Glooskap and Malsum
The Algonquin Indians have perhaps a more extensive mythology than the
majority of Indian peoples, and as they have been known to civilization
for several centuries their myths have the advantage of having been
thoroughly examined.
One of the most interesting figures in their pantheon is Glooskap,
which means 'The Liar'; but so far from an affront being intended to
the deity by this appellation, it was bestowed as a compliment to his
craftiness, cunning being regarded as one of the virtues by all savage
peoples.
Glooskap and his brother Malsum, the Wolf, were twins, and from this we
may infer that they were the opposites of a dualistic system, Glooskap
standing for what seems 'good' to the savage, and Malsum for all that
was 'bad.'[1] Their mother died at their birth, and out of her body
Glooskap formed the sun and moon, animals, fishes, and the human race,
while the malicious Malsum made mountains, valleys, serpents, and every
manner of thing which he considered would inconvenience the race of men.
[1] This 'goodness' and 'badness,' however, is purely relative and of
modern origin, such deities, as already explained, being figures in a
light-and-darkness myth.
Each of the brothers possessed a secret as to what would kill him, as
do many other beings in myth and fairy story, notably Liew Llaw Gyffes
in Welsh romance.
Malsum asked Glooskap in what manner he could be killed, and the elder
brother, to try his sincerity, replied that the only way in which his
life could be taken was by the touch of an owl's feather--or, as {142}
some variants of the myth say, by that of a flowering rush. Malsum in
his turn confided to Glooskap that he could only perish by a blow from
a fern-root. The malicious Wolf, taking his bow, brought down an owl,
and while Glooskap slept struck him with a feather plucked from its
wing. Glooskap immediately expired, but to Malsum's chagrin came to
life again. This tale is surprisingly reminiscent of the Scandinavian
myth of Balder, who would only die if struck by a sprig of mistletoe by
his brother Hodur. Like Balder, Glooskap is a sun-god, as is well
proved by the circumstance that when he dies he does not fail to revive.
But Malsum resolved to learn his brother's secret and to destroy him at
the first opportunity. Glooskap had told him subsequently to his first
attempt that only a pine-root could kill him, and with this Malsum
struck him while he slept as before, but Glooskap, rising up and
laughing, drove Malsum into the forest, and seated himself by a stream,
where he murmured, as if musing to himself: "Only a flowering rush can
kill me." Now he said this because he knew that Quah-beet, the Great
Beaver, was hidden among the rushes on the bank of the stream and would
hear every word he uttered. The Beaver went at once to Malsum and told
him what he regarded as his brother's vital secret. The wicked Malsum
was so glad that he promised to give the Beaver whatever he might ask
for. But when the beast asked for wings like a pigeon Malsum burst
into mocking laughter and cried: "Ho, you with the tail like a file,
what need have you of wings?" At this the Beaver was wroth, and, going
to Glooskap, made a clean breast of what he had done. Glooskap, now
thoroughly infuriated, dug up a fern-root, and, rushing into the
recesses of the forest, sought out his treacherous brother and with a
blow of the fatal plant struck him dead.
{143}
Scandinavian Analogies
But although Malsum was slain he subsequently appears in Algonquian
myth as Lox, or Loki, the chief of the wolves, a mischievous and
restless spirit. In his account of the Algonquian mythology Charles
Godfrey Leland appears to think that the entire system has been
sophisticated by Norse mythology filtering through the Eskimo.
Although the probabilities are against such a theory, there are many
points in common between the two systems, as we shall see later, and
among them few are more striking than the fact that the Scandinavian
and Algonquian evil influences possess one and the same name.
When Glooskap had completed the world he made man and the smaller
supernatural beings, such as fairies and dwarfs. He formed man from
the trunk of an ash-tree, and the elves from its bark. Like Odin, he
trained two birds to bring him the news of the world, but their
absences were so prolonged that he selected a black and a white wolf as
his attendants. He waged a strenuous and exterminating warfare on the
evil monsters which then infested the world, and on the sorcerers and
witches who were harmful to man. He levelled the hills and restrained
the forces of nature in his mighty struggles, in which he towered to
giant stature, his head and shoulders rising high above the clouds.
Yet in his dealings with men he was gentle and quietly humorous, not to
say ingenuous.
On one occasion he sought out a giant sorcerer named Win-pe, one of the
most powerful of the evil influences then dwelling upon the earth.
Win-pe shot upward till his head was above the tallest pine of the
forest, but Glooskap, with a god-like laugh, grew till his head reached
the stars, and tapped the wizard {144} gently with the butt of his bow,
so that he fell dead at his feet.
But although he exterminated many monsters and placed a check upon the
advance of the forces of evil, Glooskap did not find that the race of
men grew any better or wiser. In fact, the more he accomplished on
their behalf the worse they became, until at last they reached such a
pitch of evil conduct that the god resolved to quit the world
altogether. But, with a feeling of consideration still for the beings
he had created, he announced that within the next seven years he would
grant to all and sundry any request they might make. A great many
people were desirous of profiting by this offer, but it was with the
utmost difficulty that they could discover where Glooskap was. Those
who did find him and who chose injudiciously were severely punished,
while those whose desires were reasonable were substantially rewarded.
Glooskap's Gifts
Four Indians who won to Glooskap's abode found it a place of magical
delights, a land fairer than the mind could conceive. Asked by the god
what had brought them thither, one replied that his heart was evil and
that anger had made him its slave, but that he wished to be meek and
pious. The second, a poor man, desired to be rich, and the third, who
was of low estate and despised by the folk of his tribe, wished to be
universally honoured and respected. The fourth was a vain man,
conscious of his good looks, whose appearance was eloquent of conceit.
Although he was tall, he had stuffed fur into his moccasins to make him
appear still taller, and his wish was that he might become bigger than
any man of his tribe and that he might live for ages.
{145}
Glooskap drew four small boxes from his medicine-bag and gave one to
each, desiring that they should not open them until they reached home.
When the first three arrived at their respective lodges each opened his
box, and found therein an unguent of great fragrance and richness, with
which he rubbed himself. The wicked man became meek and patient, the
poor man speedily grew wealthy, and the despised man became stately and
respected. But the conceited man had stopped on his way home in a
clearing in the woods, and, taking out his box, had anointed himself
with the ointment it contained. His wish also was granted, but not
exactly in the manner he expected, for he was changed into a pine-tree,
the first of the species, and the tallest tree of the forest at that.
Glooskap and the Baby
Glooskap, having conquered the Kewawkqu', a race of giants and
magicians, and the Medecolin, who were cunning sorcerers, and Pamola, a
wicked spirit of the night, besides hosts of fiends, goblins,
cannibals, and witches, felt himself great indeed, and boasted to a
certain woman that there was nothing left for him to subdue.
