Part 2

One morning the wind was cold, and the leaves had to dance fast to keep warm. Then the old tree said, “It is the breath of Po-poon-o-ki. He lives in the ice lodge of the far North. He will soon visit us, with his war paints. I must hold you tightly, little leaves, as long as I can.” But the little leaves did not understand what the tree meant.

Then, one still night, Po-poon-o-ki came. He went from tree to tree, and over each one he splashed his war paints, till the leaves were no longer green, but dashed with red, and brown, and yellow, and crimson.

“How beautiful the trees are!” cried the Indian children the next morning. “See their bright colors.”

For a few days the leaves danced and whispered, laughing over their beautiful hues. Then Po-poon-o-ki came back, and with his swift, cold breath, he blew against the trees, and the little leaves were tossed and torn from the friendly branches. They did not fly up into the heavens, but frightened and sobbing they dropped to the earth.

“We shall die!” they cried. “We shall die!”

Then a strange thing happened. The guardian spirit of the tree whispered, “No, little leaves, you shall not die. You shall be changed into living forms. I will give you breath and life.” And instantly there arose from the earth where the leaves had dropped, a great flock of winged birds, red, and brown, and yellow, and crimson, all the beautiful colors that Po-poon-o-ki had given the leaves. Then they flew away to the South Land, where winter’s breath could not reach them.

But in the spring, when Ni-poon-o-ki, the spirit of summer, came stealing up from the South, and Po-poon-o-ki went back to his ice lodge in the far North, then the birds came back, too. There were new leaves on the trees, but the birds flew straight to the branches which had been their home, and there, safely sheltered by the new leaves, they built their nests.

And after awhile, when there were eggs in all the home nests, the hearts of the birds became so full of joy that they could no longer be silent. Their throats swelled, and opening wide their little mouths, they filled all the air with bursts of happy song.

WHY THE WIND WAILS

(Algonquin)

WHEN the pale moon looks down from the sky, and when the wind cries mournfully around the wigwam, this is the story that the old man of the tribe tells to the Indian children:

Many, many moons ago the great chief of our tribe had a very beautiful daughter.

“She shall marry a great warrior,” said the Chief, “and a mighty hunter. Then she will be well cared for, and I shall be happy.”

So the great Chief kept watch of the young men of the tribe, to see which one would prove worthy of his daughter.

One day, as the Chief sat in the door of his lodge, there came a sudden rushing sound, and a young man stood before him. It was the Wind, who had made himself visible that he might talk with the Chief.

When he had saluted, he said, “Great Chief, I love your daughter. May I carry her away to my lodge, and make her my wife?”

The Chief looked at the Wind, and he answered, “No. My daughter is not for such as you. You are no warrior. You are no hunter. You love to play pranks. You cannot marry my daughter.”

So the Wind went away sorrowing, for he loved the Indian maiden.

The next day the maiden came to her father and said, “Father, I love the Wind better than any young warrior of our tribe. May I go to his lodge, and be his wife?”

The Chief looked at his daughter and said, “No. The Wind is no mate for you. He is no warrior. He is no hunter. He loves only to play pranks. You cannot marry him.”

The maiden went away sorrowing, for she loved the Wind.

The next day when the maiden went out to gather sweet marsh grass for her basket weaving, she heard a sudden rushing sound above her head. She looked up, and as she looked the Wind swept down and carried her in his arms far away to his lodge.

There they lived happily together, for the maiden became his wife. But the great Chief was full of wrath. He hunted through all the land for the lodge of the Wind, but he could not find it for many moons. Still he would not give up the search, for his heart was hot with wrath.

One day the Wind heard a great crashing sound among the trees near his lodge, and his heart stood still.

“It is your father,” he cried, and he hid the Chief’s daughter in a thicket, while he made himself invisible, that he might stay close beside her.

The great Chief looked inside the lodge of the Wind, but he found it empty. Then he went through the brush, striking to right and left with his heavy club, and calling, “My daughter: my daughter!”

