Part 12

Taking the Leaf in her bill, the Red Bird Flew through the forest among the branches To the great tree which grew secluded In the safest place in all the mountain. On its topmost branch they built a wigwam; Bad little Indians never came near them Hunting for birds with their bows and arrows, Nor the wicked whirlwind looking for leaves. There they lived and were perfectly happy, Nothing but kind words passed between them, Only kind words and favorite songs.[65]

Leaves like men are never contented, When all’s for the best they never know it; So it came to pass that Mĭpis one morning Saw far away in the pleasant sunlight A land of beautiful lakes and mountains, Lovelier far than the place they lived in; And felt in his heart an earnest longing To wander away. So he said to the Red Bird: “Look, my dear, at that beautiful country! There we are sure to be perfectly happy: I can no longer live here on the mountain!”

Taking the Leaf in her little bill, The Red Bird flew over rock and river, Till she came to the beautiful country; Again on a tree they built their wigwam, And Squʿtes sat and sang on the branches: The little Indian boy Monimques Never had heard such beautiful singing, Never beheld such wonderful feathers; Amazed he stood for a while and listened, Then bending his bow let fly an arrow. Down fell the Red Bird, sorely wounded, And proud of his prey the boy ran homeward. Then another foe came rushing after, Aplasemwesit the Little Whirlwind, Seeing the Red Leaf soon he seized it, Took it in triumph unto his grandsire The mighty Storm; when the chief beheld it, “This,” he said, “is no common capture, This is the Leaf of the Leaves, my grandson! He shall not die. I will keep him a prisoner: He has come from afar. We must guard him with care.”

Greatly the Storm Chief fears the Mountain Who stops the wind in its wildest flight. That night there came a dream to Kʾmûsomsʾn And he learned that the Leaf had been taken prisoner, By Aplasemwesit and kept as captive. Waking in anger he called to his son: “Go to the chief of the storms and tell him To send me the Leaf!” His son departed And when he came to the mighty Whirlwind Said: “Give me the Leaf! Else, ere the evening All of our tribe will be on the war path.” Gladly the Whirlwind gave up his captive, And the son of the Mountain carried him home.

Soon the Leaf was safe in his wigwam On the great tree. He lived in sorrow, And when the notes of a bird came ringing Out of the forest, his grief was greater; His life was gone with the Little Fire, And the fire of his life was all in ashes.

Thus it fared with the beautiful Red Bird; When the old Monimques beheld her, Long he was silent, then said: “My grandson! This is truly no common capture! Well it is that thou didst not kill it! Let the bird live in peace in our wigwam! But take good care lest it escape!”

Day after day the Red Bird grew better And soon her color was as bright as ever, Until one morning when least expected, Her voice broke forth like a brook into sunshine. These were her words: “Could the Wind but hear me, I should not long be kept a captive, Soon he would carry the news to the Mountain! Soon the Mountain would send a warrior, Soon the warrior would give me freedom! Soon I should be with the Leaf again!”

As the old Monimques heard her singing: His heart at the words grew weak with fear: “Truly it was a bad beginning That ever my grandson shot this singer, And truly, ’twould have a woful ending, If the Mountain should learn she is here! It is madness to keep her a captive, But certain death if we let her go free!”

While he thought it over his grandson returned Bringing a burden of birds of the forest, And little singers who live by the rivers: And when they were cooked, and the chief had eaten, Down by the fire he lay on a bear skin, Smoking himself into silent sleep. The door was closed, nor was there a crevice Through which the Red Bird could creep to freedom When all at once she thought of the opening Through which the smoke from the fire ascended Ever upward so densely pouring Nobody deemed she would dare to pass it.

