Crying Eagle got up quickly, put on his warm winter clothes, and sat with his father at breakfast. As soon as breakfast was over, they gathered their weapons and left the protection of the Iroquois village and headed toward the forest. As they walked along the trail, Great Eagle pointed out different signs. Here the snow had been scraped by a deer nosing for anything green under the snow. There was a squirrel nest bulging with its store of winter food. And everywhere there were the tracks of many wolves. This had been a hard winter, and the hungry wolves were moving in packs to seek out easy prey. Many animals would not find enough food to keep them at full strength. Unless one were very careful, escape from an attack by these forest marauders would be impossible.
Crying Eagle began to get tired and his father motioned toward a small glen in the forest off to the side of the trail. There were some fallen logs upon which they could sit and have their lunch of jerked venison and water. As they sat eating slowly, Great Eagle watched the forest around them for any signs of game. But all was quiet except for the singing of the few winter birds that lived there, even in the coldest weather. Suddenly, they heard the crackling of some dry timber in the distance and Great Eagle raised his head.
“A buck leaping through the brush,” he said.
“How can you tell, father?”
“Listen, my son! You will discover that there is a moment of silence between each crackling of brush. That tells you that whatever makes the noise is leaping, and the heavy crashing of brush tells you that the animal is large. Because it leaps, you know it is not a bear. So we can be almost sure that it is a buck.”
Just as Great Eagle stopped speaking, they saw a large buck moving in long leaps among the brush and small trees. Suddenly, he stopped and sniffed the air. Great Eagle and his son stood perfectly still. The buck looked directly toward them. The breeze was blowing toward the buck and he had caught their scent. Crying Eagle raised his bow but felt his father’s hand upon his shoulder.
“No, my son. The buck is truly beautiful. But our wigwam is full of venison, and we have enough fine clothes to last for a long time. We do not kill the forest animals unless we really need to. Truly, I know how much you want to make a kill and tell your friends of the fine buck your steady hand brought down, but that must wait for another day. We are here to learn the way animals live during the winter, so that when you must hunt for your family, you will find it easy.”
The buck seemed to wait for Great Eagle to speak with his son. Then he leaped away through the forest. Great Eagle and his son spent the rest of the afternoon studying other signs of wild life. As the sun began to sink low in the west, Great Eagle turned and started on the trail for home. After they had gone a ways, Great Eagle halted and motioned for his son to be still. Together the two Indians crouched low and Great Eagle pointed through the trees. There, only three hundred paces away in a clearing, stood a large buck. Off to the right of the buck stood a beautiful brown doe and further on through the trees was another buck, moving slowly forward through the trees.
“Why do we stop, father?” asked Crying Eagle, still crouching low in the snow.
“Because, son, I believe that we are about to see something very rarely seen by humans. The buck in the clearing is standing guard over his bride, the doe on our right. The buck coming through the trees is young and wants the doe, too. So he is challenging the old buck to a duel. The winner will get the doe. In a moment they will face each other in the clearing. They will meet head on and the battle will be on. The buck that gives up first and turns from the battle will be the loser, and the other will claim his bride.”
Soon, as Great Eagle had said, the younger buck entered the clearing. The two faced each other, the younger pawing at the ground while the older stood surveying this young challenger of his right to the doe, who lay watching them calmly from the brush to the side of the clearing. Then the two bucks began to circle. They stopped and almost at once the young one charged. The older buck met the attack head on and there was a loud crash as their antlers met and locked. They pushed and pulled and wrenched until suddenly their antlers were free. They were almost equally matched, for even though the younger buck seemed faster, the older was a veteran of many such battles and knew more tricks in fighting.
Again they locked horns but unlocked quickly this time. Then the older buck’s antlers slashed into the side of the young buck. Back and forth the battle waged and then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The young buck had had enough. He tossed his head into the air and leaped off into the forest, to lick his wounds and wait for another doe. The old buck walked with what looked like pride to his doe. She rose to her feet and, side by side, they began pushing their noses into the snow to smell out food.