And when the Wind’s wife heard her father’s voice, she answered, “Oh, my father, strike not! We are here.”

But before her words could reach him, the Chief swung his great club once more, and it fell upon the head of the invisible Wind, who, without a sound, dropped unconscious upon the ground. And because he was invisible, neither the Chief nor his daughter knew what had happened.

Then the Chief took his daughter in his arms and hastened back to his tribe. But each day she grew more and more sorrowful, and longed for her husband, the Wind.

For many hours the Wind lay unconscious beside his lodge. When he awakened, the Chief and his daughter had gone. Sorrowfully he set out in search of his wife. He traveled to her father’s tribe, and there at last he found her. But she was in a canoe with her father, far out upon the lake.

Then the Wind cried, “Come to me, my loved one,” and his voice swept out over the water.

The Chief said, “The winds are blowing,” but his daughter knew her husband’s voice. She could not see him, for he was still invisible, but she lifted herself up in the canoe and stretched out her hands toward the shore. As she did so a breeze stirred the water, and the canoe overturned.

The Chief’s daughter threw up her arms, and the Wind tried to catch her in his embrace, but he was too late. The Great Spirit bore her far up into the sky, and there he gave her a home where she would live forever in the lodge of the moon.

The great Chief was drowned in the waters of the lake.

Night after night his daughter looks down upon the earth, hoping for a sight of her lost lover. But though the Wind still roams about the earth in search of his bride, he has never, since the Chief’s blow fell upon his head, had the power to become visible to men.

And now you will understand why the voice of the Wind is so mournful as it wails about the wigwam; and why the Moon Maiden’s pale face is always turned downward toward the earth.

STORY OF THE HUMMING BIRD

(Shoshonee)

“SEE!” said the Indian grandfather, as he sat in the opening of his tepee. “See the little Fire Bird! How swiftly it darts! Now it drinks honey from the flowers. How fast its wings move!”

A little Indian boy stood quietly at his grandfather’s side. “I see the fire on its throat,” he said softly, and then, as the bird darted away, he begged, “Tell me the story of the little Fire Bird, grandfather. I like the story.”

Then the grandfather told this tale, which his grandfather had told to him:

Long, long ago the Indian people lived in a country where it was cold, and the snow fell for many, many days. The falling snow covered the tracks of the forest children, so the hunters could find little meat. Many times the Indian children cried to the Great Spirit for warmth, and for better hunting.

Far to the west of the Indian village there was a high mountain; and often the people watched the red sun as he sank from sight beyond the mountain, and all the sky was filled with brightness.

One night a little child went running about the tepees calling, “Come, come; see the sun! See the sun!”

The people looked toward the west. All the sky was bright; and they said, “The sun is touching the mountain top.”

But the brightness did not fade away as they watched. Instead, while darkness fell all about the village, the red fire burned brighter and brighter at the top of the mountain. The people cried, “The sun is resting. He does not move. He does not sink behind the mountain!” Then they were frightened, for they knew not what to think.

All night they watched, and still the bright light shone above the mountain top. It flashed, and threw fiery darts far into the heavens; and the Indians said, “The sun is angry. Perhaps he will destroy the earth’s children.”

Then their wonder grew as far away in the east a light began to glow. It grew brighter and brighter,--and then the sun arose on the eastern horizon! The people knew then that the light upon the mountain was not the light of the sun.

“There is _fire_ in the mountain,” they cried, “and fire is warm. It is beckoning to us with its hands. Let us move nearer to the fire mountain. It will not be so cold there.”

So the people of the village marched westward toward the mountain. The bright light had gone, but a cloud of smoke hung above it.

For several days they journeyed, and at last they reached the foot of the mountain, and there they camped.

Then two of their bravest warriors climbed up the mountain, until they came to its very top, and there they looked down into a great opening, shaped like a mammoth bowl, and it was full of fire! Then they hastened down and told the people.

