Once upon a time, a young Indian of the Delaware nation, hunting in the
lands which belonged to his tribe, had the good fortune to take captive
an old white owl, who had for his lodge a hollow oak in which he dwelt
with his family. As it was a time of great scarcity among the Indians,
all their late hunts having been singularly unsuccessful, the hunter
determined to kill the owl and make a present of its flesh to the maiden
he loved, who had tasted no food for many suns. As he was rubbing his
knife upon a stone, that it might be sharp and do the murder easily, the
owl, who, with his leg tied to a tree, was looking on with a very
curious and knowing air, turning his head first one way and then another,
now scratching it with his untied claw and now shaking it as the beams
of the sun came into his eyes, asked him what he was doing. The young
hunter, who, being a good and brave warrior, scorned to tell a lie(1)
even to an owl, answered that he was making ready to cut off his head.
"Poh, poh," said the cunning old fellow, "if you kill me, what will my
wife, and my daughters, and my little ones, do? My woman is old and
blind, and the rest are but so-so. Who will catch mice for them, pray?"
"They will be adopted into other families, I suppose," answered the
hunter, "or the old woman will get another husband."
"Such may be the Indian custom," said the owl, "but it is not the custom
of my nation. Besides, the woman is so old and ugly that the Evil One
would not take her for a second wife. No, no, if you take my life, the
little ones will starve. Their eyes are very weak in the day time, and
they are too young and shy to go out by night. If you kill me they will
starve," repeated the owl.
"I am very hungry," said the hunter. "Neither fish nor flesh has been
taken by my nation for many days; the maiden whom I love is dying for
want of food. You would be a nice dish for her."
"Old and tough, old and tough," said the owl, winking very knowingly.
"But does not the Lenape hunter know that there are things to be worse
feared than death? The warrior should fear captivity and disgrace before
the evils of an unsatisfied appetite."
"The Delawares are men," said the hunter, proudly. "They are the masters
of the earth, they are never captured. They will themselves take care
that no disgrace falls upon them. The owl must be cooked for the dinner
of the Lenape maiden."
"The youngest son of the head chief of the Gray Owls is this night to
marry my daughter," said the captive. "May I not go to the feast? The
guests are assembled, the food is prepared, they wait but my presence."
"No," answered the hunter.
"Then will a warrior of the Delawares be a greater fool than the Mingo
who married a rattlesnake[A], and forgot to cut off her tail. He will be
deaf to the voice of a Great Medicine[B]; the owl bids him beware."
[Footnote A: See the Tradition in the third volume.]
[Footnote B: Medicine means Spirit--Great Medicine, Great Spirit.]
"Is my brother a Medicine?" asked the alarmed hunter.
"He is," answered the grave old bird, shaking his head. "If now the
Delaware hunter will suffer the owl to return to his family in the
hollow oak, the good deed shall never be forgotten by my tribe. There
shall be two eyes watching for the safety of the Delawares upon every
tree around their lodges. While they, wearied out by war or the chase,
are sleeping in darkness and imagined security, the owl shall stand
sentry, and warn them if danger should be nigh. When they hear the voice
of the owl, calling out in the depths of the night, 'Up! up! danger!
danger!' let them grasp their bows and war-spears, and be men."
"Go," said the hunter, cutting the string which bound the prisoner to
the tree of death. So the old white owl, with a couple of mice in his
claws, went back to his lodge in the hollow oak, to comfort his old
woman whom the Evil One would not have, and to see his daughter married
to the young gray owl, while the youthful hunter departed to pursue a
deer, which that moment appeared in a glade of the neighbouring forest.
Many seasons had passed away, flowers had sprung up to wither, and the
sprouts from the seed of the oak had become lofty trees that bent not
with the weight of the panther. The young hunter married the maiden for
whose sake he would have killed the old white owl; their children were
many and good; and the hunter himself had become head chief of the
Unamis or Turtles, the most potent tribe of Delawares, and who reckon
themselves the parent of all other Indians. They had fought many great
battles; they had warred with the nations of the North and the South,
the East, and the West, with the Shawanos of the Burning Water[A], the
Mengwe of the Great Lakes, the Sioux who hunt beyond the River of
Fish[B], and the Narragansetts who dwell in the land of storms: and in
all and over all they had been victorious. The warriors of the Smoking
Water had confessed themselves women, the Sioux had paid their tribute
of bear-skins, the Narragansetts had sent beautiful shells for their
women, and the Mengwees had fled from the war-shout of the Delawares, as
a startled deer runs from the cry of the hunter. Our warriors had just
returned from invading the lands of the latter tribe, and had brought
with them many scalps. They were weary and exhausted, but an Indian
warrior never admits that he is either. So they feasted and rejoiced
loud and long. They sung in the open ears of their people their
exploits, the foes by their valour laid low, or duped by their cunning,
or victims to their patience in awaiting the proper moment for attack,
or to their speed and celerity in pursuit. And they danced the dance of
thanksgiving in honour of their protecting Wahconda,[C] and gave the
scalp-yell for every scalp taken, as is the custom of Indian warriors
when returned from a successful expedition.