“Come,” said Great Eagle, “let us leave them in peace. You have seen one of the great events in the life of wild animals. Remember it well for you may be called upon to defend the persons and things you love, even when you think the enemy is stronger. Remember how strength alone is not enough. You must know how to fight well in order to win.”
Crying Eagle was thinking about each word his father had spoken as they headed home. They moved rapidly because they wanted to reach the village before dark. Soon through the trees they could see the flickering of many campfires. In a few moments they were in the camp and at home. A hot meal of stew was waiting for them, and father and son ate heartily. When they had finished, Crying Eagle spoke to his father.
“My father, you opened my eyes today to many new things. I hope that I have learned my lesson well and will always obey your teaching.”
Crying Eagle kept his promise well. Some years later there was trouble between his village and the neighboring tribes. While the young bucks shouted for blood and the scalps of their neighbors, Crying Eagle called for peace and talk. Like his father in battle, he was a brave warrior, but where talk around the council fire could save lives, Crying Eagle was a great leader and peacemaker.
Crying Eagle lived to a very old age, but he never forgot that walk through the winter forest with his father Chief Great Eagle, war chief of the mighty Iroquois.
Based on a story told to the author by John Fitch, Vermont farmer, 1937.
The Mohawk village of bark houses nestled along the river, and all was peace and contentment in the village. Spotted Tail and his family lived in peace and contentment in the village, for they were a happy people. The hunting and fishing were good and there was little sickness among the people of his tribe and all was made so that the people would be happy.
When young Spotted Tail had reached his fifteenth summer, something happened to his tribe. Suddenly the game of the forest became scarce. The deer began to disappear and even the smallest of game was becoming hard to find. This concerned the council, for never before had this happened to their hunting grounds. And then one day while the warriors were busy preparing to go out on the hunt, a young Mohawk warrior staggered into the camp. Blood dripped from his body and as he reached the center of the village he collapsed.
Eager hands lifted him and carried him to his house and when his wounds had been bathed the great chief of the Mohawks came to talk with him.
“What has happened to you, my brother? Surely this is the work of some great savage beast that you have encountered in the green forest.”
“O Great Chief, my companion and I had been following the tracks of a deer and feeling we were quite lucky to have come upon such a find. Suddenly as we trotted along the trail following the deer there was a horrible snarling from off to the side of the trail. We stopped and looked toward the side of the trail, and there before our very eyes was a pack of ferocious-looking wolves. Before we could even draw our bowstrings they were upon us. My companion and I fought them, but soon they had dragged my companion to the ground. They began to fight among themselves over one of their wounded comrades, and it was then that I crawled off into the brush and when I saw my chance I ran as fast as I could toward our village. I could hear the snarls of the pack behind me but I ran as fast as my legs could carry me and soon I heard them no more. But one thing I will always remember is the leader of the pack, a white wolf of tremendous size. He had a beautiful white coat and was much larger than the rest of the pack. I am tired, I must rest now.”
And with that the warrior closed his eyes and slept.
The chief immediately called a council of his warriors and among them was Spotted Tail’s father. Now the reason for the lack of game was known. The winter further north had been very severe and so the wolf pack had come further south seeking food. But now that they had been roaming so free for so long they decided to stay.
The chief rose before the council and said:
“We must set out on the hunt immediately, but we must hunt this pack of wolves and destroy them before they cause all the deer to disappear. If we fail, our smoke racks will become empty and our people will starve.”
So party after party of warriors were sent out in search of the wolf pack, but they always returned disappointed; for they had often come upon the pack but never had been able to get close enough to do any real damage.
Finally Sleeping Water, one of the young warriors, Suggested that instead of going in large parties they ought to go out in pairs or three at a time and when sighting the pack send word to a larger hunting party and they in turn could surround and destroy the pack.
The council approved of this method and so the warriors began to go out in pairs. It was now that Spotted Tail began his adventure which was to be spoken of in the lodges for many moons to come.
Spotted Tail was chosen by Sleeping Water to go as his companion, and the two braves started on the hunt. They ranged far and wide and finally picked up the trail of the pack. Sleeping Water knelt by the tracks of the wolves and could tell that they were fairly fresh tracks.
