THE MAN WHO MARRIED
THE MOON
AND OTHER PUEBLO INDIAN FOLK-STORIES
BY
CHARLES F. LUMMIS
_AUTHOR OF “SOME STRANGE CORNERS OF OUR COUNTRY”
“A NEW MEXICO DAVID,” ETC._
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1894
Copyright, 1891, 1892, 1894,
By The Century Co.
The De Vinne Press.
[Illustration: THE BOY IN THE HOUSE OF THE TRUES. (SEE PAGE
115.)]
To
the Fairy Tale that came true in
the Home of the Tée-wahn
My Wife and Child
CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction: The Brown Story-Tellers 1
I The Antelope Boy 12
II The Coyote and the Crows 22
III The War-Dance of the Mice 24
IV The Coyote and the Blackbirds 27
V The Coyote and the Bear 30
VI The First of the Rattlesnakes 34
VII The Coyote and the Woodpecker 49
VIII The Man who Married the Moon 53
IX The Mother Moon 71
X The Maker of the Thunder-Knives 74
XI The Stone-Moving Song 82
XII The Coyote and the Thunder-Knife 84
XIII The Magic Hide-and-Seek 87
XIV The Race of the Tails 99
XV Honest Big-Ears 103
XVI The Feathered Barbers 106
XVII The Accursed Lake 108
XVIII The Moqui Boy and the Eagle 122
XIX The North Wind and the South Wind 127
XX The Town of the Snake-Girls 130
XXI The Drowning of Pecos 137
XXII The Ants that Pushed on the Sky 147
XXIII The Man who Wouldn’t Keep Sunday 161
XXIV The Brave Bobtails 169
XXV The Revenge of the Fawns 178
XXVI The Sobbing Pine 194
XXVII The Quères Diana 200
XXVIII A Pueblo Bluebeard 203
XXIX The Hero Twins 206
XXX The Hungry Grandfathers 215
XXXI The Coyote 222
XXXII Doctor Field-Mouse 232
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
The Boy in the House of the Trues FRONTISPIECE
“As I come in, kindly old Tata Lorenso is just
beginning a Story” 7
The Coyote carries the Baby to the Antelope
Mother 15
Rain falls on Pée-k’hoo 18
“The two Runners came sweeping down the Home-stretch,
straining every Nerve” 20
“As He caught the Hoop He was instantly changed
into a poor Coyote!” 37
“Coyote, are you People?” 41
“As He seized it He was changed from a tall
young Man into a great Rattlesnake” 45
The Coyotes at Supper with the Woodpeckers 50
The Isleta Girls grinding Corn with the
“Mano” on the “Metate” 56
The Moon-Maiden 57
The Yellow-Corn-Maidens throwing Meal at the
pearl “Omate” 59
The Grief of Nah-chu-rú-chu 65
“The Witch made Herself very small, and went
behind the Foot of a big Crane” 95
The Hunter and the Lake-man 111
The Cursing of the Lake 119
South, East, North, and West in Search of
Kahp-too-óo-yoo 153
Kahp-too-óo-yoo calling the Rain 158
The Wolf, and the Coyote with the Toothache 183
The Wolf meets the Boys Playing with their
Bows and Arrows 187
“The Fawns appeared suddenly, and at sight of
Them the Wolf dropped the Spoonful of Soup” 191
“There They Stood Side by Side” 225
“‘How Shall I Get It?’ said the Coyote” 229
These illustrations are from drawings by George Wharton Edwards,
after photographs by the author.
TÉE-WAHN FOLK-STORIES
[Illustration: TÉE-WAHN FOLK-STORIES]
THE BROWN STORY-TELLERS
I FANCY that if almost any of us were asked, “When did people begin
to make fairy stories?” our first thought would be, “Why, of course,
after mankind had become civilized, and had invented writing.” But in
truth the making of myths, which is no more than a dignified name for
“fairy stories,” dates back to the childhood of the human race.
Long before Cadmus invented letters (and I fear Cadmus himself was
as much of a myth as was his dragon’s-teeth harvest), long before
there were true historians or poets, there were fairy stories and
story-tellers. And to-day, if we would seek the place where fairy
stories most flourish, we must go, not to the nations whose countless
educated minds are now devoted to story-telling for the young, but
to peoples who have no books, no magazines, no alphabets--even no
pictures.
Of all the aboriginal peoples that remain in North America, none
is richer in folk-lore than the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico, who
are, I believe, next to the largest of the native tribes left in
the United States. They number nine thousand souls. They have
nineteen “cities” (called pueblos, also) in this Territory, and
seven in Arizona; and each has its little outlying colonies. They
are not cities in size, it is true, for the largest (Zuñi) has only
fifteen hundred people, and the smallest only about one hundred; but
cities they are, nevertheless. And each city, with its fields, is a
wee republic--twenty-six of the smallest, and perhaps the oldest,
republics in the world; for they were already such when the first
European eyes saw America. Each has its governor, its congress, its
sheriffs, war-captains, and other officials who are elected annually;
its laws, unwritten but unalterable, which are more respected
and better enforced than the laws of any American community; its
permanent and very comfortable houses, and its broad fields,
confirmed first by Spain and later by patents of the United States.
The architecture of the Pueblo houses is quaint and characteristic.
In the remote pueblos they are as many as six stories in
height--built somewhat in the shape of an enormous terraced pyramid.
The Pueblos along the Rio Grande, however, have felt the influence
of Mexican customs, and their houses have but one and two stories.
