THE BUILDING OF THE BOATS[8]
When the water was first made, all the birds and the fowl came together to decide who should make their canoes for them, so that they might venture out upon the water.
The Owl proposed that the Loon should do the work; but the Black Duck said: “Loon cannot make canoes; his legs are set too far behind. Let the Owl make them.”
Then the Loon said: “The Owl cannot make canoes; his eyes are too big. He can’t work in the day-time for the sun would put out his eyes.”
Then the Duck laughed and made fun of the Owl. This made the Owl angry, and he said to Black Duck: “You ought to be ashamed of your laugh; it sounds like the laugh of ‘Kettāgŭs,’[9] quack, quack, quack.”
Then all the fowls laughed aloud at the Duck. The Owl said: “Let ‘Sīps’ [the Wood Duck] build our boats.”
“How can he build canoes,” cried all the rest, “with his small neck?”
“He is too weak,” said the Loon.
The birds were quite discouraged; but they liked the looks of the water very much. At last “Kosq’,” the Crane, spoke: “My friends, we cannot stay here much longer. I am very hungry already. Let us draw lots, and whoever draws the lot with a canoe marked on it shall be the builder of boats.”
All were satisfied with this suggestion, and the Raven was appointed to prepare the lots; but the Owl objected, saying: “He is a thief; I know he is.”
“Well,” said the Night Hawk, “let us get Flying Squirrel to make them.”
“But Flying Squirrel is not here.”
“Well, let some one go for him.”
“Well, let us get Fox to go for him,” said the Loon.
“Oh! I can’t trust the Fox to go,” said the Owl; “for he would eat Squirrel on the way. Just let me give you a word of advice. Let Āfiguessis [Little Mouse] go for the Squirrel.”
“Yes,” said K’chīplāgan, Eagle, the great chief, “we must do as he proposes. Come, Āfiguessis, you must go for the Flying Squirrel.”
When they saw the Squirrel coming, all cried: “Room! Make room for him!”
Then the Squirrel stood up before the chief and asked: “What can I do for you, my friends?”
Eagle told him that they wanted him to make a picture of a canoe on birch bark with his teeth; to make many more pieces all alike; then to put them in his “miknakq,”[10] and let each bird take one. “Whoever gets the piece with the canoe on it, shall make our canoes.”
The Squirrel went at once and stripped the bark from a birch-tree, prepared the lots, and put them in his pouch.
“Who takes the first?” asked the Owl.
“Let ‘Mid-dessen’ [Black Duck] take the first,” said the chief.
Mid-dessen stepped forward, and came back with a piece of bark in his bill. So each one went in his turn, and the lot fell to the Partridge.
Now the Partridge is always low-spirited and hardly ever speaks a word; and this set all the other birds in an uproar, and they all sang songs, each after his own fashion, and they decided to have a great feast.
“Get the horn,” said the chief. When it was brought, he gave it to Sīps, the “mū-ta-quessit,” or dance-singer; then the big dance began, and it lasted for many days.
When the feast was over, the chief said: “Now, Partridge, you must make the canoes, sound and good, and all alike. Cheat no one, but do your work well.”
The first one made had a very flat bottom; this he gave to the Loon, who liked it much. The next, flat bottomed too, was for Black Duck; then one for Wābèkèloch, the Wild Goose. This was not so flat.
Another was for Crane. It was very round. The Crane did not like his boat, and said to Eagle: “This canoe does not suit me. I would rather wade than sit in a canoe.”
The Partridge made canoes for all the birds, some large, some small, to suit their various size and weight. At last his work was done. “Now,” said he to himself, “I must make myself a better canoe than any of the rest.” So he made it long and sharp, with round bottom, thinking it would swim very fast.
When it was finished, he put it in the water; but, alas, it would not float; it upset in spite of all that he could do. He saw all his neighbors sailing over the water, and he fled to the woods determined to build himself a canoe.
He has been drumming away at it ever since, but it is not finished yet.
THE MERMAN
In a large wigwam, at the bottom of the sea, lived “Hāpōdāmquen,” the merman. He had two sons and three daughters. The elder son “Psess’mbemetwigit,” Flying Star, was very brilliant and held a lofty position; while the younger “Hess,” the Clam, was the laziest and slowest of the family.
The daughters were named “T’sāk,” Lobster, “Hānāguess,” Flounder, and “Wābè-hākeq’,” White Seal.
Every morning the old man gave orders to his children as to where they should go, and what they should do, warning them against his two mighty enemies, “Lampeguen,” another species of Merman, and Water Witch.
One day as they were about to go hunting, Flying Star told his brother of a fearful dream that he had had the night before. He dreamed that he and his brother were in a large stone canoe, moving swiftly towards the steep running water (falls), when the canoe turned over, and they both went to the bottom of this great “Cobscūk,” cataract. They were surrounded by singular beings, whose chief took a “wūs-āp-gūk” (rawhide), and tied their arms and legs together, then carried them to a strange village, where his warriors held council as to what should be done with the sons of Hāpōdāmquen. It was decided to kill them at once, as the best means to destroy the foe, for without Flying Star, Hāpōdāmquen must surely starve. They decided that the older son should be slain by “M’dāsmūs” (a mythical dog, very large and fierce), and the younger by a war club. Just as they loosed M’dāsmūs, Flying Star awoke.