Quickly the two braves trotted along the trail in pursuit of the pack and soon through the trees ahead Sleeping Water spotted the pack moving stealthily through the trees as if stalking an animal. Turning to Spotted Tail he said, “Spotted Tail, you will keep the pack in sight and follow them as they move, marking your trail. I will return and fetch a large hunting party and we shall destroy this pack of wolves. You are not afraid to keep watch?”
Spotted Tail felt it a great honor to be asked to do such an important job and he told Sleeping Water that he would keep close watch on the pack and if he moved he would mark his trail well.
When Sleeping Water departed, Spotted Tail kept close watch on the pack as it milled around. Evidently the hunt they were on was ended, for many of the wolves were circling in the snow and finding resting places.
It was fast growing dark and Spotted Tail hoped that they would not decide to move in the dark or he would surely lose them before the dawn. Then he saw him—the giant white leader of the pack—standing off to one side of the pack as if on guard. He was truly a majestic animal, fully half a foot taller at the shoulder than the other wolves and his coat was a shimmering white as pure as the snow.
As night settled, a bright moon came out and the night was shattered by the baying of the wolves at the moon.
On a rock pinnacle overlooking the wolves’ bedding ground, the great white leader stood guard, his eyes never still, moving from side to side as he watched for any approaching danger. Spotted Tail remained awake as long as he could, but soon his eyes felt very tired. He was about to drop off to sleep when he noticed the pack stirring. He gazed out into the shadows of the night and the leader seemed to be staring right through the brush and trees into Spotted Tail’s hiding place.
Then Spotted Tail saw the reason for the movement: a deer had wandered to within a short distance of the wolves, and now the pack was preparing to kill this unsuspecting victim.
The leader seemed to bark instructions and suddenly the pack was up and circling the deer. There was a mad rush and suddenly the excitement was over, the booty was shared, and the pack settled down once again.
Spotted Tail breathed a sigh of relief, for the pack in chasing the deer had come too close for comfort to his hiding place in the thick brush. Dawn was fast approaching, and now the pack was on the move once again. Spotted Tail followed as close as he dared, making sure that he kept downwind from these lean hungry wolves that had caused death and starvation to come to his People. Then he got an idea.
If he could get a good shot in and wound or even kill the leader, it might have the same effect as if a chief died, the pack would be without a leader and might be so disorganized that the hunters from his tribe, who he was sure were fast approaching, would be able to make easy work of the rest of the pack.
Then the opportunity came his way. There standing off to the side of the pack was the large white leader. Spotted Tail settled himself upon one knee in the snow and drawing careful aim with his bow, he let fly. The arrow seemed to go right through the great beast and he leaped high in the air. Spotted Tail was about to shout of his great shot to the heavens when he saw that the wolf had come to rest on all fours and was turned now in his direction, his teeth bared and a terrible snarl coming from deep within his throat.
Gathered behind the great white wolf like an army, was the rest of the pack, snarling and waiting for the orders from their leader, but the leader seemed to warn them away—this was his kill—and slowly began moving toward Spotted Tail.
Spotted Tail stood firm and placed another arrow to his bowstring. He fired again, and the arrow again seemed to go straight to its mark but still the beast kept moving forward. Now the wolf began to run in a steady loping trot toward the Indian and suddenly he was leaping.
Spotted Tail drew his knife, but in mid-air the wolf seemed to stop and try to turn and return from whence he had come, and then the body was crashing to the ground, an arrow quivering in his side. Then there were howls and yells and cries from many points of the forest and arrows came flying into the wolf pack. Beast after beast fell under the onslaught of deadly shafts being fired by revenge-seeking Mohawk warriors until suddenly the whole pack lay dead in the quiet of the winter forest.
It all happened so quickly that before Spotted Tail realized what had happened, Sleeping Water was lifting him from the snow smiling.
“You have done well, my young brother, you have been brave this day. You left very clear signs for our party to follow and because of that we were able to wipe out this pack of beasts which have killed so much game.”
