping Bear of Lake Michigan, who had a daughter as beautiful as she was modest and discreet. Everybody spoke of her beauty, and she was so handsome that her mother feared she would be carried off, so to prevent it she put her in a box, which she pushed into the middle of the lake. The box was tied by a long string to a stake on shore, and every morning the mother pulled the box to land, and, taking her daughter out of it, combed her hair, gave her food, and then putting her again in the box, set her afloat on the lake.

One day it chanced that a handsome young man came to the spot at the moment the girl was being thus attended to by her mother. He was struck with her beauty, and immediately went home and told his love to his uncle, who was a great chief and a powerful magician.

"My nephew," replied the old man, "go to the mother's lodge and sit down in a modest manner without saying a word. You need not ask her a question, for whatever you think she will understand, and what she thinks in answer you will understand."

The young man did as he was bid. He entered the woman's lodge and sat with his head bent down in a thoughtful manner, without uttering a word. He then thought--

"I wish she would give me her daughter." Very soon he understood the mother's thoughts in reply.

"Give you my daughter!" thought she. "You! no, indeed! my daughter shall never marry you!"

The young man went away and reported the result to his uncle.

"Woman without good sense!" exclaimed the old man. "Who is she keeping her daughter for? Does she think she will marry the Mudjikewis (a term indicating the heir or successor to the first in power)? Proud heart! We will try her magic skill, and see whether she can withstand our power."

He forthwith set himself to work, and in a short time the pride and haughtiness of the mother was made known to all the spirits on that part of the lake, and they met together and resolved to exert their power to humble her. To do this they determined to raise a great storm on the lake. The water began to roar and toss, and the tempest became so severe that the string holding the box broke, and it floated off through the straits down Lake Huron, and struck against the sandy shores at its outlet. The place where it struck was near the lodge of a decayed old magician called Ishkwon Daimeka, or the keeper of the gate of the lakes. He opened the box and let out the beautiful daughter, whom he took into his lodge and made his wife.

When her mother found that her daughter had been carried off by the storm, she raised loud cries and lamented exceedingly. This she continued to do for a long time, and would not be comforted. At last the spirits began to pity her, and determined to raise another storm to bring the daughter back. This was even a greater storm than the first. The water of the lake washed away the ground, and swept on to the lodge of Ishkwon Daimeka, whose wife, when she saw the flood approaching, leaped into the box, and the waves, carrying her off, landed her at the very spot where was her mother's lodge.

Monedo Kway was overjoyed, but when she opened the box she found her daughter, indeed, but her beauty had almost all departed. However, she loved her still, because she was her daughter, and now thought of the young man who had come to seek her in marriage. She sent a formal message to him, but he had heard of all that had occurred, and his love for the girl had died away.

"I marry your daughter!" replied he. "Your daughter! no, indeed! I shall never marry her!"

The storm that brought the girl back was so strong that it tore away a large part of the shore of the lake and swept off Ishkwon Daimeka's lodge, the fragments of which, lodging in the straits, formed those beautiful islands which are scattered in the St. Clair and Detroit rivers. As to Ishkwon Daimeka himself, he was drowned, and his bones lie buried under the islands. As he was carried away by the waves on a fragment of his lodge, the old man was heard lamenting his fate in a song.

THE SPIRITS AND THE LOVERS.

At the distance of a woman's walk of a day from the mouth of the river, called by the pale-faces the Whitestone, in the country of the Sioux, in the middle of a large plain, stands a lofty hill or mound. Its wonderful roundness, together with the circumstance of its standing apart from all other hills, like a fir-tree in the midst of a wide prairie, or a man whose friends and kindred have all descended to the dust, has made it known to all the tribes of the West. Whether it was created by the Great Spirit or filled up by the sons of men, whether it was done in the morning of the world, ask not me, for I cannot tell you. Know it is called by all the tribes of the land the Hill of Little People, or the Mountain of Little Spirits. No gifts can induce an Indian to visit it; for why should he incur the anger of the Little People who dwell in it, and, sacrificed upon the fire of their wrath, behold his wife and children no more? In all the marches and counter-marches of the Indians, in all their goings and returnings, in all their wanderings by day or by night to and from lands which lie beyond it, their paths are so ordered that none approaches near enough to disturb the tiny inhabitants of the hill. The memory of the red-man of the forest has preserved but one instance when their privacy was violated, since it was known through the tribes that they wished for no intercourse with mortals. Before that time many Indians were missing each year. No one knew what became of them, but they were gone, and left no trace nor story behind. Valiant warriors filled their quivers with arrows, put new strings to their bows, new shod their moccasins, and sallied out to acquire glory in combat; but there was no wailing in the camp of our foes: their arrows were not felt, their shouts were not heard. Yet they fell not by the hands of our foes, but perished we know not how.