Upon hearing this dream, Hess at once repeated it to his father.
Old Hāpōdāmquen knew at once that “Āglōfemma,” the chief of the “Lampegwinosis,” was about to attack him. He told his children to watch well, and stand their ground as long as a breath of life remained. To each he gave careful directions: Flying Star was to take up his position in the clouds, and thence watch the sea; if he saw any strange commotion, or heard any strange noise, he was to fly from the clouds to the sea, and kill everything that rose to the surface.
Hess, the Clam, was to post himself in the mud at the bottom of the sea, and was told that Hāpōdāmquen would leave his pipe in the north side of the wigwam. If the contents of the pipe were undisturbed, his children might know that he still lived; but if the “nespe-quomkil,” willow tobacco, were gone, and the pipe was partly filled with blood, they might know that he was dead.
“Go, Hess,” the old man commanded, “bury yourself in the mud, five lengths of your body, and listen well. You will surely hear when the battle begins. Do not try to escape, or you will perish.”
T’sāk, the Lobster, was to take up her station half-way between the surface and the bottom, and was cautioned not to rise to the surface at any time.
Hānāguess, the Flounder, was ordered to come to the surface, where she was to watch and follow the little bubbles; for when her father left his wigwam, the bubbles would rise to the top of the water.
Wābè-hākeq’, the White Seal, was the bravest and brightest of the Hāpōdāmquen family; she was to accompany her father to the land of the Lampegwinosis.
The old man knew that only the chief and a handful of men would be in the village; the fiercest warriors would be lying in ambush for his two sons at the falls, where Flying Star and Clam always went to spear eel. If Hess had failed to tell his father of Flying Star’s fateful dream, even now they would both be suffering torture at the hands of the foe. As it was, the old man and his brave daughter would attack the village by night, while the enemy slept and dreamed of battle and war.
Hāpōdāmquen always wore his hair very long, streaming behind him three times the length of his body. As they neared the village, he felt something heavy clinging to his hair,—it was tiny beings, as small as the smallest insect, the poohegans, or guardian spirits, of the chief of the Lampegwinosis, little witches who tried by their combined weight to lessen the old man’s speed, so that they might gain time to warn their master of the enemy’s approach.
The Lampegwinosis were taken entirely by surprise; the strongest men were away, only the old and weak were at home. The great army of Hāpōdāmquen, composed of all the lobsters, seals, flounders, and clams, was at hand, and the battle began. It was a fearful fight, lasting for two days and nights. The Lampegwinosis chief tried to escape to the surface; but the waves rose mountain high, and he was always driven back by the watchful Flounder.
Flying Star slew all those warriors who reached the surface; while White Seal attacked the tiny witches, putting forth all her magic power before she succeeded in subduing them. Then she went to her father’s aid. He was almost exhausted; but she directed her sister, the Lobster, to bite the hostile chief in his tenderest part, and hang to him until the White Seal could put an end to him. T’sāk held on, and White Seal killed the foe with one blow of her battle-axe. This ended the conflict.
Hess remained in the mud, where, from time to time, he heard his father encouraging his men. When all was still once more, he crawled out and went to his father’s wigwam. He was so glad to find the pipe undisturbed, that he sang a song of peace.
Hāpōdāmquen ordered his warriors to return to their homes until he should again summon them; and he went back to his wigwam, where he found his lazy son, Clam, still singing.
All the bubbles and foam had vanished from the sea. Flying Star and Flounder, coming home, found their father happy, though badly hurt, for he had lost all his beautiful hair in the fight.
As the Lampegwinosis braves wended their disconsolate way back from the falls, they saw their old Chief-with-feathers-on-his-head borne off by an animal resembling an otter, whom they recognized as Hākeq’, the brave daughter of Hāpōdāmquen. They moaned for their chief; but Hāpōdāmquen still lives to destroy little children who disobey their mother by going near the water.
STORY OF STURGEON
“This story,” said old Louisa, “is from ’way, ’way back, ever so long ago;” and indeed it seemed to me that it was so old that only fragments of it remained; but I give it as best I can.
Many, many years ago there were three tribes of Indians living not far apart: the Crows, Kā-kā-gūs, the Sturgeons “Hā-bāh-so,” and the Minks, “Mūs-bes-so.” These tribes were all at war, one with the other, and the Minks, being very crafty and cunning, as well as brave, at last conquered the other tribes, and drove them forth in opposite directions.
Now the followers of Kā-kā-gūs found their way to a dry and desert region where they died of hunger and thirst; the tribe of Hā-bāh-so found plenty of food, but were overtaken by a pestilence which destroyed all but the old chief and his grandson. Meantime, the Minks found that the game had been expelled with the enemy, and they suffered greatly from hunger.
Old Sturgeon, as I said, had enough and more than enough to eat. He and his grandson built an “āgonal,” a storehouse of the old style, which they filled to overflowing with smoked fish and dried meat.