All their buildings, including the huge, quaint church which each
pueblo has, are made of stone plastered with adobe mud, or of great,
sun-dried bricks of adobe. They are the most comfortable dwellings in
the Southwest--cool in summer and warm in winter.
The Pueblos are divided into six tribes, each speaking a distinct
language of its own. Isleta, the quaint village where I lived five
years, in an Indian house, with Indian neighbors, and under Indian
laws, is the southernmost of the pueblos, the next largest of them
all, and the chief city of the Tée-wahn tribe.[1] All the languages
of the Pueblo tribes are exceedingly difficult to learn.
[1] Spelled Tigua by Spanish authors.
Besides the cities now inhabited, the ruins of about fifteen hundred
other pueblos--and some of them the noblest ruins in the country--dot
the brown valleys and rocky mesa-tops of New Mexico. All these
ruins are of stone, and are extremely interesting. The implacable
savages by whom they were hemmed in made necessary the abandonment of
hundreds of pueblos; and this great number of ruins does not indicate
a vast ancient population. The Pueblos _never_ counted above 30,000
souls.
The Pueblo Indians have for nearly two centuries given no trouble
to the European sharers of their domain; but their wars of defense
against the savage tribes who surrounded them completely--with the
Apaches, Navajos, Comanches, and Utes--lasted until a very few years
ago. They are valiant fighters for their homes, but prefer any
honorable peace. They are not indolent, but industrious--tilling
their farms, tending their stock, and keeping all their affairs in
order. The women own the houses and their contents, and do not work
outside; and the men control the fields and crops. An unhappy home
is almost an unknown thing among them; and the universal affection
of parents for children and respect of children for parents are
extraordinary. I have never seen a child unkindly treated, a parent
saucily addressed, or a playmate abused, in all my long and intimate
acquaintance with the Pueblos.
Isleta lies on the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, upon the western
bank of the Rio Grande, on a lava promontory which was once an
island--whence the town takes its Spanish name. Its Tée-wahn title is
Shee-eh-whíb-bak.[2] Its population, according to the census taken in
1891, is a little less than twelve hundred. It is nearly surrounded
by fertile vineyards, orchards of peaches, apricots, apples,
cherries, plums, pears, and quinces, and fields of corn, wheat,
beans, and peppers, all owned by my dusky neighbors. The pueblo owns
over one hundred and ten thousand acres of land, the greater part of
which is reserved for pasturing horses and cattle.
[2] The name means “Knife-laid-on-the-ground-to-play-_whib_.”
_Whib_ is an aboriginal foot-race in which the runners have to
carry a stick with their toes. The name was perhaps suggested
by the knife-like shape of the lava ridge on which the pueblo
is built.
The people of Isleta are, as a rule, rather short in stature, but
strongly built. All have a magnificent depth and breadth of chest,
and a beautifully confident poise of the head. Most of the men are
very expert hunters, tireless runners, and fine horsemen. Besides
ordinary hunting they have communal hunts--for rabbits in the spring,
for antelope and deer in the fall--thoroughly organized, in which
great quantities of game are killed.
Their amusements are many and varied. Aside from the numerous sacred
dances of the year, their most important occasions, they have various
races which call for great skill and endurance, quaint social
enjoyments, and games of many kinds, some of which are quite as
difficult as chess. They are very fair weavers and pottery-makers.
The women are good housewives, and most of them excellent
seamstresses.
Yet, with all this progress in civilization, despite their mental
and physical acuteness and their excellent moral qualities, the
Tée-wahn are in some things but overgrown children. Their secret
inner religion[3] is one of the most complicated systems on earth.
Besides the highest deities, all the forces of nature, all animals,
as well as many things that are inanimate, are invested by them with
supernatural powers. They do not worship idols, but images and tokens
of unseen powers are revered. They do nothing without some reason,
generally a religious one, and whatever they observe they can explain
in their own superstitious way. Every custom they have and every
belief they own has a reason which to them is all-sufficient; and
for each they have a story. There is no duty to which a Pueblo child
is trained in which he has to be content with the bare command, “Do
thus”; for each he learns a fairy tale designed to explain how people
first came to know that it was right to do thus, and detailing the
sad results which befell those who did otherwise.
[3] For they are all devout, if not entirely understanding,
members of a Christian church; but keep also much of their
prehistoric faiths.
It is from this wonderful folk-lore of the Tée-wahn that I have
learned--after long study of the people, their language, customs,
and myths--and taken, unchanged and unembellished, this series of
Indian fairy tales. I have been extremely careful to preserve, in
my translations, the exact Indian _spirit_. An absolutely literal
translation would be almost unintelligible to English readers, but I
have taken no liberties with the real meaning.
The use of books is not only to tell, but to preserve; not only for
to-day, but for ever. What an Indian wishes to perpetuate must be
saved by tongue and ear, by “telling-down,” as were the world’s first
histories and poems. This oral transmission from father to son is of
sacred importance with the natives. Upon it depends the preservation
of the amusements, the history, the beliefs, the customs, and the
laws of their nation. A people less observant, less accurate of
speech and of memory, would make a sad failure of this sort of
record; but with them it is a wonderful success. The story goes down
from generation to generation, almost without the change of a word.
The fact that it is told in fixed metrical form--a sort of blank
verse--helps the memory.
[Illustration: “AS I COME IN, KINDLY OLD TATA LORENSO IS JUST
BEGINNING A STORY.”]