But the woman laughed and said: "Are you quite sure, Master? There is
still one who remains unconquered, and nothing can overcome him."
In some surprise Glooskap inquired the name of this mighty individual.
"He is called Wasis," replied the woman; "but I strongly advise you to
have no dealings with him."
Wasis was only the baby, who sat on the floor sucking a piece of
maple-sugar and crooning a little song to himself. Now Glooskap had
never married and was quite ignorant of how children are managed, {146}
but with perfect confidence he smiled to the baby and asked it to come
to him. The baby smiled back to him, but never moved, whereupon
Glooskap imitated the beautiful song of a certain bird. Wasis,
however, paid no heed to him, but went on sucking his maple-sugar.
Glooskap, unaccustomed to such treatment, lashed himself into a furious
rage, and in terrible and threatening accents ordered Wasis to come
crawling to him at once. But Wasis burst into direful howling, which
quite drowned the god's thunderous accents, and for all the
threatenings of the deity he would not budge. Glooskap, now thoroughly
aroused, brought all his magical resources to his aid. He recited the
most terrible spells, the most dreadful incantations. He sang the
songs which raise the dead, and which sent the devil scurrying to the
nethermost depths of the pit. But Wasis evidently seemed to think this
was all some sort of a game, for he merely smiled wearily and looked a
trifle bored. At last Glooskap in despair rushed from the hut, while
Wasis, sitting on the floor, cried, "Goo, goo," and crowed
triumphantly. And to this day the Indians say that when a baby cries
"Goo" he remembers the time when he conquered the mighty Glooskap.
[Illustration: "Glooskap brought all his magical resources to his aid"]
Glooskap's Farewell
At length the day on which Glooskap was to leave the earth arrived, and
to celebrate the event he caused a great feast to be made on the shores
of Lake Minas. It was attended by all the animals, and when it drew to
a close Glooskap entered his great canoe and slowly drifted out of
sight. When they could see him no longer they still heard his
beautiful singing growing fainter and fainter in the distance, until at
last it died away altogether. Then a strange thing happened. {147}
The beasts, who up to this time had spoken but one language, could no
longer understand each other, and in confusion fled away, never again
to meet in friendly converse until Glooskap shall return and revive the
halcyon days of the Golden Age.
This tradition of Glooskap strikingly recalls that of the Mexican god
Quetzalcoatl, who drifted from the shores of Mexico eastward toward the
fabled land of Tlapallan, whence he had originally come. Glooskap,
like the Mexican deity alluded to, is, as has already been indicated, a
sun-god, or, more properly speaking, a son of the sun, who has come to
earth on a mission of enlightenment and civilization, to render the
world habitable for mankind and to sow the seeds of the arts, domestic
and agricultural. Quetzalcoatl disappeared toward the east because it
was the original home of his father, the sun, and not toward the west,
which is merely the sun's resting-place for the night. But Glooskap
drifted westward, as most sun-children do.
How Glooskap Caught the Summer
A very beautiful myth tells how Glooskap captured the Summer. The form
in which it is preserved is a kind of poetry possessing something in
the nature of metre, which until a few generations ago was recited by
many Algonquian firesides. A long time ago Glooskap wandered very far
north to the Ice-country, and, feeling tired and cold, sought shelter
at a wigwam where dwelt a great giant--the giant Winter. Winter
received the god hospitably, filled a pipe of tobacco for him, and
entertained him with charming stories of the old time as he smoked.
All the time Winter was casting his spell over Glooskap, for as he
talked drowsily and monotonously he gave forth a freezing atmosphere,
so that Glooskap first dozed and then fell {148} into a deep sleep--the
heavy slumber of the winter season. For six whole months he slept;
then the spell of the frost arose from his brain and he awoke. He took
his way homeward and southward, and the farther south he fared the
warmer it felt, and the flowers began to spring up around his steps.
At length he came to a vast, trackless forest, where, under primeval
trees, many little people were dancing. The queen of these folk was
Summer, a most exquisitely beautiful, if very tiny, creature. Glooskap
caught the queen up in his great hand, and, cutting a long lasso from
the hide of a moose, secured it round her tiny frame. Then he ran
away, letting the cord trail loosely behind him.
The Elves of Light
The tiny people, who were the Elves of Light, came clamouring shrilly
after him, pulling frantically at the lasso. But as Glooskap ran the
cord ran out, and pull as they might they were left far behind.
Northward he journeyed once more, and came to the wigwam of Winter.
The giant again received him hospitably, and began to tell the old
stories whose vague charm had exercised such a fascination upon the
god. But Glooskap in his turn began to speak. Summer was lying in his
bosom, and her strength and heat sent forth such powerful magic that at
length Winter began to show signs of distress. The sweat poured
profusely down his face, and gradually he commenced to melt, as did his
dwelling. Then slowly nature awoke, the song of birds was heard, first
faintly, then more clearly and joyously. The thin green shoots of the
young grass appeared, and the dead leaves of last autumn were carried
down to the river by the melting snow. Lastly the fairies came out,
and {149} Glooskap, leaving Summer with them, once more bent his steps
southward.
This is obviously a nature-myth conceived by a people dwelling in a
climate where the rigours of winter gave way for a more or less brief
space only to the blandishments of summer. To them winter was a giant,
and summer an elf of pigmy proportions. The stories told during the
winter season are eloquent of the life led by people dwelling in a
sub-arctic climate, where the traditional tale, the father of epic
poetry, whiles away the long dark hours, while the winter tempest roars
furiously without and the heaped-up snow renders the daily occupation
of the hunter impossible.
Glooskap's Wigwam
The Indians say that Glooskap lives far away, no one knows where, in a
very great wigwam. His chief occupation is making arrows, and it would
appear that each of these stands for a day. One side of his wigwam is
covered with arrows, and when his lodge shall be filled with them the
last great day will arrive. Then he will call upon his army of good
spirits and go forth to attack Malsum in a wonderful canoe, which by
magical means can be made to expand so as to hold an army or contract
so that it may be carried in the palm of the hand. The war with his
evil brother will be one of extermination, and not one single
individual on either side will be left. But the good will go to
Glooskap's beautiful abode, and all will be well at last.
The Snow-Lodge
Chill breezes had long forewarned the geese of the coming cold season,
and the constant cry from above of "Honk, honk," told the Indians that
the birds' migration was in progress.
{150}
The buffalo-hunters of the Blackfeet, an Algonquian tribe, were abroad
with the object of procuring the thick robes and the rich meat which
would keep them warm and provide good fare through the desolate winter
moons. Sacred Otter had been lucky. Many buffaloes had fallen to him,
and he was busily occupied in skinning them. But while the braves
plied the knife quickly and deftly they heeded not the dun, lowering
clouds heavy with tempest hanging like a black curtain over the
northern horizon. Suddenly the clouds swooped down from their place in
the heavens like a flight of black eagles, and with a roar the blizzard
was upon them.