Mink, hearing of this, sent a messenger to investigate. He was well received, and fed with the best. The Mink himself determined to pay the old man a visit, knowing that enemy though he was, he would be kindly treated while a guest, according to Indian etiquette. He asked Sturgeon where he got all his supplies, and was told that they came from the far north. Then he said, “Are you alone here?” “Yes,” said Hā-bāh-so, “except my grandson;” pointing to a huge Sturgeon who lay flopping by the fire.
Next day when Mūs-bes-so left, he was loaded with as much meat as he could carry. When he got home, he told his story, and suggested to his five daughters that one of them should marry Sturgeon’s grandson, who would keep them in plenty for the rest of their lives. So the girls set out to visit the enemy in turn, and each returned saying, “I would not think of marrying that monster. If ever I marry, I shall choose a man, and not a fish, for a husband.” So it went until it came to the youngest girl. She entered Sturgeon’s wigwam and, without a word, made herself at home, began to arrange the bed and cook the food. When night fell, and she did not return, her father rejoiced, for he knew she had married young Sturgeon.
She, meantime, had waked at night to find a handsome youth beside her, who, with the first rays of daylight, again became a fish. They were very happy together and knew no care. Every morning she found a supply of the choicest game or fish at the door, and in due time she became the mother of a lovely boy.
Her husband proposed to visit her family to exhibit this new treasure, to which she gladly acceded. He told her that there was but one difficulty; namely, that she would have to carry him as well as the baby. She made no objection, and they set forth. When they were almost in sight of the Mink village, the young man was turned to a big Sturgeon, which his wife shouldered, taking the baby in her arms.
The old Minks were delighted to see her; but the sisters laughed and sneered at Sturgeon, and despised their sister for being willing to accept such a husband. They were very glad, nevertheless, to accept the supplies of food which he provided every day; and their contempt was turned to envy when they awaked one night and saw him in his human form. They then began to plot how they might kill their sister and take her place; but Sturgeon, learning their plans, comforted his distressed wife, promising to punish her wicked sisters, whom he did indeed turn into turtles, in which condition they led a moist and disagreeable life.
After this, he felt that it was time for him to go; so he furnished his father-in-law with enough provisions to last a year, and set forth on his return journey with his wife and son.
Before they had gone far, they saw in the distance Kosq’, the Heron, coming towards them. Now Kosq’ had been a suitor of Mistress Mink before she married Sturgeon, and the latter knew him to be bent on vengeance. He told his wife that she must help him, for Kosq’ had great power, and it would not be easy to overcome him. Together they built a circular wigwam, in which they shut themselves, Kosq’ prowling about outside, each determined not to stir from the spot until the other yielded to starvation.
Mistress Mink dug in the earth at one side of the wigwam, the bed being on the other side, and the fire-place in the middle. She dug until a stream of water flowed forth which not only gave them drink, but which contained various insects and small creatures which satisfied their hunger.
Kosq’ outside dug with his long bill and found little or nothing, this inner stream attracting all upon which he otherwise might have fed. So he flew thither and thither, weaker and weaker, and ever and again he cried to Hā-bāh-so: “Will you give up, now?” “No, no,” was the reply; “I am strong and well.”
Finally, poor Kosq’, determined not to yield, died of sheer hunger, and Hā-bāh-so, with his brave wife and child, came from the wigwam, went back to their old grandfather, and in time built up a village.
GRANDFATHER KIAWĀKQ’
As I was sitting with old Louisa I showed her an African amulet which I was wearing, made of pure jade, inscribed with cabalistic characters to ward off the evil eye. Thinking to make it clear to her Indian understanding, I told her that it was to keep off m’tēūlin, sorcerers, and kiawākq’ (legendary giants with hearts of ice, and possessed of cannibalistic tastes). She looked very grave, and told me that I did well to wear it, for there were a great many kiawākq’ in the region of York Harbor where we were; it was a famous place for them, although they usually chose a colder place, somewhere far away, where it was winter almost all the year. This subject once started, she went on to tell me of an adventure of her father.
Years ago when he was first married, and had but one child, a boy about two years old, it was his habit to go with his family, in a canoe, in the late autumn, and camp out far up north in Canada, in search of furs and skins for purposes of trade. He would build a large comfortable wigwam in some convenient place, and stay all winter. One year, while hunting, he came across a deep footprint in the snow, three or four times as large as that of any man. He knew it was the track of a kiawākq’, and in terror retraced his steps, and thenceforth carefully avoided going in that direction. In spite of this precaution, however, the creature scented him out; for while he was away from the lodge, a huge monster entered, stooping low to enter, and making himself much smaller than his natural size, as such creatures have the power to do. The poor woman, alone there with her child, knew him for what he was, and knew that her only hope of escape lay in hiding her fear, so she addressed him as her father, and offered him a seat, telling the little boy to go and speak to his grandfather. She cooked food for kiawākq’, warmed him, and paid him every attention. When her husband returned, she said to him that her father had come to visit them, and he, too, welcomed the monster, who remained with them all winter, going out to hunt, and bringing back moose, bear, and other big game, which the man dressed for him. He seldom spoke; but she often saw him look greedily at the baby, and sometimes he would put one of the boy’s fingers in his mouth, as if he could not resist the temptation to bite off the dainty morsel; but he always let the little fellow go unharmed at last. It was no use for the family to think of escape, as he could so easily have overtaken them; and, if angered, they knew that he would destroy them.
