by pulling them into the water.
40. _Flying heads._ These are spirits of the storm winds. They are
generally evil characters in stories.
41. _Pygmies._ There are tribes of “little people” living under ground
or in rocky places. They have valuable charms and can be forced to give
them to men. They have a ceremony in which they delight. If men beings
perform this ceremony favor is gained. They like tobacco and nail
parings.
42. _Buffalo one rib._ A magically endowed buffalo kills men. It cannot
be injured by arrows because it has only one rib, a bony plate
protecting its entire body. Vulnerable in the bottom of one foot.
43. _Fast-growing snake._ A boy finds a pretty snake and feeds it. It
grows enormously and soon eats a deer. Game is exhausted and snake goes
after human beings.
44. _White pebble._ A white stone is given magical power and when thrown
at a magical monster hits and kills it.
45. _Flesh-eating water._ The water of a magical lake eats the flesh
from the bones of the unwary. Monsters living in it are immune.
46. _Sudden friend._ Hero in predicament sees a strange person before
him who announces that he is a friend and will help the hero escape.
Tells hero what to do.
COMPONENTS OF THE COSMOLOGICAL MYTH.
1. _Sky world._ A world above the clouds inhabited by transcendent
beings.
2. _Celestial tree._ A wonderful tree in the center of the sky world.
3. _Sky woman._ Falls through hole made by uprooted sky tree and brings
a promised child with her.
4. _Primal turtle._ Rises from sea to receive sky woman.
5. _Earth diver._ Animals dive to secure earth for turtle’s back.
6. _World-tree._ Springs up from root of sky tree brought down by sky
woman. Grows in the “middle of the world.” Flowers of light.
7. _Female first born._ A daughter soon born to the sky woman. Grows to
quick maturity.
8. _Immaculate conception._ Daughter conceives in mysterious manner.
9. _Rival twins._ Twins born to daughter. Warty, flint hearted one,
kills mother at birth. Fair one, the elder, watches her grave and finds
corn, beans, squashes, potatoes and tobacco springing from it. Elder
twin is constructive, younger is destructive.
10. _Hoarded water._ Evil twin causes a great frog to drink all the
water of the earth. Good twin hits it with a stone causing it to
disgorge.
11. _Father search._ Good Minded twin searches for father and finds him
on a great mountain to east.
12. _Son testing._ Good Minded’s father tests him with wind, water, fire
and rock. Good Minded proves sonship and returns to earth island with
bags of animals.
13. _Man making._ Good Minded molds man from clay after reflections seen
in water.
14. _Primal beings return._ Good Minded and grandmother return to sky.
15. _Evil banished._ Evil Minded placed in underground cavern.
III.
THE ATMOSPHERE IN WHICH THE LEGENDS WERE TOLD
Let us journey backward into the forgotten yesterday; let us catch a
fleeting glimpse of a little village along the creek of Doshowey.
It is during the closing year of the Eighteenth Century. The time is in
the moon Nĭsha (January), and the whole earth is covered by a thick
blanket of heavy snow.
There is a deeply worn trail along the bank of the creek, but nobody
walks in the trail, for it is as deeply rutted as it is deeply trodden.
It is not now a road but a trench floored with rough ice and carpeted
with broken patches of snow. Along the sides of the trail, over the
white way, are supplementary and parallel trails that in places spread
wide with the tell-tale mark of snowshoes. Here and there are deep dents
where boys have wrestled and thrown each other into the drifts.
About us are great trees. Back from the creek are areas covered with
tall pines and hemlocks; toward the creek are great deciduous trees
looking gnarled and weather-worn. In the more open spaces are groves of
nut trees, the hickory, the butternut and the walnut. Even in the depth
of winter the region is inviting and suggests happiness and opportunity.
We continue our journey until we come within sight of a little village
of log huts and bark lodges. The huts are rather small and primitive
looking and the lodges for the most part look battered and smoky. Here
and there, however, is a log cabin more sumptuous than the rest, and
there are even bark houses that look comfortable. There seem to be no
streets in this village, for the houses are set in any spot, seemingly,
where the builder chose to erect his dwelling. Stretching in every
direction are little cornfields, stripped of their ears and standing
like ragged wrecks in the wind.
