time of beginning the ceremonies varies but little from year to year,
the Hopi have poor memories for dates. No one knows his age, and many
of these villages seem to live within the shifting horizons of
yesterday and tomorrow. The priests, however, keep a record of the
ceremonies by adding to their _tiponi_, or palladium of their society,
a feather for each celebration. At Zuñi a record of the death of
priests of the war society is kept by making scratches on the face of
a large rock near a shrine, and by this method a Hopi woman keeps
count of the days from the child's birth to the natal ceremony. Ask a
Hopi when some event happened, and he will say, "_Pai he sat o_,"
meaning "some time ago, when my father was a boy"; stress on the word
means a longer time, and if the event was long beyond the memory of
man, the Indian will almost shake his head off with emphasis.
The only notched time-stick is that jealously guarded by the sun
priest, and no one knows just how he makes his calculations from it.
As for dinner time, the great sun and "the clock inside" attend to
that; _dawa yamu_, _dawa nashab_, and _dawa poki_ stand for "sunrise,"
"noonday," and "sunset." If the Hopi makes an appointment for a
special hour, he points to where the sun will be at that time. The
seasons are known to him in a general way as the time of the cold or
snow, the coming back of the sun (winter solstice), the time of bean
or corn planting, the time of green corn, the time of harvest, etc.,
but there is a calendar marked by the ceremonies held during each
month.
Perhaps these children of the sun are happier in not being slaves of
the second as we have become. Our watches, which they call _dawa_,
"the sun," have not bound them to the wheel by whose turning we seem
to advance. They are satisfied with the grander procession of the
heavenly bodies, and their days fade into happy forgetfulness.
An experience of several years ago may here be related in order to
show how the clan name of a Hopi is a veritable part of himself and
also links him to his clan and the most intimate religious and secular
life of the pueblo.
There was a jolly crowd of Hopi under the dense shade of a cottonwood
on the Little Colorado River one hot day in July. The mound of earth,
strewn with chips of flint and potsherds like a buried city on the
Euphrates, had yielded its secrets, and the house walls of the ancient
town of Homolobi resembled a huge honeycomb on the bluff.
The Hopi, who had worked like Trojans in laying bare the habitations
of their presumptive ancestors, were now assembled to receive their
wages in silver dollars, which they expressively call "little white
cakes." Around were scattered the various belongings of an Indian
camp, among which tin cans were prominent; a wind-break had been
constructed of cottonwood boughs; from the tree hung the shells of
turtles caught in the river; a quantity of wild tobacco was spread out
to dry in the sun, and several crop-eared burros hobbling about on
three legs were enjoying an unusually luxuriant pasture of sage-brush.
"Paying off" is surrounded with attractions for all sorts and
conditions of men. The Hopi seemed like a lot of children anticipating
a holiday, as they sat in a circle around Dr. Fewkes, who was
paymaster. This was their first experience, perhaps, with Government
"red tape," of whose intricacies they must have had but the faintest
idea. There are times when blissful ignorance is to be envied.
The "sub-vouchers" were filled out with the time of service and the
amount to be paid, and as the doctor's clerk called out the names, the
boys came forward to sign. An Indian sign his name! Curiously enough,
every Hopi from the least to the greatest can sign his name, and he
does not have to resort to the "X-mark" of our boasted civilization.
Perhaps it would be better to say "draws his name," for when the first
Indian grasped the pen in the most unfamiliar way imaginable, he drew
the picture of a rabbit, the next drew a tobacco plant, the third a
lizard, and so on, until the strangest collection of signatures that
ever graced a Government voucher-book was completed.
It must be explained that each Hopi has an everyday name which his
fond relatives devised for him during infancy, and a clan name, which
shows his blood relationship or family. Nowhere, even in these days of
ancestor hunting, is more importance given to family than in Hopiland.
If you ask, "Who is this man?" the answer may be, for instance,
"Kopeli," his individual name. "But what is he in Walpi?" "He is a
_chua_," that is, he belongs to the important Snake clan and his totem
signature is a crawling reptile.
It affords great amusement to the Hopi when a person, not acquainted
with their customs, asks a man his name; it is also very embarrassing
to the man asked, unless there is a third party at hand to volunteer
the service, because no Hopi can be prevailed on to speak his own name
for fear of the bad consequences following "giving himself away."