Many seasons ago there lived within the limits of the great council-fire of the Mahas a chief who was renowned for his valour and victories in the field, his wisdom in the council, his dexterity and success in the chase. His name was Mahtoree, or the White Crane. He was celebrated throughout the vast regions of the West, from the Mississippi to the Hills of the Serpent, from the Missouri to the Plains of Bitter Frost, for all those qualities which render an Indian warrior famous and feared.

In one of the war expeditions of the Pawnee Mahas against the Burntwood Tetons, it was the good fortune of the former to overcome and to make many prisoners--men, women, and children. One of the captives, Sakeajah, or the Bird-Girl, a beautiful creature in the morning of life, after being adopted into one of the Mahas families, became the wife of the chief warrior of the nation. Great was the love which the White Crane had for his wife, and it grew yet stronger when she had brought him four sons and a daughter, Tatokah, or the Antelope. She was beautiful. Her skin was fair, her eyes were large and bright as those of the bison-ox, and her hair black, and braided with beads, brushed, as she walked, the dew from the flowers upon the prairies. Her temper was gentle and her voice sweet.

It may not be doubted that the beautiful Tatokah had many lovers; but the heart of the maiden was touched by none of the noble youths who sought her. She bade them all depart as they came; she rejected them all. With the perverseness which is often seen among women, she had placed her affections upon a youth who had distinguished himself by no valiant deeds in war, nor by industry or dexterity in the chase. His name had never reached the surrounding nations. His own nation knew him not, unless as a weak and imbecile man. He was poor in everything which constitutes the riches of Indian life. Who had heard the twanging of Karkapaha's bow in the retreat of the bear, or who had beheld the war-paint on his cheek or brow? Where were the scalps or the prisoners that betokened his valour or daring? No song of valiant exploits had been heard from his lips, for he had none to boast of--if he had done aught becoming a man, he had done it when none was by. The beautiful Tatokah, who knew and lamented the deficiencies of her lover, strove long to conquer her passion without success. At length, since her father would not agree to her union with her lover, the two agreed to fly together. The night fixed came, and they left the village of the Mahas and the lodge of Mahtoree for the wilderness.

Their flight was not unmarked, and when the father was made acquainted with the disgrace which had befallen him, he called his young men around him, and bade them pursue the fugitives, promising his daughter to whomsoever should slay the Karkapaha. Immediately pursuit was made, and soon a hundred eager youths were on the track of the hapless pair. With that unerring skill and sagacity in discovering footprints which mark their race, their steps were tracked, and themselves soon discovered flying. What was the surprise of the pursuers when they found that the path taken by the hapless pair would carry them to the mountain of little spirits, and that they were sufficiently in advance to reach it before they could be overtaken. None of them durst venture within the supposed limits, and they halted till the White Crane should be informed of his daughter and her lover having placed themselves under the protection of the spirits.

In the meantime the lovers pursued their journey towards the fearful residence of the little people. Despair lent them courage to perform an act to which the stoutest Indian resolution had hitherto been unequal. They determined to tell their tale to the spirits and ask their protection. They were within a few feet of the hill when, on a sudden, its brow, on which no object had till now been visible, became covered with little people, the tallest of whom was not higher than the knee of the maiden, while many of them--but these were children--were of lower stature than the squirrel. Their voice was sharp and quick, like the barking of the prairie dog. A little wing came out at each shoulder; each had a single eye, which eye was to the right in the men, and to the left in the women, and their feet stood out at each side. They were armed like Indians, with tomahawks, spears, bows, and arrows. He who appeared to be the head chief--for he wore an air of command, and had the eagle feather--came up to the fugitives and said--

"Why have you invaded the village of our race whose wrath has been so fatal to your people? How dare you venture within the limits of our residence? Know you not that your lives are forfeited?"

Tatokah, for her lover had less than the heart of a doe and was speechless, related their story. She told them how they had loved, how wroth her father had been, how they had stolen away and been pursued, and concluded her tale of sorrow with a flood of tears. The little man who wore the eagle feather appeared moved by what she said, and calling around him a large number of men, who were doubtless the chiefs and counsellors of the nation, a long consultation took place. The result was a determination to favour and protect the lovers.

At this moment Shongotongo, or the Big Horse, one of the braves whom Mahtoree had despatched in quest of his daughter, appeared in view in pursuit of the fugitives. It was not till Mahtoree had taxed his courage that Big Horse had ventured on the perilous quest. He approached with the strength of heart and singleness of purpose which accompany an Indian warrior who deems the eyes of his nation upon him. When first the brave was discovered thus wantonly, and with no other purpose but the shedding of blood, intruding on the dominions of the spirits, no words can tell the rage which appeared to possess their bosoms. Secure in the knowledge of their power to repel the attacks of every living thing, the intrepid Maha was permitted to advance within a few steps of Karkapaha. He had just raised his spear to strike the unmanly lover, when, all at once, he found himself riveted to the ground. His feet refused to move, his hands hung powerless at his side, his tongue refused to utter a word. The bow and arrow fell from his hand, and his spear lay powerless. A little child, not so high as the fourth leaf of the thistle, came and spat on him, and a company of the spirits danced around him singing a taunting song. When they had thus finished their task of preparatory torture, a thousand little spirits drew their bows, and a thousand arrows pierced his heart. In a moment innumerable mattocks were employed in preparing him a grave, and he was hidden from the eyes of the living ere Tatokah could have thrice counted over the fingers of her hand.