Towards spring he told them that the time had come for them to go. He said that his little finger told him that another and mightier kiawākq’[11] was on his way to fight with him. “You have been good to me,” he said, “and I wish to save you. If my enemy conquers me, he will destroy you; so you must go now, before he sees you. If I live, I will come to your village.”
So the man with his wife and child got into the canoe and paddled away. After a while they heard the other kiawākq’ coming afar off, for he tore up great trees as he came and flung them about like straws, and uttered terrible roars. Then they heard the noise of the awful fight; but fear lent speed to their canoe, and they at last lost all sound of the dreadful kiawākq’.
They never saw their big friend again, and therefore felt sure that he had perished; but they never dared to go back to that camping ground again.
“So you see,” said Louisa, “that the kiawākq’ really saved the life of my family.”[12]
OLD GOVERNOR JOHN
All summer I had not succeeded in coaxing a single story out of Louisa; but last week she said, “You come Sunday, I tell you a story.” This seemed to be because I told her I was going away. Sunday, when I took my seat in the tent, she said, looking very hard at me, “This is a true story; it is about her great, great grandfather,”[13] pointing to her daughter Susan, “Old Governor John Neptune. He was a witch.” I had often heard from other Indians tales of old Governor Neptune’s magic powers. “He was such a witch that all the other witches (m’tēūlin) were jealous of him, and they tried to beat him. He fell sick, and he could not lift his head; so he said to his oldest daughter (he had three daughters), ‘Give me some of your hair.’ She did so, and he bound his arrowheads and spear with it, and strung his bow with the long, strong black hair. Pretty soon the earth began to heave and rock under him. His daughter told him of it, and he took his spear and stuck it into the ground just where it was beginning to break. He thrust it in so deep that his arm went into the earth up to the elbow, and when he drew it out the iron was bloody. ‘Now I feel better,’ he said; and he sat up, took his bow and shot an arrow straight into the air. Then he told his old lady to make ready and come with him, but not to be afraid. They went to Great Lake; he told her again not to be scared, took off all his clothes, and slipped into the lake in the shape of a great eel. Presently the water was troubled and muddy, and a huge snake appeared. The two fought long and hard; but at last the old lady saw her husband standing before her again, smeared with slime from head to foot. He ordered her to pour fresh water on him, and wash him clean, for now he had conquered all his enemies. From that day forth they had great good luck in everything. This was in his youth, before he became governor of the Indians of Maine.
“One time in midwinter his wife had a terrible longing for green corn, and she told him. He went to the fireplace, rolled up some strips of bark, laid them in the ashes, and began to sing a low song. After a while he told her to go and get her corn, and there lay the ears all nicely roasted. He used to make quarters, too. He would cut little round bits of paper, put them to his mouth, breathe on them, then lay them down and cover them with his hand. By and by he would lift his hand with a silver quarter in it.” I remarked that he ought to have been a rich man; but Louisa said, “Oh, he didn’t make many, just a few now and then. When he was out hunting in the woods with a party and the tobacco gave out, they would see him fussing round after they went to bed, and then he would hand out a big cake of tobacco.”
Louisa said several times, as if she thought me incredulous, “This is a true story; the old lady told me about the corn herself, and she was the mother of my brother Joe Nicola’s wife. She was a witch, too.”
I asked Louisa when and how the Indians learned to make baskets and she said they always knew. When Glūs-kābé went away, he told the ash-tree and the birch that they must provide for his children; and so they always had, by furnishing the stuff for baskets and canoes.
K’CHĪ GESS’N, THE NORTHWEST WIND
When he was a baby he was stolen by “Pūkjinsquess,”[14] and taken to a far-off lonely country inhabited by invisible people. His first recollection was of lying under the “k’chīquelsowe mūsikūk,” or frog-bushes.[15]
He rose, and, seeing a path, followed it until he reached a wigwam. When he lifted the door, he saw no one, but heard a voice say: “Come in, ‘nītāp.’ ”[16]
He went in, and the voice said: “If you will be friends with me, I will be friends with you, and help you in the future.”
He looked about him, but saw nothing but a little stone pipe. He picked it up, and put it in his bosom, saying: “This must be the one who spoke to me.”
Then he went out and followed the path still farther. He heard the cry of a baby, so he hid behind a tree. The sound came nearer. Soon he saw a hideous old woman with a baby on her back, which she was beating. This roused his temper, and he shot her with his bow and arrow. She proved to be Pūkjinsquess, and the baby was his brother, whom she had stolen from his father, the great East Wind.
He put the baby in his bosom, and kept on his way. The baby said to him: “There is a camp ahead of us, but you must not go in, for the people are bad.”
To this he paid no heed; and when he came to a large, well-built wigwam, he was eager to see who the bad folks were. He found a crack, and looking through it, he saw a good looking man, with cheeks as red as blood, who said: “Come in, friend.”
They talked and smoked for some time; then the strange man, whose name was Sūwessen, the Southwest Wind, said: “Let us wash ourselves and paint our cheeks.” They did so, and then kept on talking; but every few moments the good-looking man would start up and say: “Let us wash ourselves.”[17]
In the evening two beautiful girls (daughters of Southwest Wind) came in and began to make merry with them; but this tired the Northwest Wind, and he fell asleep. As soon as he was sound asleep, Sūwessen took a long pole and tossed him like a ball,[18] saying: “Go where you came from.”