“But the leader of the pack—I fired an arrow into him and it went right through him. Twice I saw this happen. He must have been a ghost and yet I saw his body hit the ground with the arrows of my brothers. How do you explain this, Sleeping Water?”
“Come, Spotted Tail, I will show you.” Together they walked to where the great beast lay.
“You see, his coat was such a pure white that it blended with the snow and when you fired it seemed as though you hit him but actually you missed. It is no shame, for it was a long and a difficult shot and when you fired a second time as he was moving toward you, the sun on the snow caused reflection to make you misjudge your shot.
“We observed all this from our hiding places, for we came upon you just as you were preparing to make your first shot. But, please, Spotted Tail, do not take a chance like that again. It is very foolish to try something so dangerous when you are alone and especially when you knew that help was on the way. But this adventure has ended well, and you will have much to tell in the medicine lodge tonight, of the great ghost wolf that hunted these lands.”
And so the pack was destroyed and soon the game returned once again to the hunting ground of the Mohawk and once again all was peaceful and happy along the Osage River.
This story was told to the author by Jim Nutley of the Canadian Forest Ranger Service.
The Cree were plains Indians. Today their village was full of activity. A hunting party had just returned after a very successful hunt. The braves were already around the great council fire, telling of their exploits. Among these warriors was Slow Tongue, whose bravery and courage among the Cree was never questioned.
When all the celebrating was over, Slow Tongue returned to his tepee and his family. His young son, Swift Hawk, had waited up for him and, with pride in his eyes, he looked up into his father’s face and said, “I am very proud to have you for my father.”
“My young son, it is long past your bedtime and you should have closed your ears to the night noises of the prairie many hours ago. But I must also say that I am proud to have you as a son and tomorrow we shall talk and I shall tell you all about the hunt.” Slow Tongue turned to leave his son’s side when he heard a noise at the entrance of his tepee.
“Slow Tongue,” a voice called quietly, “it is I, Seeing Bear. Come, I must speak with you.”
Slow Tongue left the tepee. “Why do you call me from my tepee so late in the night, Sleeping Bear,” he asked. “I am tired and my buffalo robe beckons to me to come and wrap myself in its warm folds, for my body aches.”
“Look, Slow Tongue! Look to the north! At first I thought the heat of the day had made me see things that do not exist. But now I am sure it has not. Look and tell me what you see.”
Slow Tongue turned his head to the north and gazed out into the darkness of the night. Far in the distance he saw a red glow which disappeared, appeared again, and disappeared many times.
“What can it mean, Slow Tongue?”
“It is a message, Seeing Bear. The fire signal tells that the tribes of the plains are gathering for the Sun Dance. Truly this is great news. Tomorrow we must break camp and leave for the northern meadow of the Blue Star, for it is there that the great celebrations will be held. You go to the southern part of the village and I will go to the northern part, and we will spread the word. It is late and many are asleep, but surely this is news for which they will be glad to be awakened.”
The next morning there was great excitement in the Cree village. The gathering for the Sun Dance not only meant gathering to celebrate the greatest religious ceremony of the plains Indians, but it also meant that it would be a time for great feasts, mock battles, ceremonial hunts, and the recounting of the past year’s experience with many old friends. And, of course, the men looked forward to smoking the ceremonial pipes which was also a part of this great occasion.
The tribe had soon broken down its village and packed and the great procession headed north toward the meadow of the Blue Star.
For two days and two nights the Cree village moved northward. Their progress was slow but steady, and there was much gaiety. There was much to look forward to, and many of the younger braves could hardly be kept from rushing on ahead of the tribe.
Soon other tribes began to join the Cree in their trek north. In all directions smoke signals could be seen, sent up by eager messengers reporting the movements of the tribes as they converged on the sacred grounds.
It was very clear to Swift Hawk now that friend and enemy were walking side by side. This was one time during the year when the burning desire to strike out at your enemy was replaced by a stronger desire to do worship together in the hope of a good year to come.
Soon the meadow of the Blue Star was reached, and the tribe of Swift Hawk chose a place to set its village in the great circle with the tribe’s sacred tepee as its center. Campfires began to burn merrily, and the smell of cooking food filled the air. Old and young warriors walked about to renew old acquaintances and talk about what had happened during the past year. Dancers could be seen here and there practicing seriously for the time of the great ceremony.