When this was done, the chief of the little spirits called Karkapaha before him, and said--

"Maha, you have the heart of a doe. You would fly from a roused wren. We have not spared you because you deserve to be spared, but because the maiden loves you. It is for this purpose that we will give you the heart of a man, that you may return to the village of the Mahas, and find favour in the eyes of Mahtoree and the braves of the nation. We will take away your cowardly spirit, and will give you the spirit of the warrior whom we slew, whose heart was firm as a rock. Sleep, man of little soul, and wake to be better worthy the love of the beautiful Antelope."

Then a deep sleep came over the Maha lover. How long he slept he knew not, but when he woke he felt at once that a change had taken place in his feelings and temper. The first thought that came to his mind was of a bow and arrow, the second was of the beautiful maiden who lay sleeping at his side. The little spirits had disappeared--not a solitary being of the many thousands who, but a few minutes before, had filled the air with their discordant cries was now to be seen or heard. At the feet of Karkapaha lay a tremendous bow, larger than any warrior ever yet used, a sheaf of arrows of proportionate size, and a spear of a weight which no Maha could wield. Karkapaha drew the bow as an Indian boy bends a willow twig, and the spear seemed in his hand but a reed or a feather. The shrill war-whoop burst unconsciously from his lips, and his nostrils seemed dilated with the fire and impatience of a newly-awakened courage. The heart of the fond Indian girl dissolved in tears when she saw these proofs of strength and these evidences of spirit which, she knew, if they were coupled with valour--and how could she doubt the completeness of the gift to effect the purposes of the giver?--would thaw the iced feelings of her father and tune his heart to the song of forgiveness. Yet it was not without many fears, tears, and misgivings on the part of the maiden that they began their journey to the Mahas village. The lover, now a stranger to fear, used his endeavours to quiet the beautiful Tatokah, and in some measure succeeded. Upon finding that his daughter and her lover had gone to the Hill of the Spirits, and that Shongotongo did not return from his perilous adventure, the chief of the Mahas had recalled his braves from the pursuit, and was listening to the history of the pair, as far as the returned warriors were acquainted with it, when his daughter and her lover made their appearance. With a bold and fearless step the once faint-hearted Karkapaha walked up to the offended father, and, folding his arms upon his breast, stood erect as a pine, and motionless as that tree when the winds of the earth are chained. It was the first time that Karkapaha had ever looked on angry men without trembling, and a demeanour so unusual in him excited universal surprise.

"Karkapaha is a thief," said the White Crane.

"It is the father of Tatokah that says it," answered the lover, "else would Karkapaha say it was the song of a bird that has flown over."

"My warriors say it."

"Your warriors are singing-birds; they are wrens. Karkapaha says they do not speak the truth. Karkapaha has a brave heart and the strength of a bear. Let the braves try him. He has thrown away the woman's heart, and become a man."

"Karkapaha is changed," said the chief thoughtfully, "but how and when?"

"The Little Spirits of the mountain have given him a new soul. Bid your braves draw this bow. Bid them poise this spear. Their eyes say they can do neither. Then is Karkapaha the strong man of his tribe?" As he said this he flourished the ponderous spear over his head as a man would poise a reed, and drew the bow as a child would bend a twig.

"Karkapaha is the husband of Tatokah," said Mahtoree, springing to his feet, and he gave the maiden to her lover.

The traditionary lore of the Mahas is full of the exploits, both in war and in the chase, of Karkapaha, who was made a man by the Spirits of the Mountain.

THE WONDERFUL ROD.

The Choctaws had for many years found a home in regions beyond the Mountains of Snow, far away to the west of the Mississippi. They, however, decided, for some reason or other, to leave the place in which they dwelt, and the question then arose in what direction they should journey. Now, there was a jossakeed (priest) who had a wonderful rod, and he said that he would lead them.

For many years, therefore, they travelled, being guided by him. He walked before them bearing the rod, and when night was come he put it upright in the earth, and the people encamped round it. In the morning they looked to see in what direction the rod pointed, for each night the rod left its upright position, and inclined one way or another. Day after day the rod was found pointing to the east, and thither the Choctaws accordingly bent their steps.

"You must travel," said the jossakeed, "as long as the rod directs you pointing to the direction in which you must go, but when the rod ceases to point, and stands upright, then you must live there."

So the people went on until they came to a hill, where they camped, having first put up the rod so that it did not lean at all. In the morning, when they went to see which direction the rod pointed out for them to take, they found it upright, and from it there grew branches bearing green leaves. Then they said--

"We will stop here."

So that became the centre of the land of the Choctaws.

THE FUNERAL FIRE.