other, he ruled them all Great was his army, his tribe was All. In it
the Great Golden Eagle was a chief; he married a female Caribou. The
Turtle was Glooskap's uncle; he married a daughter of the Golden Eagle
and Caribou. Of all these things there are many and long traditions.
Our people tell them in the winter by the fire: the old people know
them; the young forget them and the wisdom which is in them.
When the Turtle married, the Master bade him make a feast, and wished
that the banquet should be a mighty one. To do this he gave him great
power. He bade him go down to a point of rocks by the sea, where many
whales were always to be found. He bade him bring one; he gave him
power to do so, but he set a mark, or an appointed space, and bade him
not go an inch beyond it. So the Turtle went down to the sea; he caught
a great whale, he bore it to camp; it seemed to him easy to do this.
But like all men there was in him vain curiosity; the falsehood of
disobedience was in him, and to try the Master he went beyond the mark;
and as he did this he lost his magic strength; he became as a man; even
as a common mortal his nerves weakened, and he fell, crushed flat
beneath the weight of the great fish.
Then men ran to Glooskap, saying that Turtle was dead. But the Master
answered, "Cut up the Whale; he who is now dead will revive." So they
cut it up; (and when the feast was ready) Turtle came in yawning, and
stretching out his leg he cried, "How tired I am! Truly, I must have
overslept myself." Now from this time all men greatly feared Glooskap,
for they saw that he was a spirit.
It came to pass that the Turtle waxed mighty in his own conceit, and
thought that he could take Glooskap's place and reign in his stead. So
he held a council of all the animals to find out how he could be slain.
The Lord of Men and Beasts laughed at this. Little did he care for
them!
And knowing all that was in their hearts, he put on the shape of an old
squaw and went into the council-house. And he sat down by two witches:
one was the Porcupine, the other the Toad; as women they sat there. Of
them the Master asked humbly how they expected to kill him. And the
Toad answered savagely, "What is that to thee, and what hast thou to do
with this thing?" "Truly," he replied, "I meant no harm," and saying
this he softly touched the tips of their noses, and rising went his
way. But the two, witches, looking one at the other, saw presently that
their noses were both gone, and they screamed aloud in terror, but
their faces were none the less flat. And so it came that the Toad and
the Porcupine both lost their noses and have none to this day.
Glooskap had two dogs. One was the Loon (Kwemoo), the other the Wolf
(Malsum). Of old all animals were as men; the Master gave them the
shapes which they now bear. But the Wolf and the Loon loved Glooskap so
greatly that since he left them they howl and wail. He who hears their
cries over the still sound and lonely lake, by the streams where no
dwellers are, or afar at night in the forests and hollows, hears them
sorrowing for the Master.
I am indebted for this legend to Mr. Edward Jack, of Fredericton, N. B.
"I give it to you," he writes, "just as it came from an Indian's lips,
as he sat before the fire in my room this evening, smoking his tobacco
mixed with willow bark. He has an endless store of Indian lore." It may
be observed that this story gives a far more ingenious reason for
Glooskap's telling his brother what would be his bane than appears in
the other version. For he tells him what would indeed deprive him of
life, but not forever.
No one can compare the story of Glooskap with that of Manobozho-Hiawatha
and the like, as given by Schoolcraft or Cusick, and not decide that the
latter seems to be a second-hand version of the former. In one we have
the _root_ of the bulrush,--not the light, feathery rush itself. In
this story, as in that of Balder and Loki, it is the very apparent
harmlessness of the bane which points the incident. Manobozho's father
_says_ that a black rock will kill him; but it does not, although
he flies before it. Glooskap declares that a handful of down will cause
his death. The _double entendre_ of the swoon is entirely wanting
in the Western tale, as is the apparent harmlessness of the medium of
death. In the Edda the mistletoe, the softest, and apparently the least
injurious, of plants, kills Balder; in the Wabanaki tale it is a ball of
down or a rush. The Chippewas change it, like savages, to a substantial
root and a black rock, thereby manifesting an insensibility to the point
of the original, which is that the most trifling thing may be the cause
of the most terrible events.