Soon word spread through the encampment that there were to be riding contests at the far west side of the meadow on the following day. These contests would be open to young braves who had made their first buffalo kill during the last year. This made Swift Hawk leap and shout for joy. Just last month he had brought down his first buffalo. This meant he could enter the riding contest. For many years now Swift Hawk had watched the contests from afar. Each year he promised himself that next year he would enter and win. Each year his father told him to be patient and that his time would come.
It was a very difficult contest to test the skills of the young warriors. Each boy was to start his ride from the top of a hill that sloped sharply down into the meadow. At every one-hundred-yard point along a twisting path down the steep slope, for a distance of five hundred yards, were four sets of poles, two poles to each set. Each set was driven in the ground a buffalo’s length apart until they stood between four and five feet above ground. Between these two poles a buffalo hide was stretched to look like a buffalo running directly toward the sloping path, his flank toward the young warriors as they rode down.
Each young brave was allowed a bow of his choice, four arrows, and a quiver. The brave, when given the signal to go, would race down the slope at full speed. Drawing an arrow from the quiver and bending his body down under the neck of his pony and holding on with his feet, he would aim his arrow under the neck of the pony and shoot the arrow into the buffalo hide. He would do this with each of the four arrows.
Such a contest would surely test the strength and courage of any young brave. But young Indians were brought up to fear little and to welcome a test like this. For this reason it was no surprise to the great chieftains when a rather large group of young braves gathered at the starting point the next morning. Each boy sat astride a fine looking pony, usually the gift of his father or some other leading member of the tribe. Each boy had his bow, his quiver, and four very special arrows which had been worked over and cared for like a pet or one of the family.
Final instructions were given to the young braves, and the riding contest was on! There was a great cheer from all who were watching as each rider left the starting point. This was a friendly match among boys from many tribes that often fought each other the rest of the year. Down the steep slope a lone warrior could be seen stationed at each buffalo hide. Here he could not only retrieve arrows but help to judge the young braves as they rode by and fired at the target.
Soon it was Swift Hawk’s turn. Remembering all that his father had taught him, he dug his heels into his pony’s sides and started his fast and dangerous ride. Carefully he drew an arrow from the quiver; then bending under the pony’s neck, he placed the arrow to the bow, and as the target came into view, Swift Hawk let his arrow fly! He heard the plunk as the arrow struck the hide. With his head still under the pony’s neck and riding so hard, he could hardly have seen where it had landed. But a loud cheer told him that he had made a good shot. Down the steep, winding course, Swift Hawk swiftly shot his arrows at the three other targets, and went back toward the starting point.
As he reached the hilltop he heard a great shout go up. Looking down the course he saw a young Crow brave just turning his pony to return to the starting point. The loud cheer meant that he had ridden well and made many good hits.
One by one each of the other young braves made his attempt but none could equal the riding and skill of the young Crow Indian. And so it was when the last contestant had made his ride and fired no better than the rest that the Crow brave was announced as the winner. Swift Hawk was one of the first to reach his side and congratulate him on his victory. Deep in his heart, Swift Hawk was sad. But he was also very happy for this young brave. Surely the young man had deserved to win; and, above all, Swift Hawk realized how happy the young brave and his family must be that he had won.
The contest over, Swift Hawk returned to his home and his father, disappointed but not unhappy now. There would be other contests, and this was a time of celebration and joy. His father found him sitting beside a tree stump.
“You did very well, my son,” Slow Tongue said, placing his hands upon Swift Hawk’s shoulders. “The Crow boy who won did just a little bit better, but all the Cree are proud of you. There will be other contests and many games. Soon your turn will come. But even if it should not, remember what I have told you. As long as you play fair with your fellow braves and obey the rules, there is nothing to be ashamed of when you lose to someone who plays fair and has great skill.”
“Thank you, father, I shall always remember that.”