III
FOOD AND REARING
Indian legend tells of a time when all was water; then land was made;
for a long time the earth was too wet for human beings and at last the
earth was dried out by a mighty fire. All these are pretty stories for
those who are looking for deluge legends and the effects of blazing
comets, but if the Indian account is true, the drying process was
carried entirely too far in the Southwest. Water! water! water! The
word gains a new significance in this arid region. There is a
rippling, cooling, refreshing note in it, a soothing of parched lips
and a guaranty against death from thirst. So, all conversation among
the people is replete with references to this mainstay of life, and
one comes, like them, to discuss the water question with an earnest
regard for its problems.
Wherever there is water, almost always will there be found ancient
ruins. In modern times the windmill of the settler often stands by the
spring which quenched the thirst of the ancient inhabitants of a now
crumbling pueblo. The blessings which were invoked in Biblical times
upon the man who "digged a well" apply also in this semi-desert, for
Syria and Arizona do not differ greatly in climate. The Bedouin with
his horses and camels would not be out of place on the sand wastes of
our Sahara; nor were the Spanish conquerors on unfamiliar ground when
they exchanged the dusty plains and naked sierras of their native land
for those of the New World.
The traveler in Spain, northern Africa, or Asia Minor is impressed
with the similarity between these countries and our Southwest, so that
the name of New Spain, early applied by the Spaniards to all of
Mexico, seems very appropriate. Like these countries, too, our
Southwest is a land of thirst; the dry air and fervent sun parch the
skin and devour every trace of moisture. (One feels as though he were
placed under a bell glass exhausted of air undergoing the shriveling
process of the apple in the experiment.)
So, before taking a journey, one inquires not so much of the roads and
distances, but whether water may be found, for it is often necessary
to submit to that most unpleasant of contingencies, a "dry camp." Many
parts of Arizona and New Mexico cannot easily be visited except in
favorable seasons, because one is told, "it's a hundred miles to
water." The Hopi often provide for the long journeys across waterless
country by hiding water at points along the route. This wise
precaution, which was noticed by the Spanish explorers of the
sixteenth century, consists of burying sealed water-jars in the sand,
their situation being indicated by "signs." Far from the ancient or
modern habitation these jars, uncovered by the wind, are often
discovered by riders on the cattle ranges.
Not only must the dusty explorer "haul water," for even the railroads
across the semi-desert are provided with tank trains for water
service, and the water tanks of the huge locomotive tenders of all
trains are of unusual capacity.
Far out on the sandy, sage-brush plains are frequently seen small
cairns of stones, called by the knowing ones "Indian water signs,"
pointing out the direction of water, but the more common signs are the
trails made by cattle on which a myriad of tracks in the dust point to
water, miles away perhaps, and oftentimes, when the tracks are not
fresh, leading to a dried-up pool, surrounded by carcasses or
bleaching bones.
The Navaho herdsman or herdswoman is a person with great
responsibility, for the sheep and ponies must have water at least
every three or four days. When a well-defined thunder-storm passes
within twenty or thirty miles of his camp he starts for the path of
its influence, knowing that there will be pools of water and
quick-springing herbs and grass. This chasing a thunder-storm is
novel--and much more satisfactory than chasing a rainbow. Even the
wild cattle scent the water and make for it, running like race-horses.
As a matter of fact, the animals of the desert have of necessity
become used to doing without water. So far as one can determine, the
rats, mice, squirrels, badgers, coyotes, prairie-dogs, skunks, and
other denizens of the sand-wastes so rarely get a good drink of water
that they seem to have outgrown the need of it. Cattle and horses have
also developed such powers of abstinence as might put a camel to
shame. There is a belief in the Western country that at least one of
the burrows of a prairie-dog town penetrates to water, but whether
this be true or not, judging from some of the locations of these queer
animal villages the tribe of gophers must contain adepts in abysmal
engineering.
One does not live long in the wilds of Arizona without becoming
weatherwise and, perhaps, skilled in signs and trails like a
frontiersman. The country is so open that the weather for a hundred
miles or more can be taken in at a glance and the march of several
storms observed at once, even though the sound of wind and thunder be
far out of hearing. At Flagstaff, for instance, it is easy to tell
when the Hopi are rejoicing in a rain, although it is more than a
hundred miles away.
In a country with so little rainfall as Tusayan and in which the soil
consists largely of sand with underlying porous rocks, springs are few
and their flow scanty. The rivers, also, during most of the year, flow
far beneath their sandy beds, which only once in a while are torn by
raging torrents. This is one of the many novelties of a country that
probably offers more attractions than any land on earth.
Around the springs the life of the Hopi comes to a focus, for here, at
all hours of the day, women and girls may be seen filling their
canteens, getting them well adjusted in the blankets on their backs
for the toilsome climb up the trail. A feeling of admiration tinged
with pity arises for these sturdy little women who in the blanket tied
across the forehead literally by the sweat of their brows carry half a
hundredweight of water up a height of nearly half a thousand feet.