[Illustration: "He descried a great _tepee_"]
Sacred Otter and his son crouched beneath the carcass of a dead buffalo
for shelter. But the air was frore as water in which the ice is
floating, and he knew that they would quickly perish unless they could
find some better protection from the bitter wind. So he made a small
_tepee_, or tent, out of the buffalo's hide, and both crawled inside.
Against this crazy shelter the snow quickly gathered and drifted, so
that soon the inmates of the tiny lodge sank into a comfortable drowse
induced by the gentle warmth. As Sacred Otter slept he dreamed. Away
in the distance he descried a great _tepee_, crowned with a colour like
the gold of sunlight, and painted with a cluster of stars symbolic of
the North. The ruddy disc of the sun was pictured at the back, and to
this was affixed the tail of the Sacred Buffalo. The skirts of the
_tepee_ were painted to represent ice, and on its side had been drawn
four yellow legs with green claws, typical of the Thunder-bird. A
buffalo in glaring red frowned above the door, and bunches of
crow-feathers, with small bells attached, swung and tinkled in the
breeze.
Sacred Otter, surprised at the unusual nature of the {151} paintings,
stood before the _tepee_ lost in admiration of its decorations, when he
was startled to hear a voice say:
"Who walks round my _tepee_? Come in--come in!"
The Lord of Cold Weather
Sacred Otter entered, and beheld a tall, white-haired man, clothed all
in white, sitting at the back of the lodge, of which he was the sole
occupant. Sacred Otter took a seat, but the owner of the _tepee_ never
looked his way, smoking on in stolid silence. Before him was an
earthen altar, on which was laid juniper, as in the Sun ceremonial.
His face was painted yellow, with a red line in the region of the
mouth, and another across the eyes to the ears. Across his breast he
wore a mink-skin, and round his waist small strips of otter-skin, to
all of which bells were attached. For a long time he kept silence, but
at length he laid down his black stone pipe and addressed Sacred Otter
as follows:
"I am Es-tonea-pesta, the Lord of Cold Weather, and this, my dwelling,
is the Snow-tepee, or Yellow Paint Lodge. I control and send the
driving snow and biting winds from the Northland. You are here because
I have taken pity upon you, and on your son who was caught in the
blizzard with you. Take this Snow-tepee with its symbols and
medicines. Take also this mink-skin tobacco-pouch, this black stone
pipe, and my supernatural power. You must make a _tepee_ similar to
this on your return to camp."
The Lord of Cold Weather then minutely explained to Sacred Otter the
symbols of which he must make use in painting the lodge, and gave him
the songs and ceremonial connected with it. At this juncture Sacred
Otter awoke. He observed that the storm had abated somewhat, and as
soon as it grew fair enough he and his son crawled from their shelter
and tramped home {152} waist-high through the soft snow. Sacred Otter
spent the long, cold nights in making a model of the Snow-tepee and
painting it as he had been directed in his dream. He also collected
the 'medicines' necessary for the ceremonial, and in the spring, when
new lodges were made, he built and painted the Snow-tepee.
The power of Sacred Otter waxed great because of his possession of the
Snow-lodge which the Lord of Cold had vouchsafed to him in dream. Soon
was it proved. Once more while hunting buffalo he and several
companions were caught in a blizzard when many a weary mile from camp.
They appealed to Sacred Otter to utilize the 'medicine' of the Lord of
Cold. Directing that several women and children who were with the
party should be placed on sledges, and that the men should go in
advance and break a passage through the snow for the horses, he took
the mink tobacco-pouch and the black stone pipe he had received from
the Cold-maker and commenced to smoke. He blew the smoke in the
direction whence the storm came and prayed to the Lord of Cold to have
pity on the people. Gradually the storm-clouds broke and cleared and
on every side the blue sky was seen. The people hastened on, as they
knew the blizzard was only being held back for a space. But their camp
was at hand, and they soon reached it in safety.
Never again, however, would Sacred Otter use his mystic power. For he
dreaded that he might offend the Lord of Cold. And who could afford to
do that?
The Star-Maiden
A pretty legend of the Chippeways, an Algonquian tribe, tells how
Algon, a hunter, won for his bride the daughter of a star. While
walking over the prairies he discovered a circular pathway, worn as if
by the tread {153} of many feet, though there were no foot-marks
visible outside its bounds. The young hunter, who had never before
encountered one or these 'fairy rings,' was filled with surprise at the
discovery, and hid himself in the long grass to see whether an
explanation might not be forthcoming. He had not long to wait. In a
little while he heard the sound of music, so faint and sweet that it
surpassed anything he had ever dreamed of. The strains grew fuller and
richer, and as they seemed to come from above he turned his eyes toward
the sky. Far in the blue he could see a tiny white speck like a
floating cloud. Nearer and nearer it came, and the astonished hunter
saw that it was no cloud, but a dainty osier car, in which were seated
twelve beautiful maidens. The music he had heard was the sound of
their voices as they sang strange and magical songs. Descending into
the charmed ring, they danced round and round with such exquisite grace
and abandon that it was a sheer delight to watch them. But after the
first moments of dazzled surprise Algon had eyes only for the youngest
of the group, a slight, vivacious creature, so fragile and delicate
that it seemed to the stalwart hunter that a breath would blow her away.
He was, indeed, seized with a fierce passion for the dainty sprite, and
he speedily decided to spring from the grass and carry her off. But
the pretty creatures were too quick for him. The fairy of his choice
skilfully eluded his grasp and rushed to the car. The others followed,
and in a moment they were soaring up in the air, singing a sweet,
unearthly song. The disconsolate hunter returned to his lodge, but try
as he might he could not get the thought of the Star-maiden out of his
head, and next day, long before the hour of the fairies' arrival, he
lay in the grass awaiting {154} the sweet sounds that would herald
their approach. At length the car appeared. The twelve ethereal
beings danced as before. Again Algon made a desperate attempt to seize
the youngest, and again he was unsuccessful.
"Let us stay," said one of the Star-maidens. "Perhaps the mortal
wishes to teach us his earthly dances." But the youngest sister would
not hear of it, and they all rose out of sight in their osier basket.
Algon's Strategy
Poor Algon returned home more unhappy than ever. All night he lay
awake dreaming of the pretty, elusive creature who had wound a chain of
gossamer round his heart and brain, and early in the morning he
repaired to the enchanted spot. Casting about for some means of
gaining his end, he came upon the hollow trunk of a tree in which a
number of mice gambolled. With the aid of the charms in his
'medicine'-bag he turned himself into one of these little animals,
thinking the fair sisters would never pierce his disguise.