The people rejoiced, and said, “The fire in the mountain will keep us warm. It will be good to live here.” And they made them a new village at the foot of the mountain.

For many moons the people dwelt there, hunting and fishing, making their beads and moccasins. Then one day a strange noise was heard. It was as though the mountain coughed--a great, hoarse, rumbling cough, like that of some huge giant.

The people stood still and listened! There was another sound like the first, but heavier, more convulsive.

Then a great flash of fire shot up from the mountain top, and fell again. Then another, and another, and each time the fire leaped higher.

“Let us run!” cried the people. “Let us run!” Even as they spoke there was a great burst of fire and smoke, and huge stones were thrown high in the air, and a stream came pouring down the side of the mountain--a stream that looked like liquid fire.

Then the Indians ran, indeed, and there was no time to save anything but their own lives!

Many streams followed the first one, coming like fiery serpents down the mountain side, and above were heavy smoke clouds, shot with bursting rocks.

Far away the Indian people ran, crying, “The Fire Spirit is angry! What have we done that he should destroy our homes?”

At last they stopped, and turned to look back at the fire mountain. The flames were gone: only a cloud of smoke hung about. But the fiery streams had burned all that was in their way; and rocks and ashes had buried what the fire streams had not destroyed.

Then the people prayed to the Great Spirit, and as the Great Spirit looked down upon the mountain and saw what destruction had been wrought, he said, “Your flames shall be put out; your fires shall be quenched.” And even as the Great Spirit spoke, the fires grew ashen in color, and the flames trembled and sank away.

But in the center of the great bowl of the mountain, where the fires had been, one little flame hung quivering. The Great Spirit saw it, and he said, “Little flame, you alone shall stay. But I will give to you a new form. You shall have wings, and live among the earth’s people, and drink the honey of its flowers. Little flame, you shall carry the color of the fire upon your throat. You shall be known as the Humming Bird, and every child will love you.”

THE GIFT OF INDIAN CORN

(Chippewa)

IN the far back days, before the white men lived upon this side of the earth, a young Indian lad stood at the door of his father’s tepee and gazed out over the far-waving prairie grass.

He was thinking of the morrow when he would begin his fast; for this was the custom among the Indians. When a youth reached a given age he went away by himself, and for seven days he ate no food, but spent the time in prayer to the Great Spirit that his part in life might be made clear to him, and that it might prove a worthy one.

Now Wunzh, who stood in the tepee door, was an unusually thoughtful lad, for his father had so taught him; and he was filled with high and with grave thoughts as he looked across the waving grass.

Beyond his sight, in a thicket, he knew that his father and younger brother were clearing the ground and raising the little tepee wherein he would spend the days of his fasting.

Wunzh knew full well what his prayer to the Great Spirit would be, but how would it be answered? He thought of this long and often.

As he had run about the prairie or made his way through the forests when a little lad, he had wondered how it was that the grass and the trees sprang up out of the dark earth. He had wondered why some of the flowers smelled sweet while others were offensive; why some of the roots were good for healing, while others caused sickness or even death, though all came from the same soil. But to none of these questions could he find an answer.

Wunzh’s father was poor, and so were many other Indians; and some of them were ill, or very old. But in order to live they must hunt or fish, for game and fish were their only food. And so life was hard for many of the Indians.

Since Wunzh was thoughtful and had considered all these things, he knew full well what his prayer to the Great Spirit would be.

On the following day he left the tepee of his father and went to the little clearing in the thicket, where he would fast for seven days. And there he prayed that in some way which the Great Spirit would show him, he might bring a great blessing to his people and make their lives less hard. He knew full well that most of his comrades prayed that they might become great warriors, or that they should be mighty men of the chase. But Wunzh prayed not for these.

For four days he fasted and prayed, and each day he grew weaker from lack of food, but his faith and his courage grew stronger.