Here in Isleta, the quaint pueblo of the Tée-wahn, I became
deeply interested not only in the folk-stories themselves, but
also in the manner of handing them down. Winter is the season for
story-telling. Then the thirsty fields no longer cry for water, the
irrigating-ditches have ceased to gnaw at their banks, and the men
are often at leisure. Then, of an evening, if I go over to visit
some _vecino_ (neighbor), I am likely to find, in the great adobe
living-room, a group of very old men and very young boys gathered
about the queer little corner fireplace with its blazing upright
sticks. They, too, have come a-visiting. The young men are gathered
in another corner by themselves, eating roasted corn, and talking in
whispers so as not to disturb their elders, for respect to age is the
corner-stone of all Indian training. They are not required to listen
to the stories, being supposed to know them already.
* * * * *
If in the far, sweet days when I stood at my grandmother’s knee, and
shivered over “Bluebeard,” or thrilled at “Jack the Giant-killer,”
some one could have shown us a picture of me as I was to be listening
to other fairy tales twenty-five years later, I am sure that her eyes
would have opened wide as mine. Certainly neither of us ever dreamed
that, thousands of miles from the old New England fireplace, when the
dear figures that sat with me before its blazing forestick had long
been dust, I would be sitting where I am to-night and listening to
the strange, dark people who are around me.
The room is long and low, and overhead are dark, round rafters--the
trunks of straight pine-trees that used to purr on the sides of the
most famous mountain in New Mexico. The walls are white as snow,
and you would never imagine that they are built only of cut sods,
plastered over and whitewashed. The floor is of adobe clay, packed
almost as hard as a rock, and upon it are bright-hued blankets, woven
in strange figures. Along the walls are benches, with wool mattresses
rolled up and laid upon them. By and by these will be spread upon the
floor for beds, but just now they serve as cushioned seats. Over in
a corner are strange earthen jars of water, with little gourd dippers
floating, and here and there upon the wall hang bows and arrows in
sheaths of the tawny hide of the mountain lion; queer woven belts of
red and green, and heavy necklaces of silver and coral, with charms
of turquoise--the stone that stole its color from the sky.
There is a fireplace, too, and we are gathered all about it, a dozen
or more--for I have become an old friend here. But it is not like
the fireplace where the little sister and I used to roast our apples
and pop our corn. A wee hearth of clay rises a few inches from the
floor; a yard above it hangs the chimney, like a big white hood; and
a little wall, four feet high, runs from it out into the room, that
the wind from the outer door may not blow the ashes. There is no big
front log, but three or four gnarled cedar sticks, standing on one
end, crackle loudly.
Some of us are seated on benches, and upon the floor. His back
against the wall, squats my host, who is just going to begin
another fairy story. Such a wee, withered, wrinkled old man! It
seems as though the hot winds of the Southwest had dried him as
they dry the forgotten last year’s apples that shrivel here and
there upon lonely boughs. He must be a century old. His children,
grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren
are all represented here to-night. Yet his black eyes are like a
hawk’s, under their heavy brows, and his voice is musical and deep.
I have never heard a more eloquent story-teller, and I have heard
some famous ones. I can tell you the words, but not the impressive
tones, the animation of eye and accent, the eloquent gestures of this
venerable Indian as he tells--what? An Indian telling fairy stories?
Yes, indeed. He is the very man to tell them. If this dusky old
playground for wrinkles, who never saw the inside of a book, could
write out all the fairy stories he knows, Webster’s Unabridged
Dictionary would hardly hold them. His father and his father’s
father, and so on back for countless centuries, have handed down
these stories by telling, from generation to generation, just as
Tata[4] Lorenso is telling his great-great-grandsons to-night. When
these boys grow up, they will tell these stories to their sons and
grandsons; and so the legends will pass on and on, so long as there
shall be a Tée-wahn Indian left in all New Mexico.
[4] “Father.”
But Lorenso is ready with his story. He pauses only to make a
cigarette from the material in my pouch (they call me _Por todos_,
because I have tobacco “for all”), explains for my benefit that this
is a story of the beginning of Isleta, pats the head of the chubby
boy at his knee, and begins again.
I
THE ANTELOPE BOY
ONCE upon a time there were two towns of the Tée-wahn, called
Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee (white village) and Nah-choo-rée-too-ee (yellow
village). A man of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee and his wife were attacked by
Apaches while out on the plains one day, and took refuge in a cave,
where they were besieged. And there a boy was born to them. The
father was killed in an attempt to return to his village for help;
and starvation finally forced the mother to crawl forth by night
seeking roots to eat. Chased by the Apaches, she escaped to her own
village, and it was several days before she could return to the
cave--only to find it empty.
The baby had begun to cry soon after her departure. Just then a
Coyote[5] was passing, and heard. Taking pity on the child, he picked
it up and carried it across the plain until he came to a herd of
antelopes. Among them was a Mother-Antelope that had lost her fawn;
and going to her the Coyote said:
[5] The small prairie-wolf.
“Here is an _ah-bóo_ (poor thing) that is left by its people. Will
you take care of it?”
The Mother-Antelope, remembering her own baby, with tears said
“Yes,” and at once adopted the tiny stranger, while the Coyote
thanked her and went home.
So the boy became as one of the antelopes, and grew up among them
until he was about twelve years old. Then it happened that a hunter
came out from Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee for antelopes, and found this herd.
Stalking them carefully, he shot one with an arrow. The rest started
off, running like the wind; but ahead of them all, as long as they
were in sight, he saw a boy! The hunter was much surprised, and,
shouldering his game, walked back to the village, deep in thought.
Here he told the Cacique[6] what he had seen. Next day the crier was
sent out to call upon all the people to prepare for a great hunt, in
four days, to capture the Indian boy who lived with the antelopes.
[6] The highest religious official.