At this, the Wind woke and found himself at the same point from which he had started as a baby. Angry and discouraged, he felt in his bosom to see if the stone pipe and his brother were safe; and finding them there, he threw them on a big rock, and killed both in his rage. Then he resumed his journey, but took a different course. He now travelled towards the east, where his father lived.
As he crossed a hill, he saw a lake shining in the valley below. He turned towards it; but before he reached it, he came to a much travelled path, which led him to a wigwam, on entering which he saw a very old woman. She cried: “Oh, my grandchild, you are in a very dangerous place. I pity you, for few leave here alive. You had better be off. Across the lake lives your grandfather. If you can swim, you may escape; but be sure, when you near the beach, to go backward and fill your tracks with sand.”
He did as she directed; but as he approached the water, he heard a loud, strange sound, which came nearer and nearer. It was the great M’dāsmūs, the mystic dog, barking at him.
He plunged into the water, thus causing M’dāsmūs to lose the trail and give up the chase.
Northwest Wind went back to his grandmother; but she avoided him, saying: “You are very wicked; only a few days ago, I heard news in the air, that you had killed your brother, also your friend, the Little Stone Pipe.”
Once more he plunged into the lake, and this time reached the farther shore in safety. There he found his grandfather, “M’Sārtū,” the Eastern Star. (The Indians believe this to be the slowest and clumsiest of all the stars.)
The great M’Sārtū welcomed him: “My dear grandson, I see that you still live; but you are very wicked. I hear in the air that you have killed your brother, also your friend, the Little Stone Pipe. I also hear that you have lost your Bird ‘Wābīt’ and your Rabbit. But, my child, you are in a most perilous place. The great Beaver destroys anything and everything that comes this way. If you need help, cry aloud to me. Perhaps I can aid you.”
As soon as night came on, the water began to rise rapidly, compelling Northwest Wind to climb into a tree. The Beaver soon found him out, and gnawed the tree with his sharp teeth. Northwest Wind thought his end was near, and called aloud: “Grandpa, come!”
M’Sārtū answered: “I’m getting up.”
“Come, Grandpa!”
“I am up now.”
“Oh, Grandpa, do come!”
“I am putting on my coat.”
“Hurry, Grandpa!”
“I put my hands in the sleeves.”
By this time the tree was almost gnawed through, and the water was rising higher and higher.
He called again: “Come, Grandpa, come!”
“I have just got my coat on.”
“I will put on my hat.”
“Hurry, Grandpa!”
“I have my hat on.”
“Make haste, Beaver has almost reached me!”
“I am going to my door.”
“Faster, Grandpa!”
“Wait till I get my cane.”
“Be quick, Grandpa!”
“I am raising my door.”
At this, daylight began to break, the water went down slowly, and the Beaver departed.
The Wind’s Grandfather had saved him.
He hastened to the old man, who told him that close by there was a large settlement, whose chief was the Great “Culloo.”[19]
“It is he that stole your Rabbit and your Bird Wābīt.”
Northwest Wind now turned his footsteps toward the west. He soon heard a chopping, and came where there were many men felling trees. He asked how far it was to their village, and they replied: “From sunrise till noon,” meaning half a day’s journey.
Then he met men with feathers on their heads, and he asked these where their village was, where they were going, and what they were doing.
One of them said: “We are hunting game for our great chief, Culloo.”
While he was talking with one of the men the rest went on, and Northwest Wind said: “You had better turn back with me, for I am going to visit your chief, Culloo.”
“How shall I disguise myself so that he may not know me?”
“I will do that for you,” said the Wind. He took him by the hair, and pulled out all the feathers.
“Now we can visit the chief.”
When they reached the village and were going into “Māli Moninkwesswōl,” Mistress Molly Woodchuck’s hole, she shrieked aloud. By this the chief knew that she was visited by strangers, so he sent servants to learn who was there. They returned and said, “Two very handsome youths.”
At this, every young woman in the village went at once to see them, the chief’s daughters with the rest; and these latter fell in love with the strangers and married them.
Northwest Wind said to his new friend: “When we go with our wives to their father’s wigwam, they will put a Rabbit under your pillow, and under mine, a Bird; then I will turn myself into a Raven. Do you seize the Rabbit, I will take the Bird. Throw your arms about my neck, and hold fast to me.”
They did as he planned, and he flew out through the smoke-hole, crying: “ K’chī Jagawk.”
When he reached his grandfather, he found his wife there before him; for she had turned herself to Litŭswāgan, or Thought, the swiftest of all travellers.
The Eastern Star told Northwest Wind where he might find his father; then he took out his tobacco to fill his pipe.
“Oh, Grandpa, give me some of that.”
“No, my dear, I have had this ever since I was young, and I have but a small bit left.”
“Well, Grandpa, tell me where I may go to find it.”
“You cannot get it,” said M’Sārtū. “Away off on that high point where no trees grow, there is a smooth rock. On that rock you will see my footprints. Thence you will see a man looking about him all the time. He guards the spot so faithfully that none may pluck a leaf.”