[Illustration: Algon carries the Captured Maiden home to his Lodge]
That day when the osier car descended its occupants alighted and danced
merrily as they were wont in the magic circle, till the youngest saw
the hollow tree-trunk (which had not been there on the previous day)
and turned to fly. Her sisters laughed at her fears, and tried to
reassure her by overturning the tree-trunk. The mice scampered in all
directions, and were quickly pursued by the Star-maidens, who killed
them all except Algon. The latter regained his own shape just as the
youngest fairy raised her hand to strike him. Clasping her in his
arms, he bore her to his village, while her frightened sisters ascended
to their Star-country.
Arrived at his home, Algon married the maiden, and {155} by his
kindness and gentleness soon won her affection. However, her thoughts
still dwelt on her own people, and though she indulged her sorrow only
in secret, lest it should trouble her husband, she never ceased to
lament her lost home.
The Star-Maiden's Escape
One day while she was out with her little son she made a basket of
osiers, like the one in which she had first come to earth. Gathering
together some flowers and gifts for the Star-people, she took the child
with her into the basket, sang the magical songs she still remembered,
and soon floated up to her own country, where she was welcomed by the
king, her father.
Algon's grief was bitter indeed when he found that his wife and child
had left him. But he had no means of following them. Every day he
would go to the magic circle on the prairie and give vent to his
sorrow, but the years went past and there was no sign of his dear ones
returning.
Meanwhile the woman and her son had almost forgotten Algon and the
earth-country. However, when the boy grew old enough to hear the story
he wished to go and see his father. His mother consented, and arranged
to go with him. While they were preparing to descend the Star-people
said:
"Bring Algon with you when you return, and ask him to bring some
feature from every beast and bird he has killed in the chase."
Algon, who had latterly spent almost all his time at the charmed
circle, was overjoyed to see his wife and son come back to him, and
willingly agreed to go with them to the Star-country. He worked very
hard to obtain a specimen of all the rare and curious birds and beasts
in his land, and when at last he had gathered {156} the relics--a claw
of one, a feather of another, and so on--he piled them in the osier
car, climbed in himself with his wife and boy, and set off to the
Star-country.
The people there were delighted with the curious gifts Algon had
brought them, and, being permitted by their king to take one apiece,
they did so. Those who took a tail or a claw of any beast at once
became the quadruped represented by the fragment, and those who took
the wings of birds became birds themselves. Algon and his wife and son
took the feathers of a white falcon and flew down to the prairies,
where their descendants may still be seen.
Cloud-Carrier and the Star-Folk
A handsome youth once dwelt with his parents on the banks of Lake
Huron. The old people were very proud of their boy, and intended that
he should become a great warrior. When he grew old enough to prepare
his 'medicine'-bag he set off into the forest for that purpose. As he
journeyed he grew weary, and lay down to sleep, and while he slept he
heard a gentle voice whisper:
"Cloud-carrier, I have come to fetch you. Follow me."
The young man started to his feet.
"I am dreaming. It is but an illusion," he muttered to himself, as he
gazed at the owner of the soft voice, who was a damsel of such
marvellous beauty that the sleepy eyes of Cloud-carrier were quite
dazzled.
"Follow me," she said again, and rose softly from the ground like
thistledown. To his surprise the youth rose along with her, as lightly
and as easily. Higher they went, and still higher, far above the
tree-tops, and into the sky, till they passed at length through an
opening in the spreading vault, and Cloud-carrier saw that he was in
the country of the Star-people, and that his beautiful guide was no
mortal {157} maiden, but a supernatural being. So fascinated was he by
her sweetness and gentleness that he followed her without question till
they came to a large lodge. Entering it at the invitation of the
Star-maiden, Cloud-carrier found it filled with weapons and ornaments
of silver, worked in strange and grotesque designs. For a time he
wandered through the lodge admiring and praising all he saw, his
warrior-blood stirring at the sight of the rare weapons. Suddenly the
lady cried:
"Hush! My brother approaches! Let me hide you. Quick!"
The young man crouched in a corner, and the damsel threw a richly
coloured scarf over him. Scarcely had she done so when a grave and
dignified warrior stalked into the lodge.
"Nemissa, my dear sister," he said, after a moment's pause, "have you
not been forbidden to speak to the Earth-people? Perhaps you imagine
you have hidden the young man, but you have not." Then, turning from
the blushing Nemissa to Cloud-carrier, he added, good-naturedly:
"If you stay long there you will be very hungry. Come out and let us
have a talk."
The youth did as he was bid, and the brother of Nemissa gave him a pipe
and a bow and arrows. He gave him also Nemissa for his wife, and for a
long time they lived together very happily.
The Star-Country
Now the young man observed that his brother-in-law was in the habit of
going away every day by himself, and feeling curious to know what his
business might be, he asked one morning whether he might accompany him.
The brother-in-law consented readily, and the two {158} set off.
Travelling in the Star-country was very pleasant. The foliage was
richer than that of the earth, the flowers more delicately coloured,
the air softer and more fragrant, and the birds and beasts more
graceful and harmless. As the day wore on to noon Cloud-carrier became
very hungry.
"When can we get something to eat?" he asked his brother-in-law.
"Very soon," was the reassuring reply. "We are just going to make a
repast." As he spoke they came to a large opening, through which they
could see the lodges and lakes and forests of the earth. At one place
some hunters were preparing for the chase. By the banks of a river
some women were gathering reeds, and down in a village a number of
children were playing happily.
"Do you see that boy down there in the centre of the group?" said the
brother of Nemissa, and as he spoke he threw something at the child.
The poor boy fell down instantly, and was carried, more dead than
alive, to the nearest hut.
The Sacrifice
Cloud-carrier was much perplexed at the act of his supernatural
relative. He saw the medicine-men gather round the child and chant
prayers for his recovery.
"It is the will of Manitou," said one priest, "that we offer a white
dog as a sacrifice."
So they procured a white dog, skinned and roasted it, and put it on a
plate. It flew up in the air and provided a meal for the hungry
Cloud-carrier and his companion. The child recovered and returned to
his play.
"Your medicine-men," said Nemissa's brother, "get {159} a great
reputation for wisdom simply because they direct the people to me. You
think they are very clever, but all they do is to advise you to
sacrifice to me. It is I who recover the sick."
Cloud-carrier found in this spot a new source of interest, but at
length the delights of the celestial regions began to pall. He longed
for the companionship of his own kin, for the old commonplace pastimes
of the Earth-country. He became, in short, very homesick, and begged
his wife's permission to return to earth. Very reluctantly she
consented.