Before we reach the village there is an open space occupying a level
area. Here and there are a score of boys and as many men shouting and
playing games. In an icy trough, made by dragging a log through the snow
for a quarter of a mile or more, the older boys are playing a game of
snowsnake. We find that there are two rival teams, each with twenty-four
long flat pieces of polished wood called “gawasa,” or snowsnakes. The
idea of the game seems to be to find out who can throw a gawasa the
greatest distance.
There is a great shout as one contestant rushes forward holding his
gawasa by the tip and throws it with all his might into the trough. On
it speeds like a living thing, gliding ahead with a slight side to side
movement like a serpent springing forward. At the entrance of the trough
a band of opponents is crying out discouraging remarks, while his own
cheer squad is shouting its confidence and praises. A hundred feet down
the trough an opponent waves his feathered cap over the gawasa as it
speeds by, calling it “a fat woodchuck that cannot run,” while just a
bit beyond, a friend also waves his cap and shouts a cabalistic word of
magic. Finally the gawasa slows down and stops. Two trail markers rush
to the spot and plunge colored sticks into the snow to mark the distance
it has traveled. There is a referee from each team to insure absolute
accuracy. In another moment another gawasa comes darting ahead, its
leaden nose striking the tail of the first, nosing under it and throwing
it out of the track, then speeding onward a score of paces ahead. The
trail markers rush forward with other sticks and there is a great shout
from the winning side.
[Illustration:
THE SNOW SNAKE GAME.—From a drawing by Jesse Cornplanter.
]
Each team keeps its gawasa in leathern cases. A special “snowsnake
doctor” draws out each as it is wanted and carefully wipes it with a
soft fawn-skin, then waxes or oils the snake with some secret compound
designed to make it slip with less friction over the icy path. These
formulae are great secrets and a successful “doctor” is in great demand,
and receives big fees.
We glance over into the square where boys are playing a game of javelins
and hoops. The object, we soon discover, is to pierce the hoop with the
javelins, thus stopping its progress as it rolls onward between the
lines of contestants to its goal. This is also a popular game with the
dogs, especially the puppies, who every now and again dash after the
hoop, much to the disgust of the team throwing it. We hear the cry of
“Sigwah, ahsteh, sigwah!” meaning get out, go away, and then hear the
yelp of the poor pup as it is struck with a javelin, and whimpers away
from this maddened crowd of humans.
In another portion of the field we see a group of large girls playing
football with a small ball stuffed with deer hair. There is a grand
melee as the two “centers” come together and kick at the ball, missing
and striking each other’s shins. There is a peal of laughter as each
falls in the snow from the impact, and rolls over upon the ball which
other eager players strive to extricate with their feet, for their hands
must not touch the ball. The game is a rough-and-tumble one, but no one
is injured, for the kicking feet that fly about so nimbly are clad in
soft-nosed moccasins.
We pass on and leave this scene of winter fun for a more sober group
sitting on logs beneath the pines at the creek bank. It is a group of
older men waiting for the return of a hunting party, and we learn that
soon there is to be a great feast,—in fact a nine-day celebration in
which all the people will participate. Out on the creek we also see
little clusters of men fishing through the ice, and, judging by the
shouts, fishing is good.
It may be well to pause here and carefully note the appearance of the
men. It is not difficult to see that they are Indians. Their coppery red
skins and raven black hair indicate this. Moreover, their dress and
language permits no mistake in our conclusion. One man, more aged than
the rest, is garbed in buckskin from head to foot. His shirt is long and
of a beautiful white tan. About the neck, the chest, the shoulders, the
sides and upon the cuffs there is a rich adornment of porcupine quill
embroidery in various tasteful colors,—red, yellow and white being
predominant. The leggings are of the same soft velvet tan, and
embroidered at the bottoms in a deep cuff of quill work, which extends
up the front in a thin line. Just below each knee is a garter
embroidered with a finer appliqué than the rather coarse quill work.
Close inspection shows it to be long hair from the “bell” of the moose.