While preparations were going on in the village, the antelopes
in some way heard of the intended hunt and its purpose. The
Mother-Antelope was very sad when she heard it, and at first would
say nothing. But at last she called her adopted son to her and said:
“Son, you have heard that the people of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee are coming
to hunt. But they will not kill us; all they wish is to take you.
They will surround us, intending to let all the antelopes escape
from the circle. You must follow me where I break through the line,
and your real mother will be coming on the northeast side in a white
_manta_ (robe). I will pass close to her, and you must stagger and
fall where she can catch you.”
On the fourth day all the people went out upon the plains. They
found and surrounded the herd of antelopes, which ran about in a
circle when the hunters closed upon them. The circle grew smaller,
and the antelopes began to break through; but the hunters paid no
attention to them, keeping their eyes upon the boy. At last he and
his antelope mother were the only ones left, and when she broke
through the line on the northeast he followed her and fell at the
feet of his own human mother, who sprang forward and clasped him in
her arms.
Amid great rejoicing he was taken to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee, and there he
told the _principales_[7] how he had been left in the cave, how the
Coyote had pitied him, and how the Mother-Antelope had reared him as
her own son.
[7] The old men who are the congress of the pueblo.
It was not long before all the country round about heard of the
Antelope Boy and of his marvelous fleetness of foot. You must know
that the antelopes never comb their hair, and while among them
the boy’s head had grown very bushy. So the people called him
_Pée-hleh-o-wah-wée-deh_ (big-headed little boy).
[Illustration: THE COYOTE CARRIES THE BABY TO THE ANTELOPE
MOTHER.]
Among the other villages that heard of his prowess was
Nah-choo-rée-too-ee, all of whose people “had the bad road.”[8] They
had a wonderful runner named _Pée-k’hoo_ (Deer-foot), and very soon
they sent a challenge to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee for a championship race.
Four days were to be given for preparation, to make bets, and the
like. The race was to be around the world.[9] Each village was to
stake all its property and the lives of all its people on the result
of the race. So powerful were the witches of Nah-choo-rée-too-ee that
they felt safe in proposing so serious a stake; and the people of
Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee were ashamed to decline the challenge.
[8] That is, were witches.
[9] The Pueblos believed it was an immense plain whereon the
racers were to race over a square course--to the extreme
east, then to the extreme north, and so on, back to the
starting-point.
The day came, and the starting-point was surrounded by all the people
of the two villages, dressed in their best. On each side were huge
piles of ornaments and dresses, stores of grain, and all the other
property of the people. The runner for the yellow village was a tall,
sinewy athlete, strong in his early manhood; and when the Antelope
Boy appeared for the other side, the witches set up a howl of
derision, and began to strike their rivals and jeer at them, saying,
“Pooh! We might as well begin to kill you now! What can that _óo-deh_
(little thing) do?”
* * * * *
At the word “_Hái-ko!_” (“Go!”) the two runners started toward
the east like the wind. The Antelope Boy soon forged ahead; but
Deer-foot, by his witchcraft, changed himself into a hawk and flew
lightly over the lad, saying, “_We_ do this way to each other!”[10]
The Antelope Boy kept running, but his heart was very heavy, for he
knew that no feet could equal the swift flight of the hawk.
[10] A common Indian taunt, either good-natured or bitter, to
the loser of a game or to a conquered enemy.
But just as he came half-way to the east, a Mole came up from its
burrow and said:
“My son, where are you going so fast with a sad face?”
The lad explained that the race was for the property and lives of all
his people; and that the witch-runner had turned to a hawk and left
him far behind.
[Illustration: RAIN FALLS ON PÉE-K’HOO.]
“Then, my son,” said the Mole, “I will be he that shall help you.
Only sit down here a little while, and I will give you something to
carry.”
The boy sat down, and the Mole dived into the hole, but soon came
back with four cigarettes.[11]
[11] These are made by putting a certain weed called
_pee-én-hleh_ into hollow reeds.
Holding them out, the Mole said, “Now, my son, when you have reached
the east and turned north, smoke one; when you have reached the north
and turn west, smoke another; when you turn south, another, and when
you turn east again, another. _Hái-ko!_”
The boy ran on, and soon reached the east. Turning his face to the
north he smoked the first cigarette. No sooner was it finished than
he became a young antelope; and at the same instant a furious rain
began. Refreshed by the cool drops, he started like an arrow from the
bow. Half-way to the north he came to a large tree; and there sat the
hawk, drenched and chilled, unable to fly, and crying piteously.
“Now, friend, _we_ too do this to each other,” called the
boy-antelope as he dashed past. But just as he reached the north,
the hawk--which had become dry after the short rain--caught up and
passed him, saying, “We too do this to each other!” The boy-antelope
turned westward, and smoked the second cigarette; and at once another
terrific rain began.[12] Half-way to the west he again passed the
hawk shivering and crying in a tree, and unable to fly; but as
he was about to turn to the south, the hawk passed him with the
customary taunt. The smoking of the third cigarette brought another
storm, and again the antelope passed the wet hawk half-way, and
again the hawk dried its feathers in time to catch up and pass him
as he was turning to the east for the home-stretch. Here again the
boy-antelope stopped and smoked a cigarette--the fourth and last.
Again a short, hard rain came, and again he passed the water-bound
hawk half-way.
[12] I should state, by the way, that the cigarette plays an
important part in the Pueblo folk-stories,--they never had the
pipe of the Northern Indians,--and all rain-clouds are supposed
to come from its smoke.
[Illustration: “THE TWO RUNNERS CAME SWEEPING DOWN THE
HOME-STRETCH, STRAINING EVERY NERVE.”]