"Remember," she said, "that I shall have the power to recall you when I
please, for you will still be my husband. And above all do not marry
an Earth-woman, or you will taste of my vengeance."
The young man readily promised to respect her injunctions. So he went
to sleep, and awoke a little later to find himself lying on the grass
close by his father's lodge. His parents greeted him joyfully. He had
been absent, they told him, for more than a year, and they had not
hoped to see him again.
The remembrance of his sojourn among the Star-people faded gradually to
a dim recollection. By and by, forgetting the wife he had left there,
he married a young and handsome woman belonging to his own village.
Four days after the wedding she died, but Cloud-carrier failed to draw
a lesson from this unfortunate occurrence. He married a third wife.
But one day he was missing, and was never again heard of. His
Star-wife had recalled him to the sky.
The Snow-Man Husband
In a northern village of the Algonquins dwelt a young girl so
exquisitely beautiful that she attracted hosts of admirers. The fame
of her beauty spread far {160} and wide, and warriors and hunters
thronged to her father's lodge in order to behold her. By universal
consent she received the name of 'Handsome.' One of the braves who was
most assiduous in paying her his addresses was surnamed 'Elegant,'
because of the richness of his costume and the nobility of his
features. Desiring to know his fate, the young man confided the secret
of his love for Handsome to another of his suitors, and proposed that
they two should that day approach her and ask her hand in marriage.
But the coquettish maiden dismissed the young braves disdainfully, and,
to add to the indignity of her refusal, repeated it in public outside
her father's lodge. Elegant, who was extremely sensitive, was so
humiliated and mortified that he fell into ill-health. A deep
melancholy settled on his mind. He refused all nourishment, and for
hours he would sit with his eyes fixed on the ground in moody
contemplation. A profound sense of disgrace seized upon him, and
notwithstanding the arguments of his relations and comrades he sank
deeper into lethargy. Finally he took to his bed, and even when his
family were preparing for the annual migration customary with the tribe
he refused to rise from it, although they removed the tent from above
his head and packed it up for transport.
The Lover's Revenge
After his family had gone Elegant appealed to his guardian spirit or
totem to revenge him on the maiden who had thus cast him into
despondency. Going from lodge to lodge, he collected all the rags that
he could find, and, kneading snow over a framework of animals' bones,
he moulded it into the shape of a man, which he attired in the tatters
he had gathered, finally covering the whole with brilliant beads and
gaudy feathers so {161} that it presented a very imposing appearance.
By magic art he animated this singular figure, placed a bow and arrows
into its hands, and bestowed on it the name of Moowis.
Together the pair set out for the new encampment of the tribe. The
brilliant appearance of Moowis caused him to be received by all with
the most marked distinction. The chieftain of the tribe begged him to
enter his lodge, and entertained him as an honoured guest. But none
was so struck by the bearing of the noble-looking stranger as Handsome.
Her mother requested him to accept the hospitality of her lodge, which
he duly graced with his presence, but being unable to approach too
closely to the hearth, on which a great fire was burning, he placed a
boy between him and the blaze, in order that he should run no risk of
melting. Soon the news that Moowis was to wed Handsome ran through the
encampment, and the nuptials were celebrated. On the following day
Moowis announced his intention of undertaking a long journey. Handsome
pleaded for leave to accompany him, but he refused on the ground that
the distance was too great and that the fatigues and dangers of the
route would prove too much for her strength. Finally, however, she
overcame his resistance, and the two set out.
A Strange Transformation
A rough and rugged road had to be traversed by the newly wedded pair.
On every hand they encountered obstacles, and the unfortunate Handsome,
whose feet were cut and bleeding, found the greatest difficulty in
keeping up with her more active husband. At first it was bitterly
cold, but at length the sun came out and shone in all his strength, so
that the girl forgot her woes and began to sing gaily. But on the
appearance {162} of the luminary a strange transformation had slowly
overtaken her spouse. At first he attempted to keep in the shade, to
avoid the golden beams that he knew meant death to him, but all to no
purpose. The air became gradually warmer, and slowly he dissolved and
fell to pieces, so that his frenzied wife now only beheld his garments,
the bones that had composed his framework, and the gaudy plumes and
beads with which he had been bedecked. Long she sought his real self,
thinking that some trick had been played upon her; but at length,
exhausted with fatigue and sorrow, she cast herself on the ground, and
with his name on her lips breathed her last. So was Elegant avenged.
The Spirit-Bride
A story is told of a young Algonquin brave whose bride died on the day
fixed for their wedding. Before this sad event he had been the most
courageous and high-spirited of warriors and the most skilful of
hunters, but afterward his pride and his bravery seemed to desert him.
In vain his friends urged him to seek the chase and begged him to take
a greater interest in life. The more they pressed him the more
melancholy he became, till at length he passed most of his time by the
grave of his bride.
[Illustration: Moowis had melted in the Sun]
He was roused from his state of apathy one day, however, by hearing
some old men discussing the existence of a path to the Spirit-world,
which they supposed lay to the south. A gleam of hope shone in the
young brave's breast, and, worn with sorrow as he was, he armed himself
and set off southward. For a long time he saw no appreciable change in
his surroundings--rivers, mountains, lakes, and forests similar to
those of his own country environed him. But after a weary journey of
many days he fancied he saw a {163} difference. The sky was more blue,
the prairie more fertile, the scenery more gloriously beautiful. From
the conversation he had overheard before he set out, the young brave
judged that he was nearing the Spirit-world. Just as he emerged from a
spreading forest he saw before him a little lodge set high on a hill.
Thinking its occupants might be able to direct him to his destination,
he climbed to the lodge and accosted an aged man who stood in the
doorway.
"Can you tell me the way to the Spirit-world?" he inquired.
The Island of the Blessed
"Yes," said the old man gravely, throwing aside his cloak of swan's
skin. "Only a few days ago she whom you seek rested in my lodge. If
you will leave your body here you may follow her. To reach the Island
of the Blessed you must cross yonder gulf you see in the distance. But
I warn you the crossing will be no easy matter. Do you still wish to
go?"
"Oh, yes, yes," cried the warrior eagerly, and as the words were
uttered he felt himself grow suddenly lighter. The whole aspect, too,
of the scene was changed. Everything looked brighter and more
ethereal. He found himself in a moment walking through thickets which
offered no resistance to his passage, and he knew that he was a spirit,
travelling in the Spirit-world. When he reached the gulf which the old
man had indicated he found to his delight a wonderful canoe ready on
the shore. It was cut from a single white stone, and shone and
sparkled in the sun like a jewel. The warrior lost no time in
embarking, and as he put off from the shore he saw his pretty bride
enter just such another canoe as his and imitate all his movements.