As the head of Monimques drooped on his shoulder And as the pipe stem dropped from his fingers And as the little Wʾnagʾmeswuk The tiny fairies who tap the eyelids, Soothed him into deepest slumber, Softly the Red Bird rose and taking A birchen bucket, filled it with water. Dipping her wing in the water she sprayed it Little by little upon the fire; Little by little the fire, like Monimques Sunk to sleep, and the bright red flame Lay down to rest in the dull gray ashes. Out of the smoke-hole, in careful silence Flitted Squʿtes, and when far from the wigwam, In the fresh air and the beautiful sunshine, Heard other song-birds far beneath her. As she went flying over the forest, Leaving death behind, with love before her, She had never been half so happy. And what was her joy when she reached the mountain And saw from afar on the great tree rising A bright Red Leaf which shone in the sunset; Straight was her flight as that of an arrow, Fast as an arrow, when she beheld him. And the Red Leaf leapt as if smit by an arrow, When all in an instant her arms were round him. Then without an instant’s warning All his darkness was turned to daylight, And the Red Wing burst into tears of rapture.

It was long ago, even in the morning Of the first moons that this all happened; Trees had not mouldered as yet in the valleys, To the cold depths of many a river Fishes as yet had not found their way, And all the secret roads of the forest Had not been learned by the bear or woodchuck; But even then the Squʿtes and Mĭpis Lived all the summer upon the mountain, Sung in its shadows and shone in the sunshine Still as of yore they are singing and shining; And so it will be while the mountain is there. L.

FOOTNOTES:

[64] Long ago on the big mountain lived the happy little leaf.

[65] In the original Indian-English version this line is given as--“Only kind words and popular songs.”

V

THE BLIND BOY

A VERY OLD SONG

[_Passamaquoddy_]

_Nit neke epit pʾiche nitwechi moskesits Poskaniknikok mechinechik etli-poskʿnot._[66]

There was a woman, long, long ago, She came out of a pit In which dead people were buried; She made her home in a tree; She was dressed in leaves; All long, long ago. When she walked among the dry leaves, Her feet were so covered That they could not be seen; She walked in the woods Singing all the time: “I want company: I am lonesome!” All long, long ago!

From afar o’er the lakes and mountains A wild man heard her cry; He came to her, she saw him, Saw him and was afraid; She tried to flee away, For he was clothed with the rainbow, Color and light were his garments. She ran and he pursued her, Pursued her rapidly, Unto the foot of a mountain. He spoke in a strange language, She could not understand him. He would make her tell where she dwelt. They married and had two children One of them was a boy, A boy who was blind from his birth. But he frightened his mother by his sight; He could tell her what was coming: What was coming from afar, What was near he could not see. He could see the bear and moose, Far away beyond the mountains; He could see through everything.

The father was a great being, He was a mighty hunter; His wife had magic gifts. A boy was born to them Alas, the boy was blind! In time his sight returned, He said that he could see. The mother did not believe it, She thought it was magic sight. So one day she bade her husband Put on him certain things Which no one could behold Who saw them not with eyes As every one could see them. And then she asked the boy “What is it that your father Uses to pull his sled?” Promptly the child replied “The rainbow.” Then she said: “What has he for a bow-string?” To which his answer was “It is Ketaksuwauʿt That is the Spirits’ Road” (Meaning the Milky Way). Yet once more she inquired: “What has he on his sled?” “A beaver,” he replied; She knew that he could see.

It would appear from collateral indications of other songs in different tribes that this song is of very great antiquity. The first portion of it was chanted to Mrs. W. Wallace Brown by an old Indian woman; the remainder was recovered from the Passamaquoddy Thomas Josephs or Tamaquah. There appears to be in the myth, for such it undoubtedly is, a refinement of philosophic or theosophic speculation. This is shown in the conception of the young magician, or poet, so gifted though _blind_ that his mother could not determine whether he saw all things by _clairvoyance_ or natural vision. L.

FOOTNOTES:

[66] Long ago there was a woman who came out of a pit where dead people are buried.

V

PASSAMAQUODDY LOVE SONG

ORIGINAL TEXT

Anigowanotenu! Boski ktabin elmi nelemwik Elmi papkeyik; boski ktlabin, Anigowanotenu!