Knowing the witchcraft of their neighbors, the people of
Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee had made the condition that, in whatever shape
the racers might run the rest of the course, they must resume human
form upon arrival at a certain hill upon the fourth turn, which was
in sight of the goal. The last wetting of the hawk’s feathers delayed
it so that the antelope reached the hill just ahead; and there,
resuming their natural shapes, the two runners came sweeping down
the home-stretch, straining every nerve. But the Antelope Boy gained
at each stride. When they saw him, the witch-people felt confident
that he was their champion, and again began to push, and taunt, and
jeer at the others. But when the little Antelope Boy sprang lightly
across the line, far ahead of Deer-foot, their joy turned to mourning.
The people of Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee burned all the witches upon the
spot, in a great pile of corn; but somehow one escaped, and from him
come all the witches that trouble us to this day.
The property of the witches was taken to Nah-bah-tóo-too-ee; and as
it was more than that village could hold, the surplus was sent to
Shee-eh-whíb-bak (Isleta), where we enjoy it to this day; and later
the people themselves moved here. And even now, when we dig in that
little hill on the other side of the _charco_ (pool), we find charred
corn-cobs, where our forefathers burned the witch-people of the
yellow village.
During Lorenso’s story the black eyes of the boys have never left
his face; and at every pause they have made the customary response,
“Is that so?” to show their attention; while the old men have nodded
approbation, and smoked in deep silence.
Now Lorenso turns to Desiderio,[13] who is far more wrinkled even
than he, and says, “You have a tail, brother.” And Desiderio,
clearing his throat and making a new cigarette with great
impressiveness, begins: “My sons, do you know why the Coyote and the
Crows are always at war? No? Then I will tell you.”
[13] Pronounced Day-see-dáy-ree-oh.
II
THE COYOTE AND THE CROWS
ONCE on a time many Káh-ahn lived in the edge of some woods. A little
out into the plain stood a very large tree, with much sand under it.
One day a Coyote was passing, and heard the Crows singing and dancing
under this tree, and came up to watch them. They were dancing in a
circle, and each Crow had upon his back a large bag.
“Crow-friends, what are you doing?” asked the Coyote, who was much
interested.
“Oh, we are dancing with our mothers,” said the Crows.
“How pretty! And will you let me dance, too?” asked the Coyote of the
_too-whit-lah-wid-deh_ crow (captain of the dance).
“Oh, yes,” replied the Crow. “Go and put your mother in a bag and
come to the dance.”
The Coyote went running home. There his old mother was sitting in
the corner of the fireplace. The stupid Coyote picked up a stick and
struck her on the head, and put her in a bag, and hurried back to the
dance with her.
The Crows were dancing merrily, and singing: “_Ai nana, que-ée-rah,
que-ée-rah_.” (“Alas, Mama! you are shaking, you are shaking!”) The
Coyote joined the dance, with the bag on his back, and sang as the
Crows did:
“_Ai nana, que-ée-rah, que-ée-rah_.”[14]
[14] _Ai nana_ is an exclamation always used by mourners.
But at last the Crows burst out laughing, and said, “What do you
bring in your bag?”
“My mother, as you told me,” replied the Coyote, showing them.
Then the Crows emptied their bags, which were filled with nothing but
sand, and flew up into the tree, laughing.
The Coyote then saw that they had played him a trick, and started
home, crying “_Ai nana!_” When he got home he took his mother from
the bag and tried to set her up in the chimney-corner, always crying,
“_Ai nana_, why don’t you sit up as before?” But she could not, for
she was dead. When he found that she could not sit up any more, he
vowed to follow the Crows and eat them all the rest of his life; and
from that day to this he has been hunting them, and they are always
at war.
As Desiderio concludes, the old men hitch their blankets around their
shoulders. “No more stories to-night?” I ask; and Lorenso says:
“_In-dáh_ (no). Now it is to go to bed. _Tóo-kwai_ (come),” to the
boys. “Good night, friends. Another time, perhaps.”
And we file out through the low door into the starry night.
III
THE WAR-DANCE OF THE MICE
TO-NIGHT it is withered Diego[15] who begins with his story, in the
musical but strange Tée-wahn tongue, of “Shée-choon t’o-ah-fuar.”
Serious as that looks, it means only “the war-dance of the Mice.”
[15] Pronounced Dee-áy-go.
Once upon a time there was war between the people of Isleta and
the Mice. There was a great battle, in which the Tée-wahn killed
many Mice and took their scalps. Then the Tée-wahn returned to
their village, and the warriors went into the _estufa_ (sacred
council-chamber) to prepare themselves by fasting for the great
scalp-dance in twelve days. While the warriors were sitting inside,
the Mice came secretly by night to attack the town, and their spies
crept up to the _estufa_. When all the Tée-wahn warriors had fallen
asleep, the Mice came stealing down the big ladder into the room, and
creeping from sleeper to sleeper, they gnawed every bowstring and cut
the feathers from the arrows and the strap of every sling. When this
was done, the Mice raised a terrible war-whoop and rushed upon the
warriors, brandishing their spears. The Tée-wahn woke and caught up
their bows and arrows, but only to find them useless. So the warriors
could do nothing but run from their tiny foes, and up the ladder
to the roof they rushed pell-mell and thence fled to their homes,
leaving the Mice victorious.
The rest of the town made such fun of the warriors that they refused
to return to the fight; and the elated Mice held a public dance
in front of the _estufa_. A brave sight it was, the army of these
little people, singing and dancing and waving their spears. They were
dressed in red blankets, with leather leggings glistening with silver
buttons from top to bottom, and gay moccasins. Each had two eagle
feathers tied to the top of his spear--the token of victory. And as
they danced and marched and counter-marched, they sang exultingly:
_Shée-oh-pah ch’-ót-im!
