(The original, in the Hottentot language, is in Sir G. Grey’s
Library, G. Krönlein’s Manuscript, p. 53.)
A girl, it is said, went to seek for onions. As she arrived at the
place where they grew, she met with some men, one of whom was blind
(i.e., half-blind, having only one eye). As she dug (for the onions)
the men helped her, digging also. When her sack was full, they said to
her, “Go, tell the other girls, that many of you may come.” So she went
home and told her companions, and early the next morning they started.
But a little girl followed them. The other girls said, “Let the little
girl go back.” But her elder sister protested against this, saying,
“She runs by herself, you need not put her into your awa-skin.”
So they went all together, and having reached the onion-ground, began
to dig. Now the little girl saw traces of feet, and said to the one who
had guided them thither, “Wonderful! whence so many traces? Were you
not alone here?” The other replied, “I walked about and looked out;
therefore they must of course be many.” The child, however, did not
believe that if the other girl had been alone the traces could be many,
and felt uneasy; for she was a wise little woman. From time to time she
rose (from her work) and peeped about, and once, while doing this,
found by chance an ant-eater’s hole. Still further spying about, she
perceived some men, but they did not see her. She then returned and
continued digging with the other girls, without, however, saying
anything. But in the midst of their work she always rose and looked
about her. So the others asked her, “Why do you always spy about you,
and leave off digging? What a girl!” But she continued her work in
silence. When she rose from it again, she saw the men approaching. As
they drew near the One-eyed blew through a reed pipe the following
air:—
“To-day there shall blood flow, blood flow, blood flow!”
The little girl understood what was blown on the reed. She said to the
elder ones, whilst they were dancing, “Do you also understand the tune
that is blown on the reed?” But they only said, “What a child she is!”
So she mixed in the dance with the others; but managed while so doing
to tie her sister’s caross-cloak to her own, and in this manner they
danced on, till it became very noisy, and then they found an
opportunity to slip away.
On their way out the little sister asked, “Do you understand the reed—I
mean what is blown on it?” She answered, “I do not understand it.” Then
the little girl explained to her that the tune on the reed said,
“To-day blood shall flow!” When they walked along, the little girl let
her elder sister go first, and herself followed, walking backwards, and
carefully stepping in her sister’s traces, so that they thus left only
one set of footmarks, and these going in a contrary direction. In this
manner they arrived at the ant-eater’s hole.
But the men killed all those girls who had remained dancing with them.
When the eldest of those who had escaped heard their wailing, she said,
“Alas, my sisters!” But the younger one answered her, “Do you think you
would have lived if you had remained there?”
Now “One-eye” was the first to miss the sisters, and said to the other
men, “Where may the two handsome girls be who danced with me?” The
others replied, “He lies. He has seen with his eye” (satirically
meaning he had seen wrongly). But “One-eye” insisted that “two girls
were truly missing.” Then they went to find their spoor, but the traces
had been rendered indistinct enough to puzzle them.
When the men arrived at the ant-eater’s hole, they could not see that
the footmarks went further, so they spied into the hole, but saw
nothing. Then “One-eye” looked also, and he saw the girls, and cried,
“There they sit.” The others now looked again, but still saw nothing;
for the girls had covered themselves with cobwebs.
One of the men then took an assegai, and piercing through the upper
part of the hole, hit the heel of the larger girl. But the little wise
woman took hold of the assegai, and wiped off the blood. The elder
sister was about to cry, but the little one warned her not.
When “One-eye” spied again, the little girl made big eyes at him. He
said, “There she sits.” The others looked too, but as they could see
nothing they said (satirically), “He has only seen with his eye.”
At last the men got thirsty, and said to “One-eye,” “Stay you here, and
let us go to drink, and when we have returned you may go also.”
When “One-eye” was left alone there, the little girl said (conjuring
him):
“You dirty son of your father,
Are you there? Are you alone not thirsty?
Oh, you dirty child of your father!
Dirty child of your father!”
“I am indeed thirsty,” said “One-eye,” and went away.
Then the two girls came out of the hole, and the younger one took her
elder sister on her back, and walked on. As they were going over the
bare, treeless plain, the men saw them, and said, “There they are, far
off,” and ran after them.
When they came near, the two girls turned themselves into thorn trees,
called “Wait-a-bit,” and the beads which they wore became gum on the
trees. The men then ate of the gum and fell asleep. Whilst they slept,
the girls smeared gum over the men’s eyes and went away, leaving them
lying in the sun.
The girls were already near their kraal, when “One-eye” awoke, and
said:
“Oh, the disgrace! fie on thee!
Our eyes are smeared over; fie on thee, my brother!”
Then they removed the gum from their eyes, and hunted after the girls;
but the latter reached home in safety, and told their parents what had
happened.
Then all lamented greatly, but they remained quietly at home, and did
not search for the other girls.