Northwest Wind at once set out in search of the tobacco. He found his grandfather’s tracks on the rock, and, gazing eastward, he saw a man looking in every direction. This was a powerful Witch, who had never been conquered.
Every time the Witch turned his back, the Wind crept a little nearer, until he was within a few feet of his enemy. When the Witch turned and found the Wind close behind him, he asked, in a voice so terrible that it cracked the rocks, what he wanted there.
“I want a piece of tobacco,” said the Wind.
The Witch gave him a pinch of dust.
“I don’t want that,” said the Wind. “Give me better.”
At this the Witch seized him, and tried to throw him over the cliff where there were piles of bones of his victims. As he threw him off, the Wind again became a Raven, sailed about in the air, until he got the tobacco leaves, then hastened back to his grandfather.
The Eastern Star was so pleased that he called his old friend the Great Grasshopper to come and share with him. “N’jāls,” the Grasshopper, had no pipe but he chewed tobacco.[20]
The Northwest Wind then set out to visit his father, the great East Wind, but found that he had been dead so long that the ground had sunk four feet, and the wigwam was all decayed. He called in a loud voice, summoning the Hearts of All the Trees to help him build a wigwam fit for a mighty chief.
Instantly, thousands of tiny beings appeared, and in a short time a wigwam was built, made from the stripped trees, all shining. A tall pole was fastened to the top, with a large nest for his Bird and a basket at the bottom of the pole. Every time the Bird sang, the beautiful “Wābap”[21] dropped from his beak into the basket.
The great East Wind came to life again, and the Northwest Wind’s son was nearly a year old. It was hard to get firewood to keep the old man and the child warm, for the snow was very deep and fell nearly every day; so the Northwest Wind said to his father: “I am going to stop this; I cannot stand it any longer. I will fight the great North Wind.”
He bade his wife prepare a year’s supply of snowshoes and moccasins; when they were ready, he moved with his warriors, the Hearts of All the Trees, against the North Wind, whose army was made up of the Tops of the Trees.
Snow fell throughout the battle, for K’taiūk (Cold), was the ally of the North Wind, and the carnage was fearful.
At last the East Wind told his daughter-in-law to make moccasins and snowshoes for the child, and he gave the little one a partridge feather, a part of the tail. In an instant, the child received his magic power from his grandfather. The snow about the camp melted away, and the boy followed his father. As he shovelled the snow with his feather, it melted. The little boy is the South Wind.
When he reached his father, the father was buried in snow, which melted at the child’s approach. Thus the North Wind was conquered, and agreed, if they would spare his life, to make his visits less frequent and shorter. Now the North Wind only comes in winter.
BIG BELLY
There was once an old hunter called “Mawquejess,” who always carried a kettle to cook his “michwāgan,” food. When he killed an animal, he would build a wigwam on the spot, and stay there until the meat was all eaten. He always made it into soup, and called it, “M’Kessābūm,” my soup. He had eaten soup until his stomach was distended to a monstrous size. From this he took his name of Mawquejess, Big Belly.
One day he saw a wigwam, and went to the door to see who lived in it. He found a boy, who made friends with him and invited him in; but the door was too small for his big stomach, and the boy was forced to remove the side of the wigwam to accommodate it.
They were very happy together and Mawquejess did nothing but care for the camp, while the boy did the hunting. At last Mawquejess told the boy to go to a certain place and kill a white bear.
His intention was, if he could get a white bear-skin, to marry a chief’s daughter. The chief had offered her to any one who would kill a white bear and bring him the skin.[22]
The boy tried to kill the bear for Mawquejess, but failed; and Mawquejess began to be discouraged; then he thought: “I will go myself.”
He found he was too big to get into the canoe. His legs dangled in the water so that he could not paddle, and he had to give it up. When the boy landed him, he made up his mind that the first time he could catch Mawquejess asleep, his friend should be cut open and the soup allowed to escape. So he sharpened his stone axe and quickly cut his friend open; a large stream of soup flowed out. Mawquejess awoke, crying: “M’Kessābūmisā!” (Alas, my soup!) He went on crying and mourning until the boy said: “You had better stop crying and try to kill the white bear.”
Next day they started; he got into the canoe quite easily, and they killed the white bear the first time of trying.
“Now,” said Mawquejess, “we will go to the village, to the playground of the boys. When they come to play, I will try to kill the chief’s son [Sāgmasis].”
When they got there, the boys came to play as usual. Mawquejess, who was hiding behind a bush, struck the young chief and killed him at the first blow.
The rest fled. Then he skinned the young chief, and put on the skin himself, thus appearing like a war chief. He called his little friend to follow with the bear-skin. Together they went to the great chief’s wigwam, where the bear-skin was accepted, and, according to ancient custom, a big dance was given to celebrate the marriage. It lasted for many nights.
“Pūkjinsquess,” the chief’s wife, mistrusted her new son-in-law from the first, and called the attention of others to him. About this time the skin which he had put on began to decay; and soon he stood revealed, no young chief, but Mawquejess himself.
They began to kick and beat him. Mawquejess called aloud to his little friend to help him; but his little friend could not help him, for he was running for his life, crying: “Let me always belong to the woods.”