Neh-máh-hlee-oh ch’-ot-im!
Hló-tu feé-ny p’-óh-teh!_
over and over again--which means
Quick we cut the bowstring!
Quick we cut the sling-strap!
We shaved the arrow-feathers off!
For four days they danced and sang, and on the night of the fourth
day danced all night around a big bonfire. The next morning they
marched away. That was the time when the Mice conquered men; and that
is the reason why we have never been able to drive the Mice out of
our homes to this day.
“Is _that_ the reason?” ask all the boys, who have been listening
with big black eyes intent.
“That is the very reason,” says withered Diego. “Now, _compadre_
Antonio, there is a tail to you.”
Antonio, thus called upon, cannot refuse. Indian etiquette is very
strict upon this point--as well as upon all others. So he fishes in
his memory for a story, while the boys turn expectant faces toward
him. He is not nearly so wrinkled as Diego, but he is very, very old,
and his voice is a little tremulous at first. Wrapping his blanket
about him, he begins:
Then I will tell you why the Coyote and the Blackbirds are
enemies--for once they were very good friends in the old days.
IV
THE COYOTE AND THE BLACKBIRDS
ONCE upon a time a Coyote lived near an open wood. As he went to
walk one day near the edge of the wood, he heard the Blackbirds (the
Indian name means “seeds of the prairie”) calling excitedly:
“Bring my bag! Bring my bag! It is going to hail!”
The Coyote, being very curious, came near and saw that they all had
buckskin bags to which they were tying lassos, the other ends of
which were thrown over the boughs of the trees. Very much surprised,
the Coyote came to them and asked:
“Blackbird-friends, what are you doing?”
“Oh, friend Coyote,” they replied, “we are making ourselves ready,
for soon there will be a very hard hail-storm, and we do not wish
to be pelted to death. We are going to get into these bags and pull
ourselves up under the branches, where the hail cannot strike us.”
“That is very good,” said the Coyote, “and I would like to do so,
too, if you will let me join you.”
“Oh, yes! Just run home and get a bag and a lasso, and come back here
and we will help you,” said the Pah-táhn, never smiling.
So the Coyote started running for home, and got a large bag and a
lasso, and came back to the Blackbirds, who were waiting. They fixed
the rope and bag for him, putting the noose around the neck of the
bag so that it would be closed tight when the rope was pulled. Then
they threw the end of the lasso over a strong branch and said:
“Now, friend Coyote, you get into your bag first, for you are so big
and heavy that you cannot pull yourself up, and we will have to help
you.”
The Coyote crawled into the bag, and all the Blackbirds taking hold
of the rope, pulled with all their might till the bag was swung clear
up under the branch. Then they tied the end of the lasso around the
tree so the bag could not come down, and ran around picking up all
the pebbles they could find.
“Mercy! How the hail comes!” they cried excitedly, and began to throw
stones at the swinging bag as hard as ever they could.
“Mercy!” howled the Coyote, as the pebbles pattered against him. “But
this is a terrible storm, Blackbird-friends! It pelts me dreadfully!
And how are you getting along?”
“It is truly very bad, friend Coyote,” they answered, “but you are
bigger and stronger than we, and ought to endure it.” And they kept
pelting him, all the time crying and chattering as if they, too, were
suffering greatly from the hail.
“Ouch!” yelled the Coyote. “That one hit me very near the eye,
friends! I fear this evil storm will kill us all!”
“But be brave, friend,” called back the Blackbirds. “We keep our
hearts, and so should you, for you are much stronger than we.” And
they pelted him all the harder.
So they kept it up until they were too tired to throw any more; and
as for the Coyote, he was so bruised and sore that he could hardly
move. Then they untied the rope and let the bag slowly to the ground,
and loosened the noose at the neck and flew up into the trees with
sober faces.
“Ow!” groaned the Coyote, “I am nearly dead!” And he crawled weeping
and groaning from the bag, and began to lick his bruises. But when
he looked around and saw the sun shining and the ground dry, and not
a hailstone anywhere, he knew that the Blackbirds had given him a
trick, and he limped home in a terrible rage, vowing that as soon as
ever he got well he would follow and eat the Blackbirds as long as he
lived. And ever since, even to this day, he has been following them
to eat them, and that is why the Coyote and the Blackbirds are always
at war.
“Is that so?” cried all the boys in chorus, their eyes shining like
coals.
“Oh, yes, that is the cause of the war,” said old Antonio, gravely.
“And now, brother, there is a tail to you,” turning to the tall,
gray-haired Felipe[16]; and clearing his throat, Felipe begins about
the Coyote and the Bear.
[16] Pronounced Fay-lée-peh.
V
THE COYOTE AND THE BEAR[17]
[17] The Coyote, you must know, is very stupid about some
things; and in almost all Pueblo fairy stories is the victim of
one joke or another. The bear, on the other hand, is one of the
wisest of animals.
ONCE upon a time Ko-íd-deh (the Bear) and Too-wháy-deh (the Coyote)
chanced to meet at a certain spot, and sat down to talk. After a
while the Bear said:
“Friend Coyote, do you see what good land this is here? What do you
say if we farm it together, sharing our labor and the crop?”
The Coyote thought well of it, and said so; and after talking, they
agreed to plant potatoes in partnership.
“Now,” said the Bear, “I think of a good way to divide the crop. I
will take all that grows below the ground, and you take all that
grows above it. Then each can take away his share when he is ready,
and there will be no trouble to measure.”