It is so flexible that, unlike quill work, it allows the garter to be
tied snugly without stiffness. Beneath the shirt, though it hangs down
nearly to the knees, the edge of a loin-cloth is just seen. Looking down
at his feet you will observe a pair of beautiful moccasins. They are of
the puckered toe type, with a single seam up the center of the foot, the
leather being drawn up in neat puckers to conform to the shape of the
foot. The flaps of the moccasins are also embroidered with quill work,
in a running pattern looking like half circles and above which rise
tendril designs,—looking like the zodiacal sign of Aries. It is the old
man’s cap, however, which interests us most. It is not at all like the
conventional war-bonnet which we have seen in picture and pageant.
Instead it is like a closely fitting cap of fine fur, apparently beaver.
It has a wide band about it, holding it tightly to the head. On the
upper part of this band are close rows of dangling silver cones that
jingle against one another as the old man moves his head. From the
center of the hat rises a spool-like socket into which is inserted a
fine eagle plume, that turns on a spindle within the socket. Around the
spool and fastened to it are clusters of smaller feathers that fluff
over the top of the cap in gay abandon. Across the old man’s breast is a
worsted belt, red in color, and decorated with beads in a most
interesting fashion. About the old man’s waist is a stouter belt of
buckskin, into which is thrust a tomahawk, and from which dangles a pipe
bag. Stooping over, he picks up a pair of overshoes made of woven
cornhusk stuffed with pads of oiled rags and buffalo hair. Looking at
the other men you observe that all have on similar crude looking
over-moccasins, but that most of them are of thick oil-tanned buckskin
leather, instead of cornhusk.
The old man walks away toward the village and we linger a moment to
learn that his name is Jack Berry,[8] and that he is considered an
old-fashioned fellow, but that he commands great respect. We find, in
fact, that the village just ahead is named after him, “Jack Berry’s
Town,” and that it is one of the eight villages of Indians scattered
over the Buffalo Creek tract.
It is now late in the afternoon and the sun is sinking over the forest
to the west. Men and boys, and now and then a small group of women, walk
swiftly toward the village. Some of the men are bending low under heavy
loads of game, trussed up in burden-frames. Several men have strings of
fish and a few men and women have long strings of white corn upon their
shoulders.
Naturally we are hungry after our long journey through the brisk winter
afternoon. We are also ready to sit down by the fire and dry our damp
feet. Where shall we go, who will know us?
Everybody seems to know us, for everybody speaks, saying, “Nyahweh
skanoh, Gyahdasey,” (“I am thankful to see you strong of body, my
friend.”) We stop and talk with one group after another and tell them
that we are strangers, rather tired and very hungry. Everybody smiles
and says, “Yes, that’s so,” but not a soul invites us to supper and
lodging. Our guide smiles at us and finally says, “You may go to any
cabin here, walk in and sit down.” You may take off your shoes and put
on any warm pair of moccasins you find hanging on the wall, you may
pretend that you are dumb, and say nothing. No one will ask you a
question, but every want that you have will be anticipated and every
comfort of the lodge given to you, though it is the only bed as your
couch, the only buffalo robe your cover, and your food the last bowl of
soup. Among the Seneca you are welcome. No matter who you are, you are
an honored guest and welcome to any home you chose to enter. It is for
you to invite yourself to a home and honor it with your presence.
We look about with some concern, for most of the houses are small and
look overcrowded. Finally, since we are in search of knowledge, as well
as amusement and adventure, we choose a very commodious bark long house,
from whose roof we see six fires sending up columns of black smoke. This
place looks as if it might afford us company enough to satisfy our
social inclinations and room enough to stow us away for the night. If we
hesitated a moment we were soon convinced of our good judgment by the
tempting odors of steaming maize puddings and hull-corn hominy, together
with the appetizing smell of venison roasting over hot stones.
We pause at the entry of the lodge and note the wooden effigy of a
bear’s head hanging in the gable of the building. This is a symbol that
clans-folk of the Bear dwell within and that all “Bears” are welcome.
However, as we know that neither Turtles nor Hawks, nor any other
clansman or stranger will be denied admission, we push aside the buffalo
robe that curtains the doorway and enter.
Before us is a vast hall some twenty-four feet wide and eighty feet
long. On either side are low platforms, scarcely more than knee high
from the earthen floor. Above are other platforms, but these are six or
seven feet above and form a roof over the lower platforms. On the latter
we see people lounging, sitting or reclining, as suits their
inclination.