_Mang i uh_, "tired?" one asks them. _Okiowa mang i uh_, "Yes, alas,
very tired!" they answer, these slaves of the spring.
At the edge of the water in the spring, where nothing can disturb
them, are green-painted sticks with dangling feathers. These are
offerings to the gods who rule the water element. At none of the
frequent ceremonies of the Hopi are the springs forgotten, for a
messenger carries prayer-sticks to them and places them in the water.
In former times offerings of pottery and other objects were thrown
into springs by devout worshippers.
Around the springs are gardens in which onions and other "garden
sauce" are grown. When it is possible, a little rill is led from the
spring into the gardens. The growing greens lend much to the drear
surroundings of the springs, but the plants must be enclosed by a
stone wall to keep away marauding burros and goats.
At least one spring at each pueblo is dug out and enlarged, forming a
pool at the bottom of an excavation ten feet deep and thirty in
diameter, with a graded way leading down to the water. These springs
are convenient for watering the thirsty stock, but they are especially
used in the ceremonies. During the Flute Dance, for example, they form
the theater of an elaborate ceremony in which the priests wade in the
spring and blow their flutes in the water.
All the springs have been given descriptive names. At Walpi, there are
Dawapa, "sun spring"; Ishba, "wolf spring"; Canelba, "sheep spring";
Kokiungba, "spider spring"; Wipoba, "rush spring"; Kachinapa, "kachina
spring," and a number of others, around which cluster many
associations dear to the good people of the East Mesa. Like the Hopi,
every other human being who fares in the dry Southwest unconsciously
becomes a devotee of water worship and eventually finds himself in the
grip of the powers of Nature whom the Indians beseech for the
fertilizing rain.
Springs are often uncertain quantities in this region. Earthquakes
have been known to swallow up springs in one place and to cause them
to burst out at another far away. One can readily imagine what a
terrible calamity such a phenomenon can be in so dry a country, for
the only thing the people can do under such circumstances is to move
and to move quickly. It seems probable that some of the many ancient
Indian settlements that make the Southwest a ruin-strewn region have
been caused by just such fickleness in the water supply.
When modern engineering comes to the aid of the Hopi in storing the
occasional vast rushes of water for use throughout the year, a new era
will dawn for the Peaceful People. They may then become prosperous
farmers and gradually forget the days when they invoked the powers of
nature with strange charms and ceremonies.
If the Hopi know well the springs, they are not less perfect in
knowledge of plants that are useful to them. One day Kopeli, the
former Snake chief, undertook to teach his pupil, Kuktaimu, the lore
of the plants growing near the East Mesa. They set out for a flooded
cornfield near the wash, and long before they reached it, they could
hear the watchers emitting blood-curdling yells to scare away the
hated _angwishey_, crows, that from time to time made a dash for the
toothsome ears.
It goes without saying that the day was beautiful, for in August
thunder-cloud masses often fill the sky with graceful forms, tinted
beneath by a rosy glow reflected from the surface of the red plains.
The rain had started the vegetation anew and the deep green cornfields
showed its benign influences.
Kopeli was communicative, but Kuktaimu, although having been blessed
by Saalako with a Hopi name, was weak in the subtleties of Hopi speech
and missed many points to which, out of politeness, he responded
_Owi_, "yes." Still, the queer-sounding names of the plants and their
uses given by Kopeli were duly put down on paper, for which the Hopi
have a word which literally means _corn-husk_. On their journey around
the cornfields they met various groups of watchers, some reclining
beneath the sloping farm shelters of cottonwood boughs, some chatting
together or gnawing ears of corn roasted in a little fire. Everyone
requested matches and willingly assisted in conferences over plants of
which Kopeli might be doubtful. Boys with their bows and arrows tried
for shots at crows, and little girls minded the babies. Life in the
fields is full of enjoyment to the Hopi, and the children especially
delight to spend a day picnicking amidst the rustling corn-leaves.
The plants having been hunted out in the cornfields, Kopeli and
Kuktaimu sought higher ground among the rocks below the mesa, where
different species of plants grow. At the foot of the gray rocks are
found many plants of great medicinal and ceremonial value to the Hopi,
according to the Snake priest, who grew enthusiastic over a small
silvery specimen with pungent odor. "Very good medicine," he said. At
this juncture, when the plant had been carefully placed in the
collecting papers, Kopeli made a characteristic gesture by rapidly
sliding one of his palms over the other and said _pasha_, "all." The
nearness of the evening meal must have been the influence that caused
Kopeli to say that the flora of Tusayan had been exhausted in a
single day's search, for subsequent journeys about the mesas brought
to light many other plants that have place in Hopi botany.
It is surprising to find such a general knowledge of the plants of
their country as is met with among the Hopi. No doubt this wonder
arises among those who live the artificial life of the cities. The
Hopi is a true child of the desert and near to the desert's heart. His
surroundings do not furnish clear streams, grassy meadows, and massy
trees; there is much that is stern and barren at first glance, and
there is a meagerness except in vast outlooks and brilliant coloring.
Here Nature is stripped and all her outlines are revealed; the rocks,
plains and mountains stand out boldly in the clear air. Still, in all
this barrenness there is abundance of animal and vegetal life which
has adapted itself to the semi-desert, and if one becomes for the time
a Hopi, he may find in odd nooks and corners many things delightful
both to the eyes and the understanding.
There are few Hopi who do not know the herbs and simples, and some are
familiar with the plants that grow, in the mountains and canyons,
hundreds of miles from their villages. Even the children know many of
the herbs, and more than once I have successfully asked them for their
Indian names. This is not strange, because such things are a part of
their education and in this way they are in advance of the majority of
their civilized brothers. After a while the idea impresses one that
the Hopi depend on the crops of Nature's sowing as much as on the
products of their well-tilled fields. Many a time, as the legends
tell, the people were kept from famine by the plants of the desert,
which, good or bad seasons alike, thrust their gray-green shoots
through the dry sands, a reminder of the basis of all flesh.
Perhaps all the Hopi believe that the wild plants are most valuable
for healing and religious purposes, for the plants they use in
medicine would stock a primitive drug store. Bunches of dried herbs,
roots, etc., hang from the ceiling beams of every house, reminding one
of the mysterious bundles of "yarbs" in a negro cabin, and, as
occasion requires, are made into teas and powders for all sorts of
ills.
Hopi doctors have a theory and practice of medicine, just as have
their more learned white brethren. Without the remotest acquaintance
with the schools dividing the opinions of our medicine-afflicted race,
they unconsciously follow a number of the famous teachings. So, if a
patient has a prickling sensation in the throat a tea made from the
thistle will perform a cure, as "like cures like." The hairy seeds of
the clematis will make the hair grow, and the fruit of a prolific
creeping plant should be placed in the watermelon hills to insure many
melons. The leaves of a plant named for the bat are placed on the head
of a restless child to induce it to sleep in the daytime, because that
is the time the slothful bat sleeps. It is not often that Hopi
children require an application of bat-plant medicine, but even the
best of children get fractious sometimes.
Many are the strange uses of plants by the Hopi, and much curious lore
has gathered about them. Some of the plants are named for the animals
and insects which live upon them, such as "the caterpillar, his corn,"
"the mole, his corn"; while some, from fancied resemblances, are
called "rat's ear," "bat plant," "rattle plant," etc. Two plants
growing in company are believed to be related and one is spoken of as
the child of the other. Plants are also known as male and female, and
each belongs to its special point of the compass. Many are used in the
religious ceremonies; those beloved by the gods appear on the
prayer-sticks offered to beseech the kind offices of the nature
deities.
Strange as it may seem, the Hopi have medicine women as well as
medicine men. The best known of these is Saalako, the mother of the
Snake priest. She brews the dark medicine for the Snake dance and
guards the secret of the antidote for snake bites. The writer once met
at the place called "Broad House" a Navaho medicine man. He was a
wrinkled, grizzled specimen of humanity mounted on a burro and was
hunting for herbs, as was seen by a glance into the pouch which he
wore by his side. A little tobacco induced him to dismount and spread
out his store of herbs. When shown the writer's collection of plants,
he became much interested, no doubt believing that he had found a
fellow practitioner. He requested samples of several of the plants,
and when they were given him, stored them away in his pouch with every
evidence of satisfaction.
The Hopi priests are also very glad to receive any herb coming from
far off, especially from the sea-coast, "the land of the far water,"
as they call it. They treasure such carefully and mix it with sacred
smoking tobacco or introduce it into the "charm liquid" which is used
in every ceremony to mix the paint for the prayer-sticks and to
sprinkle during their strange rites.
An American farmer might be at a loss to recognize a Hopi cornfield
when he saw one. In the usually dry stream beds or "washes" he would
see low clumps of vegetation, arranged with some regularity over the
sand. This is the Hopi cornfield, so planted in order to get the
benefit of rains which, falling higher up, may fill the washes, for
the summer thunder-storms are very erratic in their favors.
The Hopi farmer sets out to plant, armed only with a dibble which
serves