42. THE UNREASONABLE CHILD TO WHOM THE DOG GAVE ITS DESERTS;
OR, A RECEIPT FOR PUTTING ANY ONE TO SLEEP.
(The original, in the o Tyi-hereró or Dámara language, is in Sir G.
Grey’s Library, J. Rath’s Manuscript, pp. 39, 43.)
There was a little girl who had an eïngi (pronounced a-inghi, some kind
of fruit). She said to her Mother, “Mother, why is it that you do not
say, ‘My first-born, give me the eïngi?’ Do I refuse it?”
Her Mother said, “My first-born, give me the eïngi.” She gave it to her
and went away, and her Mother ate the eïngi.
When the child came back, she said, “Mother, give me my eïngi?” but her
Mother answered, “I have eaten the eïngi!”
The child said, “Mother, how is it that you have eaten my eïngi, which
I plucked from our tree?” The Mother then (to appease her) gave her a
needle.
The little girl went away and found her Father sewing thongs with
thorns; so she said, “Father, how is it that you sew with thorns? Why
do not you say, ‘My first-born, give me your needle?’ Do I refuse?” So
her Father said, “My first-born, give me your needle.” She gave it to
him and went away for a while. Her Father commenced sewing, but the
needle broke; when, therefore, the child came back and said, “Father,
give me my needle,” he answered, “The needle is broken;” but she
complained about it, saying, “Father, how is it that you break my
needle, which I got from Mother, who ate my eïngi, which I had plucked
from our tree?” Her Father then gave her an axe.
Going farther on she met the lads who were in charge of the cattle.
They were busy taking out honey, and in order to get at it they were
obliged to cut down the trees with stones. She addressed them: “Our
sons, how is it that you use stones in order to get at the honey? Why
do not you say, ‘Our first-born, give us the axe?’ Do I refuse, or what
do I?” They said, “Our first-born, give us the axe.” So she gave it
them, and went away for some time. The axe broke entirely. When she
came back she asked, “Where is the axe? Please give it me.” They
answered, “The axe is broken.” She then said, “How is it that you break
my axe, which I had received from Father who had broken my needle,
which I got from Mother who had eaten my eïngi, which I had plucked
from our tree?” But they gave her some honey (to comfort her).
She went her way again, and met a little old woman, eating insects, to
whom she said, “Little old woman, how is it that you eat insects? Why
don’t you say, ‘My first-born, give me honey?’ Do I refuse or not?”
Then the little old woman asked, “My first-born, give me honey.” She
gave it her and went away; but presently returning, said, “Little old
woman, let me have my honey!” Now the old woman had managed to eat it
all during her absence, so she answered, “Oh! I have eaten the honey!”
So the child complained, saying, “How is it that you eat my honey,
which I received from the lads of our cattle, from our children who had
broken my axe, which had been given me by Father who had broken my
needle, which was a present from my Mother who had eaten up my eïngi,
that I had plucked from our tree?”
The little old woman gave her food, and she went away. This time she
came to the pheasants, who scratched the ground; and she said,
“Pheasants! how is it that you scratch the ground? Why do not you say,
‘First-born, give us food?’ Do I refuse, or what do I?” They said,
“First-born, give.” So she gave to them, and went away. When she came
back and demanded her food again, they said, “We have eaten the food.”
She asked, “How is it that you eat my food, which I had received from a
little old woman who had eaten up my honey, that I had got from the
lads of our cattle who had broken my axe, which had been given me by my
Father who had broken my needle, which was a present from my Mother who
had eaten my eïngi, which I had plucked from our tree?” The pheasants,
flying up, pulled out each one a feather and threw them down to the
little girl.
She then, walking along, met the children who watched the sheep. They
were plucking out hairs from the sheep-skins. So she asked them, “How
is it that you pull at these skins? Why do not you say, ‘First-born,
give us the feathers?’ Do I refuse, or what do I?” They said,
“First-born, give us the feathers.” She gave them and went away, but
all the feathers broke. When she returned and said, “Give me my
feathers,” they answered, “The feathers are broken.” Then she
complained, “Do you break my feathers which I received from the
pheasants who had eaten my food, which had been given me by a little
old woman?” They gave her some milk.
She went again on her way, and found their own handsome dog gnawing
bones. She said, “Our dog, how is it that you gnaw these bones?” The
dog answered, “Give me milk.” She gave it him, and he drank it all.
Then she said to the dog, “Give me back my milk.” He said, “I drank
it.” She then repeated the same words which she had spoken so often
before; but the dog ran away, and when she pursued him, he scampered up
a tree. She climbed up after him, but the dog jumped down again on the
other side. She wanted to do the same, but could not. Then she said,
“Our dog, please help me down.” He answered, “Why did you pursue me?”
and ran away leaving her up the tree.
“That is enough,” say the Damara.