Games and new contests were beginning. Just as Swift Hawk’s father had told him, his time would come and sooner than he expected. In the foot race he ran much faster than any of his fellow braves, winning easily. Swift Hawk was as good a winner as he had been a good loser, boasting to no one about his victory.
The Huron tribe were a rather typical tribe of the Eastern woodlands. They were a hunting and fishing tribe, and when their villages were built they were built to last for a long time.
In this particular village of the Hurons, there lived a young boy by the name of Singing Eagle. Now as was the custom among most of the tribes of that area, a young Indian child did not own any clothes at all until he reached the age of ten.
This particular day was to be a great one for Singing Eagle, but when he woke that late summer morning, it was just another day for him.
After eating his breakfast, he dashed away to play with the other children. Meanwhile back at the wigwam, Singing Eagle’s mother, Early Dawn, was very busy indeed. For many days and nights she had been working quite hard making Singing Eagle his first real set of clothing.
Singing Eagle’s father had hunted the big brown buck early last spring and his long chase had finally been rewarded, when he was able to shoot and kill a very fine large buck. Carefully skinning the buck, he had returned both the skin and the meat to his wigwam, where his wife immediately set to work tanning the skin in preparation for making it into a winter outfit for young Singing Eagle.
When the skin had been carefully tanned, Singing Eagle’s mother had fashioned from it a pair of leggings. The leggings of the woodland Indian were made in matched pairs. They covered the whole leg and fitted rather snugly and were held up with a thong fastened to the waistbelt. The buckskin was sewn together with threads of sinew.
The shirt, which Singing Eagle’s mother was so proud of, had long sleeves and would reach to Singing Eagle’s knees, but above all the shirt was beautifully decorated with painted pictures. When Singing Eagle grew up, the paintings would be upon his future shirts and beadwork would also be added. The shirt was of buckskin.
Finally Singing Eagle’s mother proudly held up, for her husband to see, the beautiful moccasins. The moccasins of the woodland Indian were fashioned from one piece of skin and were soft-soled and often these too were decorated with beadwork. Here Singing Eagle’s mother had decided not to wait until her son grew any more, but had put a beautiful beaded design on the toe of each moccasin. This was to be a truly wonderful day.
After lunch, Singing Eagle lay down to rest, for he had been playing very hard that morning with the other children. When he awoke, he looked around and his eyes fairly jumped from his head. There at the foot of his bed was his first suit of clothing. Quickly he grasped them to him and hugged them, feeling how soft and pliable they were, following the many days of work.
Quickly he slipped into the clothes and when he was completely dressed, ran from the wigwam to find his father and show him his beautiful clothes. Soon he found his father at the edge of the village talking with two other braves of the tribe. All excited, he pulled at his father’s sleeve until his father turned and noticing the clothes, quickly changed his expression from anger to one of surprise.
“How handsome you look, my son. Your mother has done a fine job on your clothes. I wish that my shirts were as beautiful as the one you now wear upon your back. You look very much like a man now, my son.”
Singing Eagle was very proud that his father had noticed his clothes and given him such fine compliments. But time was wasting. As was customary when a young Indian boy received his first full set of clothing to wear, the rest of the day was spent in showing off his new clothes to his many friends. And so that day, in a matter of a couple of hours, the whole Huron village knew that Singing Eagle had his first real Indian suit, made from a fine buck that his father had shot just for him.
The Blackfoot village was all astir to greet the new day. It was late in the springtime, and the great hunters of the tribe had been off to hunt the buffalo. Word had just reached the village that the hunt was over and the hunting party was on the way home.
This made Little Bird very happy, for she knew that her husband, Big Red Bear, would be returning to the tepee and that there would be much celebrating in the tribe. Everything must be made ready to greet the hunters.
The women of the village began dashing around preparing for the arrival of the hunting party. There was much to be done and much work lay ahead, now that the buffalo had been killed. The meat must be stored and some of it smoked, and the hides must be turned into new tepee covers and robes. All this would take place after the celebration, but still the women of the tribe knew they had a long job ahead.