On the fifth day, as he lay upon his bed of skins, there appeared outside the door of his tepee a strong, bright youth, clad all in shimmering greens and golden yellows, and wearing upon his head a plume of waving green.

“Come,” cried the youth, “let us wrestle, and see who shall overcome.”

Then Wunzh sprang from his bed, for though his body was weak, his spirit was strong, and he grappled with the youth and they wrestled together.

At length the youth said, “That will do for to-day. You have wrestled well, though neither of us has overcome. I will return to-morrow.”

And no sooner had he finished speaking than he vanished from the sight of Wunzh who dropped exhausted upon his bed.

The next day, at exactly the same hour, the youth came again, and so suddenly that it seemed to Wunzh he must have dropped from the sky.

Wunzh had less strength in his body than on the previous day, but he felt sure the stranger had been sent by the Great Spirit, and so he grappled with him again and wrestled well.

But as Wunzh’s strength was nearly gone, the young man said once more, “That will do for to-day. To-morrow I will return. ’Tis the last day of your fast. Be ready.”

Again the stranger disappeared, and Wunzh, trembling with weakness of body, prayed the Great Spirit that he might yet overcome. And as he prayed he fell asleep.

Then, as Wunzh slept, he dreamed. And it seemed to him that he again wrestled with the strange youth, and he overcame and threw him to the ground. And a voice spoke to him and said: “Strip off the clothing of the youth and wear it for your own. Bury his body, and protect the spot where he is buried. Make the earth soft and mellow; keep it clear of weeds; and water it day by day. Do all this, and your prayer to the Great Spirit shall be answered.”

Wunzh slept long, but when he wakened he remembered his dream and the words that had been spoken.

That morning his father came to the tepee to offer food, but Wunzh said, “Let me alone until the evening.” So his father went away.

At the same hour, on this day, the stranger once more appeared outside the door of the tepee, and once more Wunzh went forth to wrestle. He was weaker than before, but his dream had given him such courage that he grasped the strange youth and with a supreme effort threw him prostrate upon the earth.

“I have overcome,” cried Wunzh, for the youth lay dead at his feet.

Then Wunzh stripped off his clothing as he had been told in his dream, and he dressed himself in the garments of green and yellow, and he placed the plume of green upon his head.

Then, kneeling, he tenderly buried the body of the youth, and his tears fell as he did so, for he said, “He was my friend.”

When Wunzh returned to the tepee of his father he was received with great rejoicing, and given food. His new clothing was looked upon in wonder, but he did not tell its story.

Day by day he went to the little spot of ground where his own little tepee had been, and he kept the earth soft and moist and free from weeds.

And after many days had gone by, green plumes came up through the earth; and they grew, and became sturdy stalks.

And still they grew, and after many days and weeks the broad green leaves held ears of juicy grain.

Day by day the ears grew full and the grain ripened; the green plumes at their ends turned to yellow, and then to brown, and the ground was covered with the many stalks.

Then Wunzh said to his father, “Come with me. I have something to show you.” And his father went with him, and he showed him the clearing where his tepee had stood. And it was all a field of green and yellow, like the clothing which Wunzh had worn, when he came from his fast.

Then he told his father of the stranger’s visit, and of his dream, and of his overcoming the youth.

“And now, my father,” he added, “the Great Spirit has answered my prayer. From this time on life will be less hard for the Indian, for he shall have other food than game and fish. The Great Spirit has caused this grain to grow, and it is good for man to eat. Taste it, my father, and see.”

And this is the story the Red Men tell of the gift of the maize, or Indian corn.

THE STARS THAT DANCE

(Iroquois)

MANY years ago in the Indian country a company of eleven young men went out from the village of their fathers. They were going to prepare themselves for the war dances, and for battle with their foes.

Away into the forest they went, but before they left the lodges of their people, their leader said, “You, our parents, must prepare food, that we may have strength for the trial that is before us.”