Neket mpesel etli-nemiotyikw. Etuchi wlinakwben sebayi sibuk; Etuchi wli baquasketen. Kʾmachtina nolithasiben. Mechinoltena keppithamʾl. Anigowanotenu!

Boski ktlabin elmi nelemwik Elmi papkeyik; boski ktlabin, Anigowanotenu!

Negetlo he eli-alnisukmekwben Sibayi guspenik Etuchi welanakwsititben wuchowek He eli-machip klamisken mipisel. Anigowanotenu!

Anigowanotenu! Nittloch apch eli-alnisuknukw tan etuch apachyaie; Tan etuch boski pʾkesik mipisel Yut pemden nit kʾtlaskuyin. Anigowanotenu! Boski kʾtlabin elmi nelemwik Elmi papkeyik; Boski kʾtlabin, Anigowanotenu!

V

PASSAMAQUODDY LOVE SONG

Anigowanotenû! Oft these lonely days thou look’st On beauteous river and down shining stream. Oft thou look’st and sighest deep, Anigowanotenû!

With me thy lover by thy side How fair that stream did bubble on! How lovely was the silver moon! Thy heart now tells thee of that joy. E’en unto death I think of thee. Anigowanotenû!

Oft these lonely days thou look’st On beauteous river and down shining stream. Oft thou look’st and sighest deep. Anigowanotenû!

When we in birch canoe did glide Together on that glistening lake, How fair the hills and how we watched The _red_ leaves whirling in the breeze. Anigowanotenû!

Anigowanotenû! We’ll rove once more in bark canoe And watch the _green_ leaves swirl on high When spring smiles on the mountain tops. Anigowanotenû! Oft these lonely days thou look’st On beauteous river and down shining stream. Oft thou look’st and sighest deep. Anigowanotenû! P.

VI

THE SONG OF THE STARS

[_Passamaquoddy text_]

Nilun pesazmuk elintaquik. Ntʾlintotebin kʾpesaukhenmâgonok. Nilun sipsizuk squʿtek; Kʾpʾmitoiapon pissokiqs Kʾpesaukhenmagon pesazum. Kʾtʾlintoanen âût niwesquok; Otâût Kʾchî-Niwesq Koitchimkononnoak nohowok katonkewinoak, Nosokoat moinial Nit mesq tepnaskwiewis Mesq katonketitiq Ketlapinen pemtenikek Yot lintoakʾn pemtenikek.

VI

THE SONG OF THE STARS

We are the stars which sing. We sing with our light. We are the birds of fire We fly across the heaven, Our light is a star. We make a road for Spirits, A road for the Great Spirit. Among us are three hunters Who chase a bear: There never was a time When they were not hunting; We look down on the mountains. This is the Song of the mountains. L. & P.

VII

HOW THE INDIANS LOST THEIR POWER

[_Penobscot_]

_Uskichinwi pilskwessis muiso Ktatnok Naya kamach okiwachitahasin._[67]

All of the olden time! Once as an Indian girl Was gathering blue-berries, On Mount Katahdin’s side, She felt a strange loneliness, And said unto herself: “I would that I were wed Unto some brave great man!” And, seeing the great mount In glory rising high E’en as ’twere to heaven (White the red sunlight shone Upon the very head), She said: “A man indeed, Like great Katahdin there! High rising over all, That were the man for me.” This she was heard to say Ere she went further on Up to the mountain top-- Three years then passed away Ere she was seen again, And then when she returned ’Twas with a charming child, The fairest in the land; Only one thing was strange: His eyebrows were of stone.

She had been wed in truth, To Mount Katahdin’s self; The Spirit of the Mount Had ta’en her to himself, And when she greatly longed To see her folk again, He said: “Then go in peace.” But one thing he forbade With terrible command: That she should ever tell To any mortal soul Who ’twas had married her.