The news was good. The hunt had been successful, and many buffalo had fallen before the weapons of the hunters. The buffalo had a good winter and were not thin or ragged. The grass had been full-grown and rich. Enough rain had fallen to provide the food and water necessary to make the buffalo fat and a good target for expert bowmen.
Soon all was in readiness and everyone waited impatiently for the first signs of the returning hunters. And then the signal came! A young brave on a shaggy brown pony came dashing through the village, announcing the arrival of the hunters.
Everyone was out to greet them and shout thanks and praise. Husbands and wives, fathers and children greeted each other warmly. The tribe was filled with joy.
Night came swiftly. Before long the beating drums told the people that the dancing and feasting was to begin. This celebration often lasted all night and sometimes into the next day; then as dancers tired, they would wander off to their tepees for the first really peaceful sleep since the hunting party had left the village.
Little Bird and her husband enjoyed the great feast and celebration. The next day Little Bird set to work on the buffalo skins for her family tepee. It had been a hard winter and the weather had damaged many Blackfoot homes. There were more than enough skins brought back by the hunters, so that those tepee coverings that had become worn and tattered could be replaced. So Little Bird set to work with the women of the tribe who were busy preparing and sewing together the buffalo hides to make new covers for the tepees.
One day Little Bird learned that a new tepee was to be built in the village. The old tepee of the chief had been damaged so badly by the winter snow and ice, and the poles had become so rotted, that the tribe agreed to build him a new tepee. The building of a new tepee was important because everybody in the tribe helped to make it. All the friends and neighbors would be invited to attend a great feast and when the feast was over, the women would begin sewing the skins together.
Little Bird and her husband went to the feast. When it was over, Little Bird sat down with the rest of the women and, taking up her bone needle, began to sew two buffalo hides together. The cutting of the skins had been entrusted to Slow Water, the wife of Black Fox, the tribe’s best hunter, since she had great skill in judging the number of skins needed by their size and shape. They used no patterns, so only a woman with this kind of skill was asked to do the cutting.
As the sewing continued and the tepee walls began to take shape, even more whispering went on around Little Bird. When Little Bird asked one of her friends what it was all about, her friend would only say, “Be patient, Little Bird, for soon we shall all know what they have been whispering about.”
The next day the women who had been working on the skins came to the tepee of Little Bird. Because her husband was away, Little Bird invited the women to sit and talk. There was a great deal of laughter as the women sat down. Slow Water, the skillful cutter, had been chosen to speak to Little Bird for all of them.
“Little Bird,” she began, “we are here to ask you to do something for our tribe. You always have a smile for everyone wherever you go in the village. As you know, we must choose someone who is always cheerful to work on the smoke flaps for the new tepee. We are here to ask you, Little Bird, to work on the smoke flaps of the new tepee, so that your happy spirit will be woven into the flap and the smoke will depart from the tepee evenly and smoothly.”
Little Bird smiled. Her heart was happy. This was truly a great honor. Now she understood why all the whispering had been going on the last couple of days.
“I will be happy to help sew the smoke flaps of the new tepee. It is a great honor for which I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
And some say that as long as that tepee stood, the chief never had to worry about the smoke rising out of the tepee easily, even on stormy, windy nights. The Indians believed that the happy spirit of Little Bird really lived in that flap.
When Little Dove, a Winnebago baby girl, was born she had everything a new-born baby could ask for. First of all, her father was chief of the Winnebagos, and her mother was considered one of the most beautiful women in the tribe.
There were many relatives who came to view the new child and left many precious gifts for her.
When she was born, Little Dove was strapped to a cradle board and carried by her mother in this fashion. Each day her mother would unwrap her and clean her body all over and massage her little limbs. Then she was wrapped once again on the board, and life continued this way until the baby was able to walk.
She was always fed when she was hungry and was never but a few feet from her mother’s side. But soon Little Dove began to walk and so she left the cradle board and began to run and play with the other children in the out of doors.
Everyone was affectionate and indulgent toward the girl as Indians always were toward their children. Soon, however, they realized that Little Dove was beginning to grow up. Little Dove was already ten summers old, when her mother called her to the side of their home to talk with her.
“Little Dove,” she commenced, “you must start to prepare for your life later on as a wife and a mother. If you are to be a good wife, you must learn the work that all Indian women must do.”
Most Indian girls welcomed this advice from their mothers, but Little Dove was different. Because she was the chief’s daughter some people had given her the idea that she would be waited upon for the rest of her life—if not by her mother or other women of the tribe, then eventually by her husband. When she told this to her mother, her mother tried to explain, but Little Dove did not want to listen and simply walked away.
Soft Feather, her mother, was very much concerned and went to talk to her husband. But just as many fathers do even today, the chief said,
“Be patient, she is young and she will learn.”
Soft Feather was quite disturbed and each day she would ask Little Dove to come and begin to learn, but each day Little Dove would run off to play with the younger children while the older children were busy learning the work that goes with adult life.
One day young Little Dove noticed an Indian boy that she had seen several times sitting by himself shaping a bow.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I am shaping a bow so that when I marry I will have a fine weapon with which to bring down the running deer.”
For a long while Little Dove sat with the young boy, and nothing more was said. Finally the young brave rose and, bidding good-bye to Little Dove, started for his home.
Little Dove was now twelve and each day she would see the young boy at work or play. Finally she went to her mother.
“Mother, the young boy who has the pretty belt and bone-handled knife, who is he?”
“That, my daughter, is your father’s best friend’s son, Straight Arrow. Why, do you like him especially?”
“I like him a lot.”
Several weeks passed, and one day as Little Dove was idling her time away dangling her feet in a stream, young Straight Arrow came to the water’s edge to wash some dirt from his arms and legs. He had been working in the garden with his father and now was going to clean up. Little Dove looked directly at him and said,
“Are you planning on taking a wife very soon, Straight Arrow?”
“I suppose so, Little Dove, for I am almost sixteen and my father said that I should be married now.”
“I too am planning to be married soon,” said Little Dove.
“Can you cook, or sew, or weave baskets?”
“No, I cannot do those things. Will I have to?”
“Well, I do not know about you but any girl that I marry must be able to do that and lots more. Well, I must be going now. It is time for lunch and I am very hungry and my sister is a very good cook.”
With that, Straight Arrow left the side of the stream and he left behind a very angry Little Dove.
Little Dove rushed home and told her mother what had happened. When she had finished blurting out her story, her mother said,
“And now what do you want me to do about it, my Little Dove?”
“Mother, will you teach me to weave baskets and sew and cook?”
So the lessons began that very afternoon. The cooking was easy but when it came to the weaving, that was a little more difficult and it was a long time before Little Dove could weave a basket that looked like a basket.
First, she and her mother would gather some thin ash and linden trees. These had to be straight and free of knots. They they would strip them of the bark. These they pounded until they came apart in long splints. Then these were dyed and woven into baskets. Also Little Dove learned how to make shredded basswood fibers. These were made almost the same way except that they were made into a strong thread by twisting them and rolling them against the thigh of one’s leg. These threads were used to weave belts and tump lines and square bags.
Soon Little Dove had become quite expert at cooking and sewing and weaving, and once again she looked for Straight Arrow. She found him one day seated by a small stream that ran near the village. She sat down and began throwing pebbles into the stream.
“I have learned to cook and to weave and to sew, Straight Arrow,” she said rather quickly.
“That is good,” he answered, “for now you will make someone a good wife.” With that he rose and walked slowly back to the village. Little Dove sat and cried. When she could cry no longer she sat and looked into the water until it was dark, and then she returned to the village. Her mother was waiting for her.
“Your father wishes to speak with you, Little Dove.”
“Yes, my father, you sent for me?”
“Little Dove, today a young brave came to see me. He wants you for his wife and he has offered me many fine horses. I think he will make you a good husband, so in four moons’ time you will be married, my daughter.”
Little Dove felt her heart sink.
“Who is it that has asked to marry me, father?”
“Straight Arrow, son of Big Bow, my daughter, for today you told him you could weave.”
Father and daughter smiled at each other, and then Little Dove left to talk with her mother and tell her how wrong a foolish young Indian girl could be.