An elderly woman comes forward and greets us, and as she does so,
several men also come forward. Some, dressed in trader’s cloth clothing
grasp our hands in welcome, while an old man, evidently a relic of an
older day, places his hands on our chests and says, “Strength be within
you.” This we learn is the old Indian way of greeting, in the days
before hand-shaking came into vogue.
Some one points out an unoccupied seat filled with robes and we are
invited to place our luggage on the platform above. From a long pole,
hanging from the beams that form the roof supports, hang braids of corn,
forming a curtain that nearly makes our loft inaccessible. As we push
our pack basket well toward the center of the platform we hear a squeal,
and a seven-year-old boy who has been sleeping there on a pile of pelts
darts over the corn pole and swings himself to the floor.
The whole building is replete with stores of food, and besides the corn,
we see large quantities of smoked meat, dried fish, dried pumpkins and
squashes and dried herbs of various kinds. The center of the lodge is a
broad aisle and at every eight paces there is a fireplace on the floor,
the smoke from which rises to the roof and escapes through large
rectangular holes made by leaving off the bark roofing.
We join a group of men and learn from their conversation that they are
discussing the great war of the white men, in which the Thirteen Fires
overcame the British King. Alas, these Indians had fought for the King
and as a punishment a mighty general had come against them with a
cannon, burning their villages on the Genesee and sending them
terror-stricken to their red-coated allies at Fort Niagara. Here they
had endured a terrible winter of privation during which time hundreds
died of disease, starvation and freezing. The British King had not done
well by them and his agents had deceived them. It was Town Destroyer
(Washington) who was their real friend, for it was he who said they
might remain in their ancient seats. So here they were on Buffalo Creek,
in the land of the Wenroe and the Neutral, peoples whom they had
conquered a century and a half ago. Here was their refuge, but the
contrast between this and their former secure position on the Genesee
had disheartened them. The war and the flight had disorganized them,
their old ideals had been broken, and the only safety seemed to be to
avoid the white man. He brought all this trouble and his traders brought
the fire water that made the young men crazy. He had brought a new
religion too, and many of the villagers of the Buffalo tract had been
converted to it and were trying to live in accordance with its
teachings. Some of the men thought that this spoke the doom of the
Indian race, while others thought it would be better to offset this
movement by embracing the religion of Handsome Lake, a sachem from
Allegany who was now preaching temperance and morality among the Indians
at Allegany. Most of the men, however, thought that it was best to avoid
all new schemes and philosophies. “The old way is the best,” we hear
them say. “In the old way we know just where we stand. We are familiar
with the methods of the old way: the new way has not been tried.”
Then someone says, “Jack Berry is going to go over to Handsome Lake.
Maybe this is the right way. He is an intelligent man and his father was
a white man, though he is more Indian than any of us in his manners and
speech.”
Long the discussion goes on, and embraces one topic after another. There
is nothing to do but to talk and this soon grows tiresome, for the same
old topics are worn threadbare. Brains that are hungry for new ideas and
for facts find no food. The mental life of the people, we quickly
discover, is circumscribed. The people crave stimulation; of physical
stimulation they have plenty, but of mental stimulation there is little
indeed. This is one of the reasons why in the old days the men went on
long tedious hunts, sought adventure, went on war parties, and played
the game of death. “Better to die in the hurricane like a young oak that
has been broken in the gale,” said they, “than to die because rot has
set in and eaten up the heart.”
Here among the discouraged and broken people of the Buffalo tract,
bitterness gnawed at every heart, and there was a sense of having been
overwhelmed by some irresistible force. The people craved amusement,
excitement, and the stimulation of the imagination. It was because of
the lack of healthful means to procure these things that the men gambled
so much, and drank the traders’ rum.