Side by side they made for the Island of the Blessed, a {164} charming
woody islet set in the middle of the water, like an emerald in silver.
When they were about half-way across a sudden storm arose, and the huge
waves threatened to engulf them. Many other people had embarked on the
perilous waters by this time, some of whom perished in the furious
tempest. But the youth and maiden still battled on bravely, never
losing sight of one another. Because they were good and innocent, the
Master of Life had decreed that they should arrive safely at the fair
island, and after a weary struggle they felt their canoes grate on the
shore.
Hand in hand the lovers walked among the beautiful sights and sounds
that greeted their eyes and ears from every quarter. There was no
trace of the recent storm. The sea was as smooth as glass and the sky
as clear as crystal. The youth and his bride felt that they could
wander on thus for ever. But at length a faint, sweet voice bade the
former return to his home in the Earth-country.
The Master of Life
"You must finish your mortal course," it whispered softly. "You will
become a great chief among your own people. Rule wisely and well, and
when your earthly career is over you shall return to your bride, who
will retain her youth and beauty for ever."
The young man recognized the voice as that of the Master of Life, and
sadly bade farewell to the woman. He was not without hope now,
however, but looked forward to another and more lasting reunion.
Returning to the old man's lodge, he regained his body, went home as
the gentle voice on the island had commanded him, and became a father
to his people for many years. By his just and kindly rule he won the
hearts of all who knew him, and ensured for himself a {165} safe
passage to the Island of the Blessed, where he arrived at last to
partake of everlasting happiness with his beautiful bride.
Otter-Heart
In the heart of a great forest lay a nameless little lake, and by its
side dwelt two children. Wicked magicians had slain their parents
while they were yet of tender years, and the little orphans were
obliged to fend for themselves. The younger of the two, a boy, learned
to shoot with bow and arrow, and he soon acquired such skill that he
rarely returned from a hunting expedition without a specimen of his
prowess in the shape of a bird or a hare, which his elder sister would
dress and cook.
When the boy grew older he naturally felt the need of some
companionship other than that of his sister. During his long, solitary
journeys in search of food he thought a good deal about the great world
outside the barrier of the still, silent forest. He longed for the
sound of human voices to replace the murmuring of the trees and the
cries of the birds.
"Are there no Indians but ourselves in the whole world?" he would ask
wistfully.
"I do not know," his sister invariably replied. Busying herself
cheerfully about her household tasks, she knew nothing of the strange
thoughts that were stirring in the mind of her brother.
But one day he returned from the chase in so discontented a mood that
his unrest could no longer pass unnoticed. In response to solicitous
inquiries from his sister, he said abruptly:
"Make me ten pairs of moccasins. To-morrow I am going to travel into
the great world."
The girl was much disturbed by this communication, {166} but like a
good Indian maiden she did as he requested her and kept a respectful
silence.
Early on the following morning the youth, whose name was Otter-heart,
set out on his quest. He soon came to a clearing in the forest, but to
his disappointment he found that the tree-stumps were old and rotten.
"It is a long, long time," he said mournfully, "since there were
Indians here."
In order that he might find his way back, he suspended a pair of
moccasins from the branch of a tree, and continued his journey. Other
clearings he reached in due time, each showing traces of a more recent
occupation than the last, but still it seemed to him that a long time
must have elapsed since the trees were cut down, so he hung up a pair
of moccasins at each stage of his journey, and pursued his course in
search of human beings.
At last he saw before him an Indian village, which he approached with
mingled feelings of pleasure and trepidation, natural enough when it is
remembered that since his early childhood he had spoken to no one but
his sister.
The Ball-Players
On the outskirts of the village some youths of about his own age were
engaged in a game of ball, in which they courteously invited the
stranger to join. Very soon he had forgotten his natural shyness so
far as to enter into the sport with whole-hearted zest and enjoyment.
His new companions, for their part, were filled with astonishment at
his skill and agility, and, wishing to do him honour, led him to the
great lodge and introduced him to their chief.
Now the chief had two daughters, one of whom was {167} surnamed 'The
Good' and the other 'The Wicked.' To the guest the names sounded
rather suggestive, and he was not a little embarrassed when the chief
begged him to marry the maidens.
"I will marry 'The Good,'" he declared.
But the chief would not agree to that.
"You must marry both," he said firmly.
Here was a dilemma for our hero, who had no wish to wed the cross, ugly
sister. He tried hard to think of a way of escape.
"I am going to visit So-and-so," he said at last, mentioning the name
of one of his companions at ball, and he dressed himself carefully as
though he were about to pay a ceremonious visit.
Directly he was out of sight of the chief's lodge, however, he took to
his heels and ran into the forest as hard as he could. Meanwhile the
maidens sat waiting their intended bridegroom. When some hours passed
without there being any signs of his coming they became alarmed, and
set off to look for him.
Toward nightfall the young Otter-heart relaxed his speed. "I am quite
safe now," he thought. He did not know that the sisters had the
resources of magic at their command. Suddenly he heard wild laughter
behind him. Recognizing the shrill voice of The Wicked, he knew that
he was discovered, and cast about for a refuge. The only likely place
was in the branches of a dense fir-tree, and almost as soon as the
thought entered his mind he was at the top. His satisfaction was
short-lived. In a moment the laughter of the women broke out anew, and
they commenced to hew down the tree. But Otter-heart himself was not
without some acquaintance with magic art. Plucking a small fir-cone
from the tree-top, he threw it into the air, jumped astride it, and
rode down {168} the wind for half a mile or more. The sisters,
absorbed in their task of cutting down the tree, did not notice that
their bird was flown. When at last the great fir crashed to the ground
and the youth was nowhere to be seen the pursuers tore their hair in
rage and disappointment.
Otter-Heart's Stratagem
Only on the following evening did they overtake Otter-heart again.
This time he had entered a hollow cedar-tree, the hard wood of which he
thought would defy their axes. But he had under-estimated the energy
of the sisters. In a short time the tree showed the effect of their
blows, and Otter-heart called on his guardian spirit to break one of
the axes.
His wish was promptly gratified, but the other sister continued her
labours with increased energy. Otter-heart now wished that the other
axe might break, and again his desire was fulfilled. The sisters were
at a loss to know what to do.
"We cannot take him by force," said one; "we must take him by subtlety.
Let each do her best, and the one who gets him can keep him."
So they departed, and Otter-heart was free to emerge from his prison.
He travelled another day's journey from the spot, and at last, reaching
a place where he thought he would be safe, he laid down his blanket and
went in search of food. Fortune favoured the hunter, and he shortly
returned with a fine beaver. What was his amazement when he beheld a
handsome lodge where he had left his blanket!