Thus he was changed to a Partridge, and flew away; and his pursuers were forced to give up the chase.
Poor Mawquejess too cried out: “Let me be a crow;” and he was. He also flew away, saying: “Ca, ca, ca!” (I fly away); and so both escaped.
CHĪBALOCH, THE SPIRIT OF THE AIR
This being has no body, but head, legs, heart, and wings. He has power in his shriek, “wāsquīlāmitt,” to slay any who hear him. His claws are so huge and so strong that he can carry off a whole village at once. He is sometimes seen in the crotch of a tree, and often flies away with an Indian in his clutch. Some have become blind until sunset after seeing him.
In his fights with witches and kiawākq’, he always comes off victorious.
He never eats or drinks, but lives in a wigwam in mid-air. Once Wūchowsen, the great Wind Bird, went to visit him, saying: “I have always heard of you, but never had time to visit you; I have always been too busy.”
“Well,” said Chībaloch, “I am glad to see you, and like you very well. You are the first and only visitor I have ever had. I have but one fault to find with you. You move your wings a little too fast for me. Sometimes my wigwam is almost blown to pieces. I have to fly off for fear it will fall, and I shall be killed.”
“Well,” said Wūchowsen, “the only thing for you to do, is to move away. You are rather too near me. You are the nearest neighbor that I have. If I should stop flapping my wings, my people would all die.”
“I cannot move,” said Chībaloch; “that is the one thing that I cannot do. If you move your wings faster than I like, I will destroy you and all your people.”
“Ha, ha!” said Wūchowsen, “Glūs-kābé will defend me and mine.”
“There you are mistaken; for Glūs-kābé dare not fight me, and he does not like your wings any too well himself. He often says that he cannot go out in his canoe to kill wild fowl, because your wings go so fast. Did not Glūs-kābé visit you once and throw you down?”
“Yes, he did; but he soon came back and set me up again,” said the Wind Spirit.
STORY OF TEAM, THE MOOSE
There was once a young Indian, a very successful hunter. He always went off alone in the Fall, and came back in Spring loaded with fish and game. But once when he was off hunting, he began to feel lonely; and he said, “I wish I had a partner.” When he went back to his wigwam that night, the fire was burning, supper cooked, and everything ready for him, though he saw no one. When he had eaten, he fell asleep, being very tired, and on waking next morning found all in order and breakfast prepared. This went on for some days. The seventh night, on his return, he saw a woman in the wigwam. She did not speak, but made all comfortable, and when the work was done made her bed at one side opposite his. This lasted all Winter; she seldom or never spoke; but when Spring came, and it was time for him to return to his village, she said, “Remember me, always think of me, and do not marry another woman.” When he got home loaded with skins and meat, his father had chosen a wife for him; but he would have nothing to say to her. Next Fall he went back into the woods, and as he approached his wigwam, he saw smoke coming out of it, and when he entered, there sat the silent woman with a little boy at her side. She told him to shake hands with his father. Unlike most children, he was born large and strong enough to hunt with his father, and be of much help to him, so that they got a double quantity of game, and in the Spring the man went back to the village so rich that the Chief wanted him for a son-in-law; but still he remembered his partner’s words, “Do not forget me. Always think of me,” and held firm. On his return to the woods he found a second son. Thus he succeeded in getting more game than ever, and, alas, on going home to his village, he forgot his woodland mate, and, yielding to the solicitations of the Chief, married his daughter. In the Fall he took his wife, his father-in-law, and his own father to the woods with him, where this time they found not only the two boys but a little girl. The new wife gazed angrily at the mother and children saying, “You should have told me you had another wife.” “I have not,” answered the man. At these words the mother of the children rose up, saying, “I will leave my children with you; but you must treat them well. Be kind to them, give them plenty to eat and to wear, for you have abundance of everything. Never abuse them,” and she vanished.
The boys and men went hunting every day, and the little girl was left with her stepmother, who beat her and made a drudge of her. She bore it patiently as long as she could, but at last complained to her brothers, who promised to help her. Next day the stepmother took hot ashes from the fire and burnt her in several places, so that she cried aloud. Her father came in and remonstrated, all in vain. Then he consulted the old grandfather, who expressed regret, but advised him to wait patiently, that the woman might become better in time. So the brothers and sister resolved to run away; the boys slipped out first, and waited for the girl. When she, too, escaped, they fled; but any one who looked from the hut would only have seen three young moose bounding over the snow. When the father came home, he asked for the children; his wife said they had just stepped out; but when he went to look for them, he saw the moose tracks, and knew what had happened. He at once took his snowshoes and tomahawk, and started in pursuit of them. He travelled three days and three nights, always following the tracks. Every night, he saw where they had nibbled the bark from the trees and where they had rested in the snow. On the fourth day he came to a clearing where four moose were feeding, and he knew the children had found their mother. He struck his axe into a tree and hung his snowshoes on it, then went to her and pleaded to be allowed to go with them; so she turned him into a moose, and they journeyed away together. Meantime, his old father at home missed his son and his grandchildren, and went to look for them. He travelled three days and three nights, as his son had done, following the foot-prints and the tracks until, towards the fourth night, he saw the tomahawk in the tree, with the snowshoes hanging on it, recognized them as his son’s, saw that now there were the marks of five moose in the snow instead of three, and knew that he had come too late. He took down the axe and snowshoes, and went sadly home to tell the story.