The evening meal is now ready and we find that the matron of our fire is
dipping our hull-corn hominy. Everybody grabs a bark dish and some take
out neatly carved wooden bowls. These are filled with the hominy and the
group begins to eat, dipping the steaming corn with wooden spoons of
large size. Now comes the meat portion, and each person is given from
one to three pounds of roasted venison. This we eat with boiled corn
bread, dipping the bread into a bowl of grease that is passed about
among us. We have no forks, and the only thing that resembles one is a
sharpened splinter of bone. We have our knives, however, and the meat is
cut by holding it with the hands. If our greasy fingers bother us we
have a box of corn husks upon which to wipe them. We then cast our
“napkins” into the fire. At the close of the meal we receive bowls of
“onegadaiyeh,” or hot fluid, which we find to be a fragrant tea made
from the tips of hemlock boughs mixed with a dash of sassafras. Those
who do not like this drink are given wintergreen “tea” sweetened with
maple sugar. As we drink our tea a bright-eyed maiden brings us a bark
tray with generous slices of sugar-nut bread, made by molding white corn
flour with pulverized maple sugar into which is mixed hickory and
hazel-nut meats, the whole being molded into a cake held into shape by
husks, and then boiled until done. Everyone exclaims, “Oguhoh,” meaning
“Delicious.”
[Illustration:
A BARK COMMUNAL HOUSE
From a drawing by Jesse Cornplanter, son of Chief Edward Cornplanter.
There were houses similar to this along Buffalo Creek as late as
1838.
]
The house is full of men, women and children. To each child there is a
dog,—and a mighty well-behaved dog. Though they sit on their haunches
looking hungry indeed, not one ventures near the mat or bench where the
food is placed. Patiently they await a scrap of meat or a bone as it is
thrown to them.
One is impressed with the various costumes of the throng. Some are
dressed in military coats, some wear red flannel shirts made in coat
style, with the flaps worn outside, some wear leather leggings, and some
have cloth or buckskin trousers. Some of the women, as well as the men,
wear tall beaver hats with silver bands around them. Everybody wears a
blanket. Some are red, some are green or yellow, but nearly all wear
gray or blue blankets. The women have especially fine blankets of blue
broadcloth, beautifully beaded in floral patterns at the corners, and
having geometrical designs around the borders. Only a few of the men
wear boots, the majority wearing the ancestral moccasin. The skirts of
the women are of broadcloth, beaded like the blankets, though several of
the matrons have skirts of buckskin. The women wear pantalets, with
beaded or quilled bottoms. They also wear small head shawls, and their
hair is neatly braided. The maidens wear two braids, but the married
women wear one, looped up behind and tied with a ribbon or a quilled
strip of soft doeskin.
The house looks gloomy inside, for it is rather smoky, but the
liveliness of the children and the puppies makes up for the darkened
interior. If one does not wish to be walked over he had better crawl up
on his bed and make himself comfortable in a buffalo robe. At best the
lodge only shuts out the wind, and the fires add but little warmth. With
the abundance of fresh air one does not feel oppressed by the numerous
people on every hand. No one in this dwelling has that unhappy disease
that infects the dwellers in the tight and warm log houses,—the disease
that eats the lungs and makes people fade away like ghosts of their real
selves. The abundance of fresh air and the creosote from the smoke,
together with exercise out of doors in the sunshine, makes these
dwellers in the long bark house lively and healthy.
Again the men fall into groups about the fire, and again they talk of
the events about them. One tells of a British agent who wants the
Indians to come over to Canada and dwell with their brethren who
followed Chief Brant to the Grand River after the war. A Mohawk Sachem
had been with the British agent and had confirmed his description of the
beautiful land on the other side of the Niagara, where the Iroquois
Confederacy might once more rise from its ashes and become a great
power. They had found but few followers, however, for the Buffalo Seneca
were loyal to the memory of Washington, the great White Father, who just
a month ago had died. “We are now the children of Town Destroyer,” the
British agent had been told. “We shall abide here where our fathers
fought. This is their land and though we have been hurt in this conflict
we will not run away, like dogs whipped, and who scamper whimpering to a
hollow log. We shall stay here and be men.” It was in vain that the
agent had appealed to their natural desire for revenge.
As the night grows darker, a shout is heard outside and all the children
run to the door. “Dajoh, dajoh!” they exclaim, and rushing out surround
a tall man of middle age, one taking his hand and leading him in. We can
hear the shout of “Hoskwisäonh, the story teller,—the story teller has
come!”