The Coyote agreed, and when the time came they plowed the place
with a sharp stick and planted their potatoes. All summer they
worked together in the field, hoeing down the weeds with stone hoes
and letting in water now and then from the irrigating-ditch. When
harvest-time came, the Coyote went and cut off all the potato-tops at
the ground and carried them home, and afterward the Bear scratched
out the potatoes from the ground with his big claws and took them to
his house. When the Coyote saw this his eyes were opened, and he said:
“But this is not fair. You have those round things, which are good to
eat, but what I took home we cannot eat at all, neither my wife nor
I.”
“But, friend Coyote,” answered the Bear, gravely, “did we not make an
agreement? Then we must stick to it like men.”
The Coyote could not answer, and went home; but he was not satisfied.
The next spring, as they met one day, the Bear said:
“Come, friend Coyote, I think we ought to plant this good land
again, and this time let us plant it in corn. But last year you were
dissatisfied with your share, so this year we will change. You take
what is below the ground for your share, and I will take only what
grows above.”
This seemed very fair to the Coyote, and he agreed. They plowed
and planted and tended the corn; and when it came harvest-time the
Bear gathered all the stalks and ears and carried them home. When
the Coyote came to dig his share, he found nothing but roots like
threads, which were good for nothing. He was very much dissatisfied;
but the Bear reminded him of their agreement, and he could say
nothing.
That winter the Coyote was walking one day by the river (the Rio
Grande), when he saw the Bear sitting on the ice and eating a fish.
The Coyote was very fond of fish, and coming up, he said:
“Friend Bear, where did you get such a fat fish?”
“Oh, I broke a hole in the ice,” said the Bear, “and fished for them.
There are many here.” And he went on eating, without offering any to
the Coyote.
“Won’t you show me how, friend?” asked the Coyote, fainting with
hunger at the smell of the fish.
“Oh, yes,” said the Bear. “It is very easy.” And he broke a hole in
the ice with his paw. “Now, friend Coyote, sit down and let your tail
hang in the water, and very soon you will feel a nibble. But you must
not pull it till I tell you.”
So the Coyote sat down with his tail in the cold water. Soon the ice
began to form around it, and he called:
“Friend Bear, I feel a bite! Let me pull him out.”
“No, no! Not yet!” cried the Bear, “wait till he gets a good hold,
and then you will not lose him.”
So the Coyote waited. In a few minutes the hole was frozen solid, and
his tail was fast.
“Now, friend Coyote,” called the Bear, “I think you have him. Pull!”
The Coyote pulled with all his might, but could not lift his tail
from the ice, and there he was--a prisoner. While he pulled and
howled, the Bear shouted with laughter, and rolled on the ice and
ha-ha’d till his sides were sore. Then he took his fish and went
home, stopping every little to laugh at the thought of the Coyote.
There on the ice the Coyote had to stay until a thaw liberated him,
and when he got home he was very wet and cold and half starved. And
from that day to this he has never forgiven the Bear, and will not
even speak to him when they meet, and the Bear says, politely, “Good
morning, friend Too-wháy-deh.”
“Is that so?” cry the boys.
“That is so,” says Felipe. “But now it is time to go home.
_Tóo-kwai!_”
The story-telling is over for to-night. Grandmother Reyes is
unrolling the mattresses upon the floor; and with pleasant
“good-nights” we scatter for our homes here and there in the quaint
adobe village.
[Illustration: THE FIRST OF THE RATTLESNAKES]
VI
THE FIRST OF THE RATTLESNAKES
“NOW there is a tail to you, _compadre_ [friend],” said old
Desiderio, nodding at Patricio[18] after we had sat awhile in silence
around the crackling fire.
[18] Pronounced Pah-trée-see-oh.
Patricio had a broad strip of rawhide across his knee, and was
scraping the hair from it with a dull knife. It was high time to be
thinking of new soles, for already there was a wee hole in the bottom
of each of his moccasins; and as for Benito, his shy little grandson,
_his_ toes were all abroad.
But shrilly as the cold night-wind outside hinted the wisdom of
speedy cobbling, Patricio had no wish to acquire that burro’s tail,
so, laying the rawhide and knife upon the floor beside him, he
deliberately rolled a modest pinch of the aromatic _koo-ah-rée_ in a
corn-husk, lighted it at the coals, and drew Benito’s tousled head to
his side.
“You have heard,” he said, with a slow puff, “about Nah-chu-rú-chu,
the mighty medicine-man who lived here in Isleta in the times of the
ancients?”
“_Ah-h!_” (Yes) cried all the boys. “You have promised to tell us how
he married the moon!”
“Another time I will do so. But now I shall tell you something that
was before that--for Nah-chu-rú-chu had many strange adventures
before he married Páh-hlee-oh, the Moon-Mother. Do you know why the
rattlesnake--which is the king of all snakes and alone has the power
of death in his mouth--always shakes his _guaje_[19] before he bites?”
[19] The Pueblo sacred rattle.
“_Een-dah!_” chorused Ramón and Benito, and Fat Juan, and Tomás,[20]
very eagerly; for they were particularly fond of hearing about the
exploits of the greatest of Tée-wahn medicine-men.
[20] Pronounced Rah-móhn, Bay-née-toh, Whahn, Toh-máhs.
“Listen, then, and you shall hear.”