_How Glooskap changed Certain Saucy Indians into Rattlesnakes_
(Passamaquoddy.)
You know At-o-sis, the Snake? Well, the worst of all is Rattlesnake.
Long time ago the Rattlesnakes were saucy Indians. They were very
saucy. They had too much face. They could not be put down by much, and
they got up for very little.
When the great Flood was coming Glooskap told them about it. They said
they did not care. He told them the water would come over their heads.
They said that would be very wet. He told them to be good and quiet,
and pray. Then those Indians hurrahed. He said, "A great Flood is
coming." Then they gave three cheers for the great Flood. He said, "The
Flood will come and drown you all." Then these Indians hurrahed again,
and got their rattles, made of turtle-shells, in the old fashion,
fastened together, filled with pebbles, and rattled them and had a
grand dance. Afterwards, when the white men brought cows and oxen into
the country, they made rattles of horns.
Yes, they had a great dance. The rain began to fall, but they danced.
The thunder roared, and they shook their rattles and yelled at it. Then
Glooskap was angry. He did not drown them in the Flood, however, but he
changed them into rattlesnakes. Nowadays, when they see a man coming,
they lift up their heads and move them about. That's the way snakes
dance. And they shake the rattles in their tails just as Indians shake
their rattles when they dance. How do you like such music?
A Passamaquoddy tale related by an old woman to Mrs. W. Wallace Brown.
These Indians still keep up a very curious snake-dance.
_How Glooskap bound Wuchowsen, the Great Wind-Bird, and made all the
Waters in all the World Stagnant._
(Passamaquoddy.)
The Indians believe in a great bird called by them _Wochowsen_ or
_Wuchowsen_, meaning Wind-Blow or the Wind-Blower, who lives far
to the North, and sits upon a great rock at the end of the sky. And it
is because whenever he moves his wings the wind blows they of old times
called him that.
When Glooskap was among men he often went out in his canoe with bow and
arrows to kill sea-fowl. At one time it was every day very windy; it
grew worse; at last it blew a tempest, and he could not go out at all.
Then he said, "Wuchowsen, the Great Bird, has done this!"
He went to find him; it was long ere he reached his abode. He found
sitting on a high rock a large white Bird.
"Grandfather," said Glooskap, "you take no compassion on your
_Koosesek_, your grandchildren. You have caused this wind and
storm; it is too much. Be easier with your wings!"
The Giant Bird replied, "I have been here since ancient times; in the
earliest days, ere aught else spoke, I first moved my wings; mine was
the first voice,--and I will ever move my wings as I will."
Then Glooskap rose in his might; he rose to the clouds; he took the
Great Bird-giant Wuchowsen as though he were a duck, and tied both his
wings, and threw him down into a chasm between deep rocks, and left him
lying there.
The Indians could now go out in their canoes all day long, for there
was a dead calm for many weeks and months. And with that all the waters
became stagnant. They were so thick that Glooskap could not paddle his
canoe. Then he thought of the Great Bird, and went to see him.
As he had left him he found him, for Wuchowsen is immortal. So, raising
him, he put him on his rock again, and untied one of his wings. Since
then the winds have never been so terrible as in the old time. The
reader will find the main incident of this story repeated in
"Tumilkoontaoo, the Broken Wing," from the Micmac, in which there is no
mention of Glooskap. This of _Wuchowsen_ is from the Passamaquoddy
manuscript collection by Louis Mitchell. It is unquestionably the
original. Glooskap, as the greatest magician, most appropriately
subdues the giant eagle of the North, the terrible god of the storm.
No one who knows the Edda will deny that Wuchowsen, or the Wind-blower,
as he appears in the Passamaquoddy tale, is far more like the same bird
of the Norsemen than the grotesque Thunder Bird of the Western tribes.
He is distinctly spoken of by the Indians of Maine as a giant and a
bird in one, sitting on a high cliff at the end of the sky, the wind--not
thunder--coming from his pinions:--
"Tell me ninthly,
Since thou art called wise,
Whence the wind comes,
That over ocean passes,
Itself invisible to man.
"Hraesvelg he is called
Who at the end of heaven sits,
A Jotun (giant) in eagle's plumage:
From his wings comes,
It is said, the wind.
That over all men passes."
(The Lay of Vafthrudnir. The Edda, trans. by B. Thorpe.)
_How Glooskcap conquered the Great Bull-Frog, and in what Manner all
the Pollywogs, Crabs, Leeches, and other Water Creatures were
created._
(Passamaquoddy and Micmac.)
_N'karnayoo_, of old times, there was an Indian village far away
among the mountains, little known to other men. And the dwellers
therein were very comfortable: the men hunted every day, the women did
the work at home, and all went well in all things save in this. The
town was by a brook, and except in it there was not a drop of water in
all the country round, unless in a few rain-puddles. No one there had
ever found even a spring.
Now these Indians were very fond of good water. The brook was of a
superior quality, and they became dainty over it.
But after a time they began to observe that the brook was beginning to
run low, and that not in the summer time, but in autumn, even after the
rains. And day by day it diminished, until its bed was as dry as a dead
bone in the ashes of a warm fire.
Now it was said that far away up in the land where none had ever been
there was on this very stream another Indian village; but what manner
of men dwelt therein no one knew. And thinking that these people of the
upper country might be in some way concerned in the drought, they sent
one of their number to go and see into the matter.
And after he had traveled three days he came to the place; and there he
found that a dam had been raised across the rivulet, so that no water
could pass, for it was all kept in a pond. Then asking them why they
had made this mischief, since the dam was of no use to them, they bade
him go and see their chief, by whose order this had been built.
And when he came to him, lo, there lay lazily in the mud a creature who
was more of a monster than a man, though he had a human form. For he
was immense to measure, like a giant, fat, bloated, and brutal to
behold. His great yellow eyes stuck from his head like pine-knots, his
mouth went almost from ear to ear, and he had broad, skinny feet with
long toes, exceeding marvelous.
The messenger complained to this monster, who at first said nothing,
and then croaked, and finally replied in a loud bellow,--
"Do as you choose,
Do as you choose,
Do as you choose.
"What do I care?
What do I care?
What do I care?
"If you want water,
If you want water,
If you want water,
Go somewhere else."
Then the messenger remonstrated, and described the suffering of the
people, who were dying of thirst. And this seemed to please the
monster, who grinned. At last he got up, and, making a single spring to
the dam, took an arrow and bored a hole in it, so that a little water
trickled out, and then he bellowed,--
"Up and begone!
Up and begone!
Up and begone!"
So the man departed, little comforted. He came to his home, and for a
few days there was a little water in the stream; but this soon stopped,
and there was great suffering again.
Now these Indians, who were the honestest fellows in all the world, and
never did harm to any one save their enemies, were in a sorry pickle.
For it is a bad thing to have nothing but water to drink, but to want
that is to be mightily dry. And the great Glooskap, who knew all that
was passing in the hearts of men and beasts, took note of this, and
when he willed it he was among them; for he ever came as the wind
comes, and no man wist how.
And just before he came all of these good fellows had resolved in
council that they would send the boldest man among them to certain
death, even to the village which built the dam that kept the water
which filled the brook that quenched their thirst, whenever it was not
empty. And when there he was either to obtain that they should cut the
dam, or do something desperate, and to this intent he should go armed,
and sing his death-song as he went. And they were all agog.
Then Glooskap, who was much pleased with all this, for he loved a brave
man, came among them looking terribly ferocious; in all the land there
was not one who seemed half so horrible. For he appeared ten feet high,
with a hundred red and black feathers in his scalp-lock, his face
painted like fresh blood with green rings round his eyes, a large
clam-shell hanging from each ear, a spread eagle, very awful to behold,
flapping its wings from the back of his neck, so that as he strode into
the village all hearts quaked. Being but simple Indians, they accounted
that this must be, if not Lox the Great Wolverine, at least Mitche-hant,
the devil himself in person, turned Wabanaki; and they admired
him greatly, and the squaws said they had never seen aught so lovely.
Then Glooskap, having heard the whole story, bade them be of good
cheer, declaring that he would soon set all to rights. And he without
delay departed up the bed of the brook; and coming to the town, sat
down and bade a boy bring him water to drink. To which the boy replied
that no water could be had in that town unless it were given out by the
chief. "Go then to your chief," said the Master, "and bid him hurry,
or, verily, I will know the reason why." And this being told, Glooskap
received no reply for more than an hour, during which time he sat on a
log and smoked his pipe. Then the boy returned with a small cup, and
this not half full, of very dirty water.
So he arose, and said to the boy, "I will go and see your chief, and I
think he will soon give me better water than this." And having come to
the monster, he said, "Give me to drink, and that of the best, at once,
thou Thing of Mud!" But the chief reviled him, and said, "Get thee
hence, to find water where thou canst." Then Glooskap thrust a spear
into his belly, and lo! there gushed forth a mighty river; even all the
water which should have run on while in the rivulet, for he had made it
into himself. And Glooskap, rising high as a giant pine, caught the
chief in his hand and crumpled in his back with a mighty grip. And lo!
it was the Bull-Frog. So he hurled him with contempt into the stream,
to follow the current.
And ever since that time the Bull-Frog's back has crumpled wrinkles in
the lower part, showing the prints of Glooskap's awful squeeze.
Then he returned to the village; but there he found no people,--no, not
one. For a marvelous thing had come to pass during his absence, which
shall be heard in every Indian's speech through all the ages. For the
men, being, as I said, simple, honest folk, did as boys do when they
are hungry, and say unto one another, "What would you like to have, and
what you?" "Truly, I would be pleased with a slice of hot venison
dipped in maple-sugar and bear's oil." "Nay, give me for my share
succotash and honey." Even so these villagers had said, "Suppose
_you_ had all the nice cold, fresh, sparkling, delicious water
there is in the world, what would _you_ do?"
And one said that he would live in the soft mud, and always be wet and
cool.
And another, that he would plunge from the rocks, and take headers,
diving into the deep, cold water, drinking as he dived.
And the third, that he would be washed up and down with the rippling
waves, living on the land, yet ever in the water.
Then the fourth said, "Verily, you know not how to wish, and I will
teach you. I would live in the water all the time, and swim about in it
forever."
Now it chanced that these things were said in the hour which, when it
passes over the world, all the wishes uttered by men are granted. And
so it was with these Indians. For the first became a Leech, the second
a Spotted Frog, the third a Crab, which is washed up and down with the
tide, and the fourth a Fish. Ere this there had been in all the world
none of the creatures which dwell in the water, and now they were
there, and of all kinds. And the river came rushing and roaring on, and
they all went headlong down to the sea, to be washed into many lands
over all the world. [Footnote: This was told by Tomah Josephs. It is
given much more imperfectly in the tale of Kitpooseagunow in the Rand
manuscript, and in the Anglo-Indian "Storey of Glooscap." I have taken
very great pains in this, as in all the tales written down from verbal
narration, to be accurate in details, and to convey as well as I could
the quaint manner and dry humor which characterized the style of the
narrator. Even white men do not tell the same story in the same way to
everybody; and if Tomahquah and others fully expressed their feelings
to me, it was because they had never before met with a white man who
listened to them with such sympathy. It may be observed that the
Indians commonly say that wherever the bull-frog is to be found in
summer there is always water. It is not to be understood, in this tale,
that the bull-frog is supposed to have merely drunk up the river. It is
the river which has become incarnate in him. It is the ice of winter
penetrated by the spear of the sun; that is, Glooskap. Thus, in another
tale, a frozen river tries, as a man, to destroy the hero, but is
melted by him. The conception of _the hour_ when all wishes are
granted, and the abrupt termination of the whole in a grand
transformation scene, are both very striking. There is something like
the former in Rabelais, in his narrative of the golden hatchet; as
regards the latter, it is like the ending of a Christmas pantomime.
Indeed, the entire tale is perfectly adapted to such a "dramatization."
I have been told by an old Passamaquoddy woman that the name of the
monster who swallowed the stream was _Hahk-lee-be-mo_.]
_How the Lord of Men and Beasts strove with the Mighty Wasis, and was
shamefully defeated._
(Penobscot.)
Now it came to pass when Glooskap had conquered all his enemies, even the
_Kewahqu'_, who were giants and sorcerers, and the _m'teoulin_,
who were magicians, and the _Pamola_, who is the evil spirit of the
night air, and all manner of ghosts, witches, devils, cannibals, and
goblins, that he thought upon what he had done, and wondered if his
work was at an end.
And he said this to a certain woman. But she replied, "Not so fast,
Master, for there yet remains One whom no one has ever conquered or got
the better of in any way, and who will remain unconquered to the end of
time."
"And who is he?" inquired the Master.
"It is the mighty _Wasis_," she replied, "and there he sits; and I
warn you that if you meddle with him you will be in sore trouble."
Now _Wasis_ was the Baby. And he sat on the floor sucking a piece
of maple-sugar, greatly contented, troubling no one.
As the Lord of Men and Beasts had never married or had a child, he knew
naught of the way of managing children. Therefore he was quite certain,
as is the wont of such people, that he knew all about it. So he turned
to Baby with a bewitching smile and bade him come to him.
Then Baby smiled again, but did not budge. And the Master spake sweetly
and made his voice like that of the summer bird, but it was of no
avail, for Wasis sat still and sucked his maple-sugar.
Then the Master frowned and spoke terribly, and ordered Wasis to come
crawling to him immediately. And Baby burst out into crying and
yelling, but did not move for all that.
Then, since he could do but one thing more, the Master had recourse to
magic. He used his most awful spells, and sang the songs which raise
the dead and scare the devils. And Wasis sat and looked on admiringly,
and seemed to find it very interesting, but all the same he never moved
an inch.
So Glooskap gave it up in despair, and Wasis, sitting on the floor in
the sunshine, went _goo! goo!_ and crowed.
And to this day when you see a babe well contented, going _goo!
goo!_ and crowing, and no one can tell why, know that it is because
he remembers the time when he overcame the Master who had conquered all
the world. For of all the beings that have ever been since the
beginning, Baby is alone the only invincible one. [Footnote: I am
indebted for this "marchen" to Maria Saksis, a very intelligent
Penobscot woman, a widow of a former governor, whom I met at North
Conway, in the White Mountains, N. H. In her dialect Glooskap is
invariably called _Glus-gah-be_. She told it with that admirable
dry drollery, characteristic of a good story-teller in a race where
there are no bad ones. The exquisite humor and humanity of this little
legend, placed as a pendant to the stupendous successes of the giant
hero, are such as to entitle its Indian author to rank as a genius. I
have frequently asserted that these Wabanaki or Northeastern Algonquin
tales bore to those of the West the apparent relation of originals to
poor copies. Let the reader compare this, which is given as nearly word
for word as was possible from the Indian narrative, with that of
Manobozho-Hiawatha's effort to compete with a baby. The Cherokee
account is that, seeing an infant sucking its own toe, he tried to do
the same, and failed. It is in accounting for the unaccountable crowing
of Baby that the point of the Penobscot story lies. Of this there is no
mention made in the Western tale, which is utterly wanting in any
feeling as to the power of childhood or its charm over the strongest. A
real Indian tale may always be assumed to be ancient when it is told to
set forth an _origin_. This gives the origin of a baby's crowing.]
_How the great Glooskap fought the Giant Sorcerers at Saco, and
turned them into Fish._
(Penobscot.)
_N'karnayoo_, of old times: _Woodenit atok hagen_
_Glusgahbe_. This is a story of Glooskap (P.) There was a father
who had three sons and a daughter: they were _m'teoulin_, or
mighty magicians; they were giants; they ate men, women, and children;
they did everything that was wicked and horrible; and the world grew
tired of them and of all their abominations. Yet when this family was
young, Glooskap had been their friend; he had made the father his
adopted father, the brothers his brothers, the sister his sister.
[Footnote: The Indians make formal adoptions of relatives of every
grade, and in addition to this use all the terms of relationship as
friendly greetings. This is in fact made apparent in all the stories in
this collection.] Yet as they grew older, and he began to hear on every
side of their wickedness, he said: "I will go among them and find if
this be true. And if it be so, they shall die. I will not spare one of
those who oppress and devour men, I do not care who he may be."