[Footnote A: Burning Water, the river Walkulla, in Florida, near the
source of which there is, or was, a burning spring. See the Tradition.]
[Footnote B: River of Fish, another name for Mississippi, from the
Indian words _naemes_ a fish, _sipu_, a river.]
[Footnote C: Wahconda, Great Spirit, the Supreme Being.]
The song and the dance finished, the Unamis, who are the grandfather of
nations, were sleeping quietly in their lodges on the beautiful banks of
the Lenape wihittuck[A], dreaming of no danger, keeping no watch. Buried
in deep slumber, and communing with the Manitou[B] of Dreams(2), they
lay, one in the arms of his wife, another by the couch of his beloved
maiden, one dreaming over dreams of war and slaughter, another of love
and wedded joys, one in fancy grasping the spear and the war-club,
another and a younger the bosom of a dusky maiden of his tribe. Over
their heads the tall forest tree waved in the night wind, giving the
melancholy music of sighing branches; beside them ran the clear waters
of the river, slightly murmuring as they rolled away to the land, which
our nation gave to their good brother Miquon[C]. All was so hushed in
the camp of the Unamis that the lowest note of the wren could have been
heard from limit to limit.
[Footnote A: Lenape wihittnck, the "river of Delawares," the Delaware.]
[Footnote B: Manitou, a subordinate spirit, or tutelar genius.]
[Footnote C: Miquon, William Penn, the Founder of Pennsylvania.]
Hark! what noise is that? I hear a rustling of the dry grass and low
bushes, at the distance of three bowshots from the camp of the sleeping
Unamis. I behold the grass bowed down, I see the bushes yielding to some
heavy creature is pressing through them. Is it the buffalo? No, he has
neither the power nor wit to hide himself. Is it the deer? No, he has
gone to drink of the salt waters of the Great Lake. Is it the cougar?
No, for he never crouches except when he springs on his victim. Hush! I
see one of the unknown beasts raising itself above the copse. Slow and
warily, first appears an eagle's leather, then a black scalp-lock, then
a pair of shining eyes, but they are neither the wolfs, nor the wild
cat's. Oh! I know him now, and I know his band. It is they who let the
Leni Lenape fight the Allegewi[A] while they looked on, it is the dogs
of the lakes, the treacherous Mengwe. Slowly they dropped again into the
copse, and the band moved onward to gain that fatal station which should
give into their power the unsuspecting Unamis. But they did not know
that two curious eyes were watching their every movement; they did not
know that perched on the limb of a decayed tree in front of their
hiding-place sat an old white owl.
[Footnote A: See the Tradition of the Fall of the Leni Lenape.]
Nothing said the owl, it was not time yet, and he suffered the
treacherous Mengwe to approach within two bowshots of the sleeping
warriors. All at once, with a voice that penetrated every glade of the
forest, this great sentinel over mankind shouted "Up! up! danger!
danger!" All the birds of the species were alert at their posts, and all
within hearing of the shout of their chief repeated the words of alarm.
"Up! up! danger! danger!" rung through the hollow woods, and
reverberated among the hills. Up sprung the Unamis, and sallied
cautiously out to find the cause of alarm. They were just in time to
discover the backs of the flying Mengwe, from whose treacherous spears
they were saved by the timely cry of their vigilant and grateful
sentinel, the old white owl.
Since that time, the hunters of the Delawares never harm this wise and
good bird(3). When in the night it is heard sounding its notes, or
calling to its mate, some one in the camp will rise, and taking some
_glicanum_, or Indian tobacco, will strew it on the fire, that the
ascending smoke may reach the bird, and show him that they are not
unmindful of his kindness to them and their ancestors.