The boy had wondrous gifts; The sages of the tribe Said he was soon to be A mighty sorcerer; For when he did but point His finger at the moose, Or anything which ran, At once it would drop dead, Killed by his magic will; And, when in a canoe He pointed at the ducks, The wild fowl swam no more, And all the water round Was full of floating game Which all might gather in, As freely as they would. And so it came to pass That through that wondrous Boy The mother and her tribe Had ever food enough.

Now this is all the truth, And ’twas a wondrous thing, As ever yet was told. Katahdin the great lord Of the Wabanaki; The children of the Light, Or of the Break of Day; Had wed him to the girl That she might have a child Who should raise up the tribe, And make them great once more Even a mighty race, The Lords of all the land. And so to her he said: “Declare unto thy folk That they shall never ask Of thee, who was the sire Of this brave lad, our son; They’ll know it all right well If they but see his face, And thou shalt not be teased By questions and by talk From fools who fain would know The by-ways of a god.”

And so she made it known That none should question her, And gave them all their food, And bade them let her be!

And truly this was like The casting oil on fire, And men and women all Were raging to inquire About the mystery, And ask the wife herself Who might her husband be? Though everybody knew In all the country round. And though it had been said That life and death and all Hung on her telling naught.

Though what were life or death To any woman born, Likewise to many a man, Compared unto the joy Of learning that which is None of their business-- And tattling it abroad?

And so they pressed her sore, Still teasing her to tell, And giving her no rest As fools are wont to do. Until one day, enraged, She thought: “This passes strength And I’ll bear it no more. Truly my lord was right, These people are too vile, Too petty and too mean, For subjects to my son, He ne’er shall lead them on To glorious victory! They are not of the kind To make a mighty race: With them it shall be o’er!”

And as they still kept on Tormenting, teasing her. She spoke and said: “Ye fools! Who fain would kill yourselves By your own folly, ye Mud-wasps who sting the hands Which fain would pluck you forth When drowning in the pool. Why will ye trouble me To tell you what ye know? When ye keep asking me ‘Who my boy’s father was?’ Can ye not plainly see Katahdin in his brows? Now it shall be indeed To your great woe and pain, And abject misery, That ever ye did ask Of what concerned you not. So now from this day forth, Ye all may feed yourselves; For now my boy no more Will lend his help to you.”

So she arose and went Her way into the woods And up the mountain side, Leading her little son; And from that day and hour Was seen on earth no more.

And since that time our tribe With all the Indian folk Who once might have become A great and glorious race, Have dwindled down into A very little folk. For when our minds grow small And gossip is our god, We must diminish too. Truly it had been wise For them of olden time, And for us too, indeed, Could they have held their tongues. L.

FOOTNOTES:

[67] Long ago an Indian girl was walking on Katahdin and she felt very lonesome.

VIII

THE PARTRIDGE AND THE SPRING

[_Passamaquoddy_]

_Uskitap iaqu bamose kʾchikok Etuchi nodak metetaguak kequ pichikok._[68]

A man was walking the woods When he heard afar a noise As of footsteps beating the ground. With a cry as of merry singing; So he sought to find the people; ’Twas a week before he found them.

’Twas a man and his wife a-dancing About a tree; on its summit There sat a great Raccoon, And by their constant treading They had worn a trench in the ground-- Yea, in it, up to their waists.

And when the stranger in wonder Asked of them, “What are you doing?” They answered that being hungry They were trying to fell the tree, And bring it down by dancing.

The stranger said to them: “Know ye not that another, A newer and better way Of felling trees more quickly, Has come into the land?” They asked him how it might be.

Then, while they greatly wondered, Taking his axe, he showed them How to cut down trees in a hurry; But made it a condition That when the Raccoon should be taken They might have his meat and eat it, But the pelt should be his portion.

So, when the tree had fallen, And the game became their booty, The woman tanned the skin Which was strangely large and glossy And gave it to the Indian Who took it and went away.

Then afar in a path in the forest He met with another man, And was greatly amazed at the sight, Because the other was bearing A very large birch wigwam, A dwelling with many rooms. He never had seen the like, And at first was in a fright, But the man, putting down the house, Burst into a fit of laughter, And shook him by the hand, Seeming in faith to be A downright honest fellow. Then, while they smoked and laughed, The man of the house beheld The skin which the other bore Of Espuns, the Raccoon, And said with curious air: “_He kekw nit?_” “What have you there The skin of magic power?” Then the other answering told How he met the man and his wife Who danced around the tree: Whereat the man of the house Offered to buy the skin At any price at all, And offered the house for it.

Then the other looked it through And truly he was amazed To find how many rooms Were all contained in it, And what a wondrous store Of furniture and arms And kettles and the like Were stored in every room. “But oh and alack,” he cried, “I could never carry this house As you do, on your head.”

“You can do it with ease,” replied _Pilowî wʾskichin_, That is “the stranger man;” “Just put it on your head.” He tried and found it as light As a _kchi bʾsnŭd_, or A basket made of birch.

And so he went his way, Bearing the magic house Lightly upon his head, Till he came to a hard-wood ridge In which was a bubbling spring; And here he said: “I will live.” So searching he found a room In which there was a bed; A better he ne’er had seen, All covered with the skin Of a snow-white northern bear. So he laid him down to sleep.

In the morning when he awoke What was his wonderment To see above his head, All hanging to the beams, Good food of every kind, All dainties known to man. For there were venison, Bear hams and many ducks, Buckets of maple sugar, Others of cranberries, And many golden ears Of drying Indian corn. But as in his delight He stretched out both his hands To grasp the tempting food, The bear-skin, melting fast, As water ran away-- For it was but the snow Which all the winter long Had gathered o’er his nest. And as he stretched his arms, Lo! they were changed to wings! And up he flew to the food, Which was the early buds Of the birch on which they hung. He was in truth himself A Partridge who had been Wintering beneath the snow, And who in joy came forth To greet the pleasant spring. L.

FOOTNOTES:

[68] A man was walking in the woods and he heard something far off.

IX

LOX, THE INDIAN DEVIL

[_Passamaquoddy_]

_Laks uskiehinwi Wahant Nekŭm mechikit wesis kchikok._[69]

Lox the Wolverine, Is of all the beasts of the forest Crafty and most ferocious, Cunning and utterly given To every kind of mischief. In all the world of the wood There is none so utterly evil, And therefore he is called By right, the Indian Devil.

Now it happened on a time, That Lox, or the Wolverine, Who had many a time been killed, And as often rose from the dead By his sheer force of will-- The one great gift he had-- Found himself down in luck, Yea, very deeply down. Crossing in bitter winter A wide and dismal region Very poorly supplied For travel of any kind, The cold wind blew like knives, Snow fell with sleet and frost, And hail and pelting rain All in bad company Came on him all in one.

And yet this evil soul Was reckless through it all And jolly, for he had With every devilish vice One virtue, as I said, One saving gift, and that Was, that of all the beasts Who in the forest dwelt, Or devils in Hʿlamkîk (That is the Indian hell), He had the hardest heart, Toughest, as all allowed, And most unconquerable. He was the first to fight And last one to give in (Indeed, he never did Give in, nor meant to do), From which it came that he Was specially admired By all the blackguard beasts Who prowled about the woods; Wherein they differed little From many among men.

Now, as of all the rogues, Rowdies and rascal roughs, The Wolves are just the worst, You may right well believe That ’twas with wondrous joy Lox heard, as night came on, Afar a long sad howl, Betokening the presence Of a pack of these pleasant folk; It was music to the ears Of the Indian Devil, Lox.

So he lifted up his voice All in the Wolfish tongue; For he was deeply learned In many languages; And soon was in the midst Of a score of howling beasts Of lupine land-loafers, Who danced and rolled and screamed, Biting each other for joy At seeing him again-- The Indian Devil, Lox.