"It must be those women again," he muttered, preparing to fly. But the
light shone so warmly from the lodge, and he was so tired and hungry,
that he conquered his fears and entered. Within he found a {169} tall,
thin woman, pale and hungry-eyed, but rather pretty. Taking the
beaver, she proceeded to cook it. As she did so Otter-heart noticed
that she ate all the best parts herself, and when the meal was set out
only the poorest pieces remained for him. This was so unlike an Indian
housewife that he cast reproaches at her and accused her of greediness.
As he spoke a curious change came over her. Her features grew longer
and thinner. In a moment she had turned into a wolf and slunk into the
forest. It was The Wicked, who had made herself pretty by means of
magic, but could not conceal her voracious nature.
Otter-heart was glad to have found her out. He journeyed on still
farther, laid down his blanket, and went to look for game. This time
several beavers rewarded his skill, and he carried them to the place
where he had left his blanket. Another handsome lodge had been erected
there! More than ever he wanted to run away, but once more his hunger
and fatigue detained him.
[Illustration: "He rode down the wind"]
"Perhaps it is The Good," he said. "I shall go inside, and if she has
laid my blanket near her couch I shall take it for a sign and she shall
become my wife."
The Beaver-Woman
He entered the lodge, and found a small, pretty woman busily engaged in
household duties. Sure enough she had laid his blanket near her couch.
When she had dressed and cooked the beavers she gave the finest morsels
to her husband, who was thoroughly pleased with his wife.
Hearing a sound in the night, Otter-heart awoke, and fancied he saw his
wife chewing birch-bark. When he told her of the dream in the morning
she did not laugh, but looked very serious.
{170}
"Tell me," asked Otter-heart, "why did you examine the beavers so
closely yesterday?"
"They were my relatives," she replied; "my cousin, my aunt, and my
great-uncle."
Otter-heart was more than ever delighted, for the otters, his
totem-kin, and the beavers had always been on very good terms. He
promised never to kill any more beavers, but only deer and birds, and
he and his wife, The Good, lived together very happily for a long time.
The Fairy Wives
Once upon a time there dwelt in the forest two braves, one of whom was
called the Moose and the other the Marten. Moose was a great hunter,
and never returned from the chase without a fine deer or buffalo, which
he would give to his old grandmother to prepare for cooking. Marten,
on the other hand, was an idler, and never hunted at all if he could
obtain food by any other means. When Moose brought home a trophy of
his skill in the hunt Marten would repair to his friend's lodge and beg
for a portion of the meat. Being a good-natured fellow, Moose
generally gave him what he asked for, to the indignation of the old
grandmother, who declared that the lazy creature had much better learn
to work for himself.
"Do not encourage his idle habits," said she to her grandson. "If you
stop giving him food he will go and hunt for himself."
Moose agreed with the old woman, and having on his next expedition
killed a bear, he told the grandmother to hide it, so that Marten might
know nothing of it.
When the time came to cook the bear-meat, however, the grandmother
found that her kettle would not {171} hold water, and remembering that
Marten had just got a nice new kettle, she went to borrow his.
"I will clean it well before I return it," she thought. "He will never
know what I want it for."
But Marten made a very good guess, so he laid a spell on the kettle
before lending it, and afterward set out for Moose's lodge. Looking
in, he beheld a great quantity of bear-meat.
"I shall have a fine feast to-morrow," said he, laughing, as he stole
quietly away without being seen.
On the following day the old grandmother of Moose took the borrowed
kettle, cleaned it carefully, and carried it to its owner. She never
dreamed that he would suspect anything.
"Oh," said Marten, "what a fine kettleful of bear-meat you have brought
me!"
"I have brought you nothing," the old woman began in astonishment, but
a glance at her kettle showed her that it was full of steaming
bear-meat. She was much confused, and knew that Marten had discovered
her plot by magic art.
Moose Demands a Wife
Though Marten was by no means so brave or so industrious as Moose, he
nevertheless had two very beautiful wives, while his companion had not
even one. Moose thought this rather unfair, so he ventured to ask
Marten for one of his wives. To this Marten would not agree, nor would
either of the women consent to be handed over to Moose, so there was
nothing for it but that the braves should fight for the wives, who, all
unknown to their husband, were fairies. And fight they did, that day
and the next and the next, till it grew to be a habit with them, and
they fought as regularly as they slept.
{172}
In the morning Moose would say: "Give me one of your wives." "Paddle
your own canoe," Marten would retort, and the fight would begin. Next
morning Moose would say again: "Give me one of your wives." "Fish for
your own minnows," the reply would come, and the quarrel would be
continued with tomahawks for arguments.
"Give me one of your wives," Moose persisted.
"Skin your own rabbits!"
Meanwhile the wives of Marten had grown tired of the perpetual
skirmishing. So they made up their minds to run away. Moose and
Marten never missed them: they were too busy righting.
All day the fairy wives, whose name was Weasel, travelled as fast as
they could, for they did not want to be caught. But when night came
they lay down on the banks of a stream and watched the stars shining
through the pine-branches.
"If you were a Star-maiden," said one, "and wished to marry a star,
which one would you choose?"
"I would marry that bright little red one," said the other. "I am sure
he must be a merry little fellow."
"I," said her companion, "should like to marry that big yellow one. I
think he must be a great warrior." And so saying she fell asleep.
The Red Star and the Yellow Star
When they awoke in the morning the fairies found that their wishes were
fulfilled. One was the wife of the great yellow star, and the other
the wife of the little red one.
This was the work of an Indian spirit, whose duty it is to punish
unfaithful wives, and who had overheard their remarks on the previous
night. Knowing that the fulfilment of their wishes would be the best
{173} punishment, he transported them to the Star-country, where they
were wedded to the stars of their choice. And punishment it was, for
the Yellow Star was a fierce warrior who frightened his wife nearly out
of her wits, and the Red Star was an irritable old man, and his wife
was obliged to wait on him hand and foot. Before very long the fairies
found their life in the Star-country exceedingly irksome, and they
wished they had never quitted their home.
Not far from their lodges was a large white stone, which their husbands
had forbidden them to touch, but which their curiosity one day tempted
them to remove. Far below they saw the Earth-country, and they became
sadder and more home-sick than ever. The Star-husbands, whose magic
powers told them that their wives had been disobedient, were not really
cruel or unkind at heart, so they decided to let the fairies return to
earth.
"We do not want wives who will not obey," they said, "so you may go to
your own country if you will be obedient once."
The fairies joyfully promised to do whatever was required of them if
they might return home.
"Very well," the stars replied. "You must sleep to-night, and in the
morning you will wake and hear the song of the chickadee, but do not
open your eyes. Then you will hear the voice of the ground-squirrel;
still you must not rise. The red squirrel also you shall hear, but the
success of our scheme depends on your remaining quiet. Only when you
hear the striped squirrel you may get up."