* * * * *
In those days Nah-chu-rú-chu had a friend who lived in a pueblo
nearer the foot of the Eagle-Feather Mountain than this, in the Place
of the Red Earth, where still are its ruins; and the two young men
went often to the mountain together to bring wood and to hunt. Now,
Nah-chu-rú-chu had a white heart, and never thought ill; but the
friend had the evil road and became jealous, for Nah-chu-rú-chu was
a better hunter. But he said nothing, and made as if he still loved
Nah-chu-rú-chu truly.
One day the friend came over from his village and said:
“Friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, let us go to-morrow for wood and to have a
hunt.”
“It is well,” replied Nah-chu-rú-chu. Next morning he started very
early and came to the village of his friend; and together they went
to the mountain. When they had gathered much wood, and lashed it in
bundles for carrying, they started off in opposite directions to
hunt. In a short time each returned with a fine fat deer.
“But why should we hasten to go home, friend Nah-chu-rú-chu?” said
the friend. “It is still early, and we have much time. Come, let us
stop here and amuse ourselves with a game.”
“It is well, friend,” answered Nah-chu-rú-chu; “but what game shall
we play? For we have neither _pa-toles_, nor hoops, nor any other
game here.”
“See! we will roll the _mah-khúr_,[21] for while I was waiting for
you I made one that we might play”--and the false friend drew from
beneath his blanket a pretty painted hoop; but really he had made
it at home, and had brought it hidden, on purpose to do harm to
Nah-chu-rú-chu.
[21] The game of _mah-khúr_, which the Pueblos learned from
the Apaches many centuries ago, is a very simple one, but is
a favorite with all witches as a snare for those whom they
would injure. A small hoop of willow is painted gaily, and has
ornamental buckskin thongs stretched across it from side to
side, spoke-fashion. The challenger to a game rolls the hoop
rapidly past the challenged, who must throw a lance through
between the spokes before it ceases to roll.
[Illustration: “AS HE CAUGHT THE HOOP HE WAS INSTANTLY CHANGED
INTO A POOR COYOTE!”]
“Now go down there and catch it when I roll it,” said he; and
Nah-chu-rú-chu did so. But as he caught the hoop when it came
rolling, he was no longer Nah-chu-rú-chu the brave hunter, but a poor
Coyote with great tears rolling down his nose!
“Hu!” said the false friend, tauntingly, “we do this to each other!
So now you have all the plains to wander over, to the north, and
west, and south; but you can never go to the east. And if you are not
lucky, the dogs will tear you; but if you are lucky, they may have
pity on you. So now good-by, for this is the last I shall ever see of
you.”
Then the false friend went away, laughing, to his village; and the
poor Coyote wandered aimlessly, weeping to think that he had been
betrayed by the one he had loved and trusted as a brother. For four
days he prowled about the outskirts of Isleta, looking wistfully at
his home. The fierce dogs ran out to tear him; but when they came
near they only sniffed at him, and went away without hurting him. He
could find nothing to eat save dry bones, and old thongs or soles of
moccasins.
On the fourth day he turned westward, and wandered until he came to
Mesita.[22] There was no town of the Lagunas there then, and only a
shepherd’s hut and corral, in which were an old Quères Indian and his
grandson, tending their goats.
[22] An outlying colony of Laguna, forty miles from Isleta.
Next morning when the grandson went out very early to let the goats
from the corral, he saw a Coyote run out from among the goats. It
went off a little way, and then sat down and watched him. The boy
counted the goats, and none were missing, and he thought it strange.
But he said nothing to his grandfather.
For three more mornings the very same thing happened; and on the
fourth morning the boy told his grandfather. The old man came out,
and set the dogs after the Coyote, which was sitting a little way
off; but when they came near they would not touch him.
“I suspect there is something wrong here,” said the old shepherd; and
he called: “Coyote, are you coyote-true, or are you people?”
But the Coyote could not answer; and the old man called again:
“Coyote, are you people?”
At that the Coyote nodded his head, “Yes.”
“If that is so, come here and be not afraid of us; for we will be the
ones to help you out of this trouble.”
So the Coyote came to them and licked their hands, and they gave it
food--for it was dying of hunger. When it was fed, the old man said:
“Now, son, you are going out with the goats along the creek, and
there you will see some willows. With your mind look at two willows,
and mark them; and to-morrow morning you must go and bring one of
them.”
The boy went away tending the goats, and the Coyote stayed with the
old man. Next morning, when they awoke very early, they saw all the
earth wrapped in a white _manta_.[23]
[23] This figure is always used by the Pueblos in speaking of
snow in connection with sacred things.
[Illustration: “COYOTE, ARE YOU PEOPLE?”]
“Now, son,” said the old man, “you must wear only your moccasins
and breech-clout, and go like a man to the two willows you marked
yesterday. To one of them you must pray; and then cut the other and
bring it to me.”
The boy did so and came back with the willow stick. The old man
prayed, and made a _mah-khúr_ hoop; and bidding the Coyote stand a
little way off and stick his head through the hoop before it should
stop rolling, rolled it toward him. The Coyote waited till the hoop
came very close, and gave a great jump and put his head through it
before it could stop. And lo! there stood Nah-chu-rú-chu, young and
handsome as ever; but his beautiful suit of fringed buckskin was all
in rags. For four days he stayed there and was cleansed with the
cleansing of the medicine-man; and then the old shepherd said to him:
“Now, friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, there is a road.[24] But take with you
this _faja_,[25] for though your power is great, you have submitted
to this evil. When you get home, he who did this to you will be first
to know, and he will come pretending to be your friend, as if he had
done nothing; and he will ask you to go hunting again. So you must
go; and when you come to the mountain, with this _faja_ you shall
repay him.”
[24] That is, you can go home.
[25] A fine woven belt, with figures in red and green.