These were the parents of all the moose that we see now. In old times the Indians used to turn into animals in this way.
THE SNAKE AND THE PORCUPINE
There were once two men who lived a long way apart: one was poor and had nothing but his hunting-grounds; the other was rich, but he wanted the poor man’s land. The poor man’s poohegan, or attendant spirit, was a snake; the rich man’s poohegan was a porcupine.
The Porcupine went to visit the Snake; but at first the Snake refused to let him in, saying: “I will stick my arrow into you.”
The Porcupine said: “Then I will stab you with my sword.”
The Snake said: “My arrow has only one barb; but it is a good one.” And he ran out his tongue to show the barb.
The Porcupine said: “My tail is full of swords; but I will guard them very carefully if you will let me come in, for my home is far away.”
The Snake said: “I am here with my children, and am very poor. It is not for the rich to come to the poor for help; but rather for the poor man to visit the rich. If one of my children were to go to your house, you would kill him. Then why do you come here?”
However, the Porcupine promised so fairly that the Snake at last let him in. All went well at first; but in the morning the Porcupine began to quarrel, killed the whole Snake family, and took possession of their land.[23]
WHY THE RABBIT’S NOSE IS SPLIT
In old times the Red Headed Woodpecker once went to visit the Rabbit. He saw the Rabbit was very poor, and had nothing to eat, so he thought he would help him out. He took a green withe, tied it round his waist, and said: “Now I will catch some eels.”
He went to the side of a rotten tree, and pick, pick; Rabbit saw him pull out eel after eel,[24] and string them on a stick. When the stick was full, he brought them to camp and cooked them. When they were cooked, he and Rabbit ate supper, and felt happy. Then the Woodpecker took his leave, inviting Rabbit to return the visit soon.
In about three weeks Rabbit thought it was time he should accept this invitation, so he went to see Woodpecker. When he got there he said: “My turn now to get supper;” for he thought he could catch eels just as Woodpecker did.
He tied a withe about him, went to a tree, and pick, pick, pick, harder, then so hard that his nose was flattened and his lip split; but he caught no eels.
Old man Turtle was visiting Woodpecker at this same time. He took pity on Rabbit, tied the withe round his own body, and dived down into the lake, coming up with a back-load of eels.
Rabbit thought: “Well, I can do that. Turtle is a very good old fellow, I guess I will ask him to come over to see me.” So he said: “Come to see me where I live.”
Old man Turtle went to see Rabbit; but he is such a slow traveller, that when Rabbit saw him coming, he thought, “I shall have plenty of time to get the eels ready,” so he tied the withe round him, and jumped into the water, but every time he jumped, he bounced right back. He could not dive at all.
Turtle saw him, went to the lake. Rabbit said: “I have tried and tried; but I can’t get eels. I guess there are none here.”
The Turtle knew what the trouble was; but he only said: “Let me have the withe;” and in no time he brought up a back-load. They went home and cooked them; and Rabbit liked Turtle so well that they were good friends forever after.[25]
STORY OF THE SQUIRREL
When great Glūskap, lord of men and beasts, had brought order out of the chaos in which the world was at the beginning, he called together the animals and assigned to each the position he should hold in the future. To some he gave the water, to others the land, and to others wings to fly through the air. Over each tribe he appointed a leader called K’chī, the Great One. These could command help or power from others called their poohegans.
In some animals Glūskap found a fierceness, which, when combined with size and strength, would make them dangerous for Indians to encounter. To this class belonged Mīko, the Squirrel,—at that time as large as a wolf.
Therefore Glūskap stroked him on the back until he became the size that he now is.
This humbled the proud Mīko, who had been so vain of his appearance, and so boastful of his strength, that he would scratch down the trees which happened to be in his way.
But, as a compensation, Glūskap told him that he could now climb higher and travel faster than before, besides which he could at times have wings to suit the situation.
Mīko was comforted, and concluded to travel and become acquainted with the world of Nature.
“K’chī Megūsawess,” the Martin, taught him the language of other animals, to enable him to keep out of danger, and Mūinsq’, Mistress Bear, Glūskap’s adopted grandmother, gave him the Law, with much good advice; for all Bears are wise, and she was wisest of them all. She said:—
“You must never speak in praise of yourself, but pay attention to all that is said to you.
“Always control your temper; and, when enraged, say, chim, chim, chim,[26] over and over, as fast as you can, until your anger is over.
“The Law is: ‘Mind your own business.’
“Do this and you will be wise and wealthy.”
Mīko then started out on his travels, but had not gone far when he remembered a bird named “Laffy Latwin,”[27] whose home in a tall birch-tree was his especial envy.
He said to himself: “Now is my chance to try the wings of ‘Set-cāto,’ the Flying Squirrel,” and at once he half climbed, half flew, up the tree, where he found Laffy Latwin still at home.
Laffy Latwin was always good-natured; and all the little birds as well as insects visited his abode. The little worms too would crawl up the birch-tree to see their friend. He sang the vesper song every night, as a signal to them all to go to sleep. When he sings: