on the fourth day, after the people of Mátsaki had all departed toward
Zuñi and the girl was wandering around the plains alone with her
Turkeys, one of the big Gobblers strutted up to her, and making a fan of
his tail, and skirts, as it were, of his wings, blushed with pride and
puffed with importance, stretched out his neck and said: “Maiden mother,
we know what your thoughts are, and truly we pity you, and wish that,
like the other people of Mátsaki, you might enjoy this holiday in the
town below. We have said to ourselves at night, after you have placed us
safely and comfortably in our cages: ‘Truly our maiden mother is as
worthy to enjoy these things as any one in Mátsaki, or even Zuñi.’ Now,
listen well, for I speak the speech of all the elders of my people: If
you will drive us in early this afternoon, when the dance is most gay
and the people are most happy, we will help you to make yourself so
handsome and so prettily dressed that never a man, woman, or child
amongst all those who are assembled at the dance will know you; but
rather, especially the young men, will wonder whence you came, and long
to lay hold of your hand in the circle that forms round the altar to
dance. Maiden mother, would you like to go to see this dance, and even
to join in it, and be merry with the best of your people?”
The poor girl was at first surprised. Then it seemed all so natural that
the Turkeys should talk to her as she did to them, that she sat down on
a little mound, and, leaning over, looked at them and said: “My beloved
Turkeys, how glad I am that we may speak together! But why should you
tell me of things that you full well know I so long to, but cannot by
any possible means, do?”
“Trust in us,” said the old Gobbler, “for I speak the speech of my
people, and when we begin to call and call and gobble and gobble, and
turn toward our home in Mátsaki, do you follow us, and we will show you
what we can do for you. Only let me tell you one thing: No one knows how
much happiness and good fortune may come to you if you but enjoy
temperately the pleasures we enable you to participate in. But if, in
the excess of your enjoyment, you should forget us, who are your
friends, yet so much depend upon you, then we will think: ‘Behold, this
our maiden mother, though so humble and poor, deserves, forsooth, her
hard life, because, were she more prosperous, she would be unto others
as others now are unto her.’”
“Never fear, O my Turkeys,” cried the maiden,--only half trusting that
they could do so much for her, yet longing to try,--“never fear. In
everything you direct me to do I will be obedient as you always have
been to me.”
The sun had scarce begun to decline, when the Turkeys of their own
accord turned homeward, and the maiden followed them, light of heart.
They knew their places well, and immediately ran to them. When all had
entered, even their bare-legged children, the old Gobbler called to the
maiden, saying: “Enter our house.” She therefore went in. “Now, maiden,
sit down,” said he, “and give to me and my companions, one by one, your
articles of clothing. We will see if we cannot renew them.”
The maiden obediently drew off the ragged old mantle that covered her
shoulders and cast it on the ground before the speaker. He seized it in
his beak, and spread it out, and picked and picked at it; then he trod
upon it, and lowering his wings, began to strut back and forth over it.
Then taking it up in his beak, and continuing to strut, he puffed and
puffed, and laid it down at the feet of the maiden, a beautiful white
embroidered cotton mantle. Then another Gobbler came forth, and she gave
him another article of dress, and then another and another, until each
garment the maiden had worn was new and as beautiful as any possessed by
her mistresses in Mátsaki.
Before the maiden donned all these garments, the Turkeys circled about
her, singing and singing, and clucking and clucking, and brushing her
with their wings, until her person was as clean and her skin as smooth
and bright as that of the fairest maiden of the wealthiest home in
Mátsaki. Her hair was soft and wavy, instead of being an ugly, sun-burnt
shock; her cheeks were full and dimpled, and her eyes dancing with
smiles,--for she now saw how true had been the words of the Turkeys.
Finally, one old Turkey came forward and said: “Only the rich ornaments
worn by those who have many possessions are lacking to thee, O maiden
mother. Wait a moment. We have keen eyes, and have gathered many
valuable things,--as such things, being small, though precious, are apt
to be lost from time to time by men and maidens.”
Spreading his wings, he trod round and round upon the ground, throwing
his head back, and laying his wattled beard on his neck; and, presently
beginning to cough, he produced in his beak a beautiful necklace;
another Turkey brought forth earrings, and so on, until all the proper
ornaments appeared, befitting a well-clad maiden of the olden days, and
were laid at the feet of the poor Turkey girl.
With these beautiful things she decorated herself, and, thanking the
Turkeys over and over, she started to go, and they called out: “O maiden
mother, leave open the wicket, for who knows whether you will remember
your Turkeys or not when your fortunes are changed, and if you will not
grow ashamed that you have been the maiden mother of Turkeys? But we
love you, and would bring you to good fortune. Therefore, remember our
words of advice, and do not tarry too long.”
“I will surely remember, O my Turkeys!” answered the maiden.
Hastily she sped away down the river path toward Zuñi. When she arrived
there, she went in at the western side of the town and through one of
the long covered ways that lead into the dance court. When she came just
inside of the court, behold, every one began to look at her, and many
murmurs ran through the crowd,--murmurs of astonishment at her beauty
and the richness of her dress,--and the people were all asking one
another, “Whence comes this beautiful maiden?”
Not long did she stand there neglected. The chiefs of the dance, all
gorgeous in their holiday attire, hastily came to her, and, with
apologies for the incompleteness of their arrangements,--though these
arrangements were as complete as they possibly could be,--invited her to
join the youths and maidens dancing round the musicians and the altar in
the center of the plaza.
With a blush and a smile and a toss of her hair over her eyes, the
maiden stepped into the circle, and the finest youths among the dancers
vied with one another for her hand. Her heart became light and her feet
merry, and the music sped her breath to rapid coming and going, and the
warmth swept over her face, and she danced and danced until the sun sank
low in the west.
But, alas! in the excess of her enjoyment, she thought not of her
Turkeys, or, if she thought of them, she said to herself, “How is this,
that I should go away from the most precious consideration to my flock
of gobbling Turkeys? I will stay a while longer, and just before the sun
sets I will run back to them, that these people may not see who I am,
and that I may have the joy of hearing them talk day after day and
wonder who the girl was who joined in their dance.”
So the time sped on, and another dance was called, and another, and
never a moment did the people let her rest; but they would have her in
every dance as they moved around the musicians and the altar in the
center of the plaza.
At last the sun set, and the dance was well-nigh over, when, suddenly
breaking away, the girl ran out, and, being swift of foot,--more so than
most of the people of her village,--she sped up the river path before
any one could follow the course she had taken.
Meantime, as it grew late, the Turkeys began to wonder and wonder that
their maiden mother did not return to them. At last a gray old Gobbler
mournfully exclaimed, “It is as we might have expected. She has
forgotten us; therefore is she not worthy of better things than those
she has been accustomed to. Let us go forth to the mountains and endure
no more of this irksome captivity, inasmuch as we may no longer think
our maiden mother as good and true as once we thought her.”
So, calling and calling to one another in loud voices, they trooped out
of their cage and ran up toward the Cañon of the Cottonwoods, and then
round behind Thunder Mountain, through the Gateway of Zuñi, and so on up
the valley.
All breathless, the maiden arrived at the open wicket and looked in.
Behold, not a Turkey was there! Trailing them, she ran and she ran up
the valley to overtake them; but they were far ahead, and it was only
after a long time that she came within the sound of their voices, and
then, redoubling her speed, well-nigh overtook them, when she heard them
singing this song:
“_K‘yaanaa, to! to!
K‘yaanaa, to! to!
Ye ye!
K‘yaanaa, to! to!
K‘yaanaa, to! to!
Yee huli huli!_
“_Hon awen Tsita
Itiwanakwïn
Otakyaan aaa kyaa;
Lesna akyaaa
Shoya-k‘oskwi
Teyäthltokwïn
Hon aawani!_
“_Ye yee huli huli,
Tot-tot, tot-tot, tot-tot,
Huli huli!
Tot-tot, tot-tot, tot-tot,
Huli huli!_”[3]
[3] This, like all the folk-songs, is difficult of translation;
and that which is given is only approximate.
“Up the river, _to! to!_
Up the river, _to! to!_
Sing _ye ye!_
Up the river, _to! to!_
Up the river, _to! to!_
Sing _yee huli huli!_
“Oh, our maiden mother
To the Middle Place
To dance went away;
Therefore as she lingers,
To the Cañon Mesa
And the plains above it
We all run away!
“Sing _ye yee huli huli,
Tot-tot, tot-tot, tot-tot,
Huli huli!
Tot-tot, tot-tot, tot-tot,
Huli huli!_”
Hearing this, the maiden called to her Turkeys; called and called in
vain. They only quickened their steps, spreading their wings to help
them along, singing the song over and over until, indeed, they came to
the base of the Cañon Mesa, at the borders of the Zuñi Mountains. Then
singing once more their song in full chorus, they spread wide their
wings, and _thlakwa-a-a, thlakwa-a-a_, they fluttered away over the
plains above.
The poor Turkey girl threw her hands up and looked down at her dress.
With dust and sweat, behold! it was changed to what it had been, and she
was the same poor Turkey girl that she was before. Weary, grieving, and
despairing, she returned to Mátsaki.
* * * * *
Thus it was in the days of the ancients. Therefore, where you see the
rocks leading up to the top of Cañon Mesa (Shoya-k‘oskwi), there are
the tracks of turkeys and other figures to be seen. The latter are the
song that the Turkeys sang, graven in the rocks; and all over the plains
along the borders of Zuñi Mountains since that day turkeys have been
more abundant than in any other place.
After all, the gods dispose of men according as men are fitted; and if
the poor be poor in heart and spirit as well as in appearance, how will
they be aught but poor to the end of their days?
Thus shortens my story.
[Illustration: {Pottery containers}]
[Illustration: ZUÑI FROM THE SOUTH
Photo by A. C. Vroman]
HOW THE SUMMER BIRDS CAME
In the days of the ancients, in the town under Thunder Mountain called
K’iákime, there lived a most beautiful maiden. But one thing which
struck the people who knew her was that she seldom came forth from her
room, or went out of her house; never seemed to care for the people
around her, never seemed to care to see the young men when they were
dancing.
Now, this was the way of it. Through the roof of her room was a little
skylight, open, and when it rained, one of the Gods of the Rain
descended in the rain-drops and wooed this maiden, and married her all
unknown to her people; so that she was in his company every time it
rained, and when the dew fell at night, on his ladder of water
descending he came, and she was very happy, and cared not for the
society of men. By-and-by, behold! to the utter surprise of the people,
whose eyes could not see this god, her husband, there was a little boy
born to her.
Now, he was the child of the gods, and, therefore, before he was many
days old, he had begun to run about and speak, and had wonderful
intelligence and wonderful strength and vivacity. He was only a month or
two old when he was like a child of five or six or eight years of age,
and he would climb to the house-top and run down into the plaza and out
around the village hunting birds or other small animals. With only his
fingers and little stones for weapons, he never failed to slay and bring
home these little creatures, and his mother’s house was supplied more
than any other house in the town with plumes for sacrifice, from the
birds which he captured in this way.
Finally he observed that the older men of the tribe carried bows and
arrows, and that the arrows went more swiftly and straighter than the
stones he threw; and though he never failed to kill small animals, he
found he could not kill the larger ones in that way. So he said to his
mother one night: “Oh, mother, where does the wood grow that they make
bows of, and where do they get sticks for their arrows? I wish you would
tell me.”
But the mother was quite silent; she didn’t like to tell him, for she
thought it would lead him away from the town and something would happen
to him. But he kept questioning her until at last, weary with his
importunities, she said: “Well, my little boy, if you go round the cliff
here to the eastern side, there is a great hollow in the rocks, and down
at the bottom of that hollow is a great cave. Now, around that shelter
in the rocks are growing the trees out of which bows are made, and there
also grow the bushes from which arrows are cut; they are so plentiful
that they could supply the whole town, and furnish all the hunters here
with bows and arrows; but they cannot get them, because in the cave
lives a great Bear, a very savage being, and no one dares go near there
to get timber for the bows or sticks for the arrows, because the Bear
would surely devour whoever ventured there. He has devoured many of our
people; therefore you must not go there to get these arrows.”
“No, indeed,” said the boy. But at night he lay down with much in his
mind, and was so thoughtful that he hardly slept the whole night. He was
planning what he would do in the morning.
The next morning his mother was busy about her work, and finally she
went down to the spring for some water, and the little boy slipped out
of the house, ran down the ladder, went to the river-side, stooped down,
and crawled along the bank of the river, until he could get around on
the side of the cliff where the little valley of the spring that flows
under Thunder Mountain lies. There he climbed up and up until he came to
the shelter in the rocks round on the eastern side of Thunder Mountain.
The mouth of this hollow was entirely closed with fine yellow-wood and
oak, the best timber we have for bows, and straight sprouts were growing
everywhere out of which arrows could be made.
“Ah, this must be the place,” said the boy, as he looked at it. “I don’t
see any Bear. I think I will climb up and see if there is anything to be
afraid of, and try if I can cut a stick before the Bear comes out.”
He started and climbed into the mouth of the cavern, and his father, one
of the Gods of the Rain, threw a tremendous shaft of lightning, and it
thundered, and the cave closed together.
“Ha!” cried the boy. “What in the world is the meaning of this?” Then
he stood there a moment, and presently the clouds finished and the cave
opened, and all was quiet. He started to go in once more, and down came
the lightning again, to remind him that he should not go in there.
“Ha!” cried the boy again. “What in the world does it mean?” And he
rubbed his eyes,--it had rather stunned him,--and so soon as it had
cleared away he tried again, and again for the fourth time.
Finally the god said, “Ah! I have reminded him and he does not heed. He
must go his own way.” So the boy climbed into the cave.
No sooner had he got in than it began to get dark, and _Wah!_ came the
Bear on his hind legs and grabbed the boy and began to squeeze him very
tight.
“O my! O my!” cried he. “Don’t squeeze me so hard! It hurts; don’t
squeeze me so hard! My mother is one of the most beautiful women you
ever saw!”
“Hollo!” exclaimed the Bear. “What is that you say?”
“My mother is one of the most beautiful women you ever saw!”
“Indeed!” said the Bear, as he relaxed his hold. “My son, sit down. What
did you come to my house for? I am sure you are very welcome.”
“Why,” said the boy, “I came to get a piece of wood for a bow and sticks
for arrows.”
Said the Bear, “I have looked out for this timber for a long time.
There is none better in the whole country. Let me tell you what I will
do. You don’t look very strong. You haven’t anything to cut the trees
down with. I will go myself and cut down a tree for you. I will pick out
a good one for a bow; not only that, but I will get fine sticks for
arrows, too.”
So he stalked off into the forest, and crack, crack, he smashed the
trees down, and, picking out a good one, gnawed off the ends of it and
brought it to the boy, then gathered a lot of fine straight sticks for
arrow-shafts and brought them.
“There,” said he, “take those home. Do you know how to make a bow, my
son?”
“No, I don’t very well,” replied he.
“Well,” said the Bear, “I have cut off the ends; make it about that
length. Now take it home, and shave down the inside until it is thin
enough to bend quickly at both ends, and lay it over the coals of fire
so it will get hard and dry. That is the way to make a good bow.”
“All right,” said the boy; and as he took up the bundle of sticks and
the stave for the bow, he said: “Just come along toward night and I will
introduce you to my mother.”
“All right,” said the old Bear; “I will be along just about sunset. Then
I can look at your bow and see whether you have made it well or not.”
So the boy trudged home with his bundle of sticks and his bow stave, and
when he arrived there his mother happened to be climbing out, and saw
him coming.
“You wretched boy,” she said, “I told you not to go out to the cave! I
warrant you have been there where the Bear stays!”
“Oh, yes, my mother; just see what I have brought,” said the boy. “I
sold you to the Bear. He will be here to get you this evening. See what
I have brought!” and he laid out his bow-timber and arrow-shafts.
“Oh,” said she, “you are the most wretched and foolish of little boys;
you pay no attention to what any one says to you; your mother’s word is
nothing but wind in your ears.”
“Just see what I have brought home,” said he. He worked as hard as he
could to make his bow, stripped the arrow-shafts, smoothed and
straightened them before the fire, and made the points of obsidian--very
black it is; very hard and sharp were the points when he placed them on
the arrows. Now, after placing the feathers on the arrows, he stood them
up on the roof of the house against the parapet in the sunlight to dry;
and he had his bow on the other side of the house against the other
parapet to dry. He was still at work, toward sunset, when he happened to
look up and saw the Bear coming along, slowly, comfortably, rolling over
the sand.
“Ah!” said he, “the old man is coming.” He paid no attention to him,
however.
Presently the Bear came close to the ladder, and shook it to see if it
was strong enough to hold him.
“Thou comest?” asked the boy.
“Yes,” said the Bear. “How have you been all day?”
“Happy,” said the boy.
“How is your mother?”
“Happy,” said the boy, “expecting you.”
So the old Bear climbed up. “Ah, indeed,” said he, as he got over the
edge of the house, “have you made the bow?”
“Yes, after a fashion.”
So the Bear went over, raised himself on his hind feet, looked at the
bow, pulled it, and said, as he laid it down: “It is a splendid bow.
What is this black stuff on these arrows?”
“Obsidian,” answered the boy.
“These points are nothing but black coals,” said the Bear.
“I tell you,” said the boy, “they are good, black, flint arrow-heads,
hard and sharp as any others.”
“No,” said the other, “nothing but coals.”
“Now, suppose you let me try one of those coals on you,” said the boy.
“All right,” said the Bear. He walked over to the other side of the roof
and stood there, and the boy took one of the arrows, fitted it to the
bow, and let go. It went straight into the heart of the Bear, and even
passed through him entirely.
“Wah!” uttered the Bear, as he gave a great snort and rolled over on the
house-top and died.
“Ha, ha!” shouted the boy, “what you had intended to do unto me, thus
unto you! Oh, mother!” called he, as he ran to the sky-hole, “here is
your husband; come and see him. I have killed him; but, then, he would
have me make the experiment,” said the boy.
“Oh, you foolish, foolish, disobedient boy!” said the mother. “What have
you been doing now? Are we safe?”
“Oh, yes,” said he; “my step-father is as passive as if he were asleep.”
And he went on and skinned his once prospective step-father, and then
took out his heart and hung it to the cross-piece of the ladder as a
sign that the people could go and get all the bow-timber and arrows they
pleased.
That night, after the evening meal was over, the boy sat down with his
mother, and he said: “By the way, mother, are there any monsters or
fearful creatures anywhere round about this country that kill people and
make trouble?”
“No,” said the mother, “none whatever.”
“I don’t know about that; I think there must be,” said the boy.
“No, there are none whatever, I tell you,” answered the mother.
The boy began to tumble on the floor, rolling about, playing with his
mother’s blankets, and throwing things around, and once in a while he
would ask her again the same question, until finally she got very cross
with him and said: “Yes, if you want to know, down there in the valley,
beyond the great plains of sagebrush, is a den of _Misho_ Lizards who
are fearful and deadly to every one who goes near them. Therefore you
had better be careful how you run round the valley.”
“What makes them so fearful?” asked he.
“Well,” said she, “they are venomous; they have a way of throwing from
their mouths or breath a sort of fluid which, whenever it strikes a
person, burns him, and whenever it strikes the eyes it blinds them. A
great many people have perished there. Whenever a man arrives at their
den they are very polite and greet him most courteously; they say: ‘Come
in; sit down right here in the middle of the floor before the fire.’ But
as soon as the person is seated in their house they gather round the
walls and throw this venom on him, and he dies almost immediately.”
“Is it possible?” responded the little boy; and for some reason or other
he began to grow sleepy, and said: “Now, let us go to sleep, mother.”
So he lay down and slept. Just as soon as it was light the next morning
he aroused himself, dressed, took his bow and arrows, and, placing them
in a corner near the ladder, said: “Oh, mother, give me my breakfast; I
want to go and shoot some little birds. I would like to have some
roasted birds for dinner.”
She gave him his breakfast as quickly as she could, and he ran down the
ladder and went to shooting at the birds, until he happened to see that
his mother and others were out of sight; then he skulked into the
sagebrush and went as straight as he could for the den of the _Misho_
Lizards. There happened to be two young ones sunning themselves outside,
and they said:
“Ah, my fine little fellow, glad to see you this morning. Come in, come
in; the old ones will be very much pleased to entertain you. Come in!”
“Thank you,” said the boy. He walked in, but he felt under his coat to
see if a huge lump of rock salt he had was still there.
“Sit right down here,” said the old people. The whole den was filled
with these _Misho_ Lizards, and they were excessively polite, every one
of them.
The boy sat down, and the old _Misho_ said to the young ones: “Hurry up,
now; be quick!” And they began to throw their venom at him, and
continued until he was all covered with it; but, knowing beforehand, and
being the child of the gods, he was prepared and protected, and it did
him no harm.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the boy. “I will do the same thing.” Then
he pulled out the salt and pushed it down into the fire, where it
exploded and entirely used up the whole council of _Misho_ Lizards.
“There!” cried the boy. “Thus would you have done unto me, thus unto
you.”
He took two fine ones and cut out their hearts, then started for home.
When he arrived there, he climbed the ladder and suspended the two
hearts beside that of the Bear and went down into the house, saying,
“Well, mother, is dinner ready?”
“There now,” said she, “I know it. I saw you hang those hearts up. You
have been down there.”
“Yes,” said he, “they are all gone--every solitary one of them.”