[Illustration: 9021]
AGOO, the Story-Teller, was seated one evening in his favorite corner,
gazing into the embers of the log fire like one in a dream.
At such a time the children knew better than to interrupt him by
asking questions or teasing him for a story. They knew that Iagoo
was turning over in his mind the strange things he had heard and the
wonderful things he had seen; that the burning logs and red coals took
on curious shapes and made odd pictures that only he could understand,
and that if they did not disturb him he would presently begin to speak.
On this particular evening, however, though they waited patiently and
talked to one another only in low whispers, Iagoo kept on sitting there
as if he were made of stone. They began to fear that he had forgotten
them, and that bed-time would come without a story. So at last little
Morning Glory, who was always asking questions, thought of one she had
never asked before.
"Iagoo!" she said; and then she stopped, fearing to offend him.
At the sound of her voice the old man roused himself, as if his mind had
been away on a long journey into the past.
"What is it, Morning Glory?"
"Iagoo--can you tell me---were the mountains always here?"
The old man looked at her gravely. No matter how hard the question was,
or how unexpected, Iagoo was always glad to answer. He never said: "I'm
too busy, don't bother me," or, "Wait till some other time." So when
Morning Glory
[Illustration: 0000]
asked him this very peculiar question, he nodded his wise old head,
saying:
"Do you know, I've often asked myself that very thing: Were the
mountains always here?"
He paused, and looked once more into the fire, as if the answer was to
be found there if he only looked long enough. At last he spoke again:
"Yes, I think it must be true that the mountains were always here--the
mountains and the hills. They were made when the world was made--a long,
long time ago; and the story of how the world was made you have heard
before. But there is one high hill that was not always here--a hill that
grew like magic, all of a sudden. Did I ever tell you the story of the
Big Rock--how it rose and rose, and carried the little boy and girl up
among the clouds?"
"No, no!" shouted the children in a chorus. "You never told us that one.
Tell it to us now."
And this is the story of the magical Big Rock, as old Iagoo heard it
from his grandfather, who heard it from his great-grandfather, who was
almost old enough to have been there himself when it all happened:
In the days when all animals and men lived on friendly terms, when
Coyote, the prairie wolf, was not a bad sort of fellow when you came to
know him, and even the Mountain Lion would growl pleasantly and pass
you the time of day--there lived in a beautiful valley a little boy and
girl.
[Illustration: 0023]
This valley was a lovely place to live in; never was such a playground
anywhere on earth. It was like a great green carpet stretching for
miles and miles, and when the wind blew upon the long grass it was like
looking at the waves of the sea. Flowers of all colors bloomed in the
beautiful valley, berries grew thick on the bushes, and birds filled the
summer air with their songs.