The Return to Earth
The fairies went to their couch and slept, but their sleep was broken
by impatience. In the morning the {174} chickadee woke them with its
song. The younger fairy eagerly started up, but the other drew her
back.
"Let us wait till we hear the striped squirrel," said she.
When the red squirrel's note was heard the younger fairy could no
longer curb her impatience. She sprang to her feet, dragging her
companion with her. They had indeed reached the Earth-country, but in
a way that helped them but little, for they found themselves in the
topmost branches of the highest tree in the forest, with no prospect of
getting down. In vain they called to the birds and animals to help
them; all the creatures were too busy to pay any attention to their
plight. At last Lox, the wolverine, passed under the tree, and though
he was the wickedest of the animals the Weasels cried to him for help.
"If you will promise to come to my lodge," said Lox, "I will help you."
"We will build lodges for you," cried the elder fairy, who had been
thinking of a way of escape.
"That is well," said Lox; "I will take you down."
While he was descending the tree with the younger of the fairies the
elder one wound her magic hair-string in the branches, knotting it
skilfully, so that the task of undoing it would be no light one. When
she in her turn had been carried to the ground she begged Lox to return
for her hair-string, which, she said, had become entangled among the
branches.
"Pray do not break it," she added, "for if you do I shall have no good
fortune."
The Escape from Lox
Once more Lox ascended the tall pine, and strove with the knots which
the cunning fairy had tied. Meanwhile the Weasels built him a wigwam.
They {175} filled it with thorns and briers and all sorts of prickly
things, and induced their friends the ants and hornets to make their
nests inside. So long did Lox take to untie the knotted hair-string
that when he came down it was quite dark. He was in a very bad temper,
and pushed his way angrily into the new lodge. All the little
creatures attacked him instantly, the ants bit him, the thorns pricked
him, so that he cried out with anger and pain.
The fairies ran away as fast as they could, and by and by found
themselves on the brink of a wide river. The younger sat down and
began to weep, thinking that Lox would certainly overtake them. But
the elder was more resourceful. She saw the Crane, who was ferryman,
standing close by, and sang a very sweet song in praise of his long
legs and soft feathers.
[Illustration: "'Will you carry us over the river?' she asked"]
"Will you carry us over the river?" she asked at length.
"Willingly," replied the Crane, who was very susceptible to flattery,
and he ferried them across the river.
They were just in time. Scarcely had they reached the opposite bank
when Lox appeared on the scene, very angry and out of breath.
"Ferry me across, Old Crooked-legs," said he, and added other still
more uncomplimentary remarks.
The Crane was furious, but he said nothing, and bore Lox out on the
river.
"I see you," cried Lox to the trembling fairies. "I shall have you
soon!"
"You shall not, wicked one," said the Crane, and he threw Lox into the
deepest part of the stream.
The fairies turned their faces homeward and saw him no more.
{176}
The Malicious Mother-in-Law
An Ojibway or Chippeway legend tells of a hunter who was greatly
devoted to his wife. As a proof of his affection he presented her with
the most delicate morsels from the game he killed. This aroused the
jealousy and envy of his mother, who lived with them, and who imagined
that these little attentions should be paid to her, and not to the
younger woman. The latter, quite unaware of her mother-in-law's
attitude, cooked and ate the gifts her husband brought her. Being a
woman of a gentle and agreeable disposition, who spent most of her time
attending to her household duties and watching over her child and a
little orphan boy whom she had adopted, she tried to make friends with
the old dame, and was grieved and disappointed when the latter would
not respond to her advances.
The mother-in-law nursed her grievance until it seemed of gigantic
proportions. Her heart grew blacker and blacker against her son's
wife, and at last she determined to kill her. For a time she could
think of no way to put her evil intent into action, but finally she hit
upon a plan.
One day she disappeared from the lodge, and returned after a space
looking very happy and good-tempered. The younger woman was surprised
and delighted at the alteration. This was an agreeably different
person from the nagging, cross-grained old creature who had made her
life a burden! The old woman repeatedly absented herself from her home
after this, returning on each occasion with a pleased and contented
smile on her wrinkled face. By and by the wife allowed her curiosity
to get the better of her, and she asked the meaning of her
mother-in-law's happiness.
{177}
The Death-Swing
"If you must know," replied the old woman, "I have made a beautiful
swing down by the lake, and always when I swing on it I feel so well
and happy that I cannot help smiling."
The young woman begged that she too might be allowed to enjoy the swing.
"To-morrow you may accompany me," was the reply. But next day the old
woman had some excuse, and so on, day after day, till the curiosity of
her son's wife was very keen. Thus when the elder woman said one day,
"Come with me, and I will take you to the swing. Tie up your baby and
leave him in charge of the orphan," the other complied eagerly, and was
ready in a moment to go with her mother-in-law.
When they reached the shores of the lake they found a lithe sapling
which hung over the water.
"Here is my swing," said the old creature, and she cast aside her robe,
fastened a thong to her waist and to the sapling, and swung far over
the lake. She laughed so much and seemed to find the pastime so
pleasant that her daughter-in-law was more anxious than ever to try it
for herself.
"Let me tie the thong for you," said the old woman, when she had tired
of swinging. Her companion threw off her robe and allowed the leather
thong to be fastened round her waist. When all was ready she was
commanded to swing. Out over the water she went fearlessly, but as she
did so the jealous old mother-in-law cut the thong, and she fell into
the lake.
The old creature, exulting over the success of her cruel scheme,
dressed herself in her victim's clothes and returned to the lodge. But
the baby cried and refused to be fed by her, and the orphan boy cried
too, {178} for the young woman had been almost a mother to him since
his parents had died.
"Where is the baby's mother?" he asked, when some hours had passed and
she did not return.
"At the swing," replied the old woman roughly.
When the hunter returned from the chase he brought with him, as usual,
some morsels of game for his wife, and, never dreaming that the woman
bending over the child might not be she, he gave them to her. The
lodge was dark, for it was evening, and his mother wore the clothes of
his wife and imitated her voice and movements, so that his error was
not surprising. Greedily she seized the tender pieces of meat, and
cooked and ate them.
The heart of the little orphan was so sore that he could not sleep. In
the middle of the night he rose and went to look for his foster-mother.
Down by the lake he found the swing with the thong cut, and he knew
that she had been killed. Crying bitterly, he crept home to his couch,
and in the morning told the hunter all that he had seen.
"Say nothing," said the chief, "but come with me to hunt, and in the
evening return to the shores of the lake with the child, while I pray
to Manitou that he may send me back my wife."
The Silver Girdle