Then they went away, singing the war songs of their nation, while their leader beat upon the water drum to give them courage and endurance.

On they marched until they came to the part of the forest where they were to begin their training, and there they stopped and prepared a rude lodge for shelter.

Many days they stayed, practising the light step of the hunter which falls as softly as a falling leaf, or dancing the war dance to the beating of the drum.

But at length they grew weary and faint, for day after day had passed, and no food had been sent them from the lodges of their fathers.

Then their leader sent one of their number back to the village, and he told the people that the young men were faint and weary, and in need of food. Yet the people sent them no food, and the young man went back, weak, and empty-handed.

Once more the young men began their dancing, for their hearts were full of courage, and Indian youths are strong to endure. Then, once more, they sent to the people asking for food, but still no food was given them.

Then a third time they sent, and yet in vain.

That night, as the youths slept, quite exhausted, in their lodge, their leader was awakened by the sound of singing. Slow, and soft, and alluring were the voices; and they seemed far above the earth.

The leader wakened his companions, and together they listened. Then, one by one, the young men arose, and new strength seemed to come into their limbs, and new courage into their hearts, and dancing, they followed the sound of the singing. On and on they went, and then they seemed to be lifted from off the earth, but still they danced as higher and higher they arose. Now they were past the tree tops, now they were above the mountain tops, and now high up among the clouds. And still they danced the war dance of their nation, faster and faster, as the music led them on.

The Night Wind saw them. “They follow the song of the Sky Witches,” he cried in alarm, and he hastened to overtake them and turn them back. But they paid no heed to the Night Wind, for the song of the Sky Witches had charmed them, and they followed on dancing.

The people of their village caught sight of them as they passed far over their heads, and they ran from their lodges and called to them. “Come back! Come back!” they cried. “Look down upon us, and the spell will be broken. Heed not the song of the Sky Witches!”

But still the young men followed on,--all but one, their leader, who, hearing the voice of his mother, turned his head and looked back. The spell of the Sky Witches was broken, and down, down he sped to the earth.

The other ten followed on, and the Mother Moon, quite dizzy with the sight of their dancing, turned aside from her steady course and begged them to heed her voice.

“The Sky Witches are seeking victims for their feasts,” she warned them. “Turn away; turn away! They will destroy you!”

Yet in spite of her warning the witchery of the music led the youths on. And then the Mother Moon cried, “I will save you from their wicked spell in spite of yourselves!” With that she waved her girdle of vapors, and the ten youths were changed into fixed stars, and set forever in the heavens.

Seven of the youths were large and strong, and three were small and less sturdy; and so they were as stars. When the people of their village looked once more up into the sky, they saw seven bright stars dancing and twinkling above them. But those whose eyes were very strong, when the night was clear, could see ten.

And to this day these stars still dance and twinkle in the heavens--and this is the Indian legend of their origin.

We call these stars the Pleiades, but the Indians call them “The Stars That Dance.”

THE PUKWUDJEE AND THE MORNING STAR

(Ojibwa)

ONCE upon a time, in the Indian country, two children were left alone in a village. All the other people had gone to a far-away country.

The sister, who was the older, thought, “I must take good care of my baby brother,” though she was not much more than a baby herself. And this she did. She cooked food for him, and she made him little moccasins, and crooned a song for him when it was time for him to sleep.

She grew up rapidly, but the baby brother seemed scarcely to grow at all. He became strong and sturdy, however, though he was so small a mite.

The sister watched over him carefully, and as soon as he could run about she made him a tiny bow and arrows, and taught him how to shoot. At the same time she hung a shell about his neck, for a charm, and she named him He-of-the-Little-Shell.

For all his small size, he soon learned to use the bow and arrow, and his aim was very true. He brought home birds and squirrels for food, and after a time he was able to bring down bigger game, so that they fared very well.

But He-of-the-Little-Shell did not grow. When he stood beside his sister he looked no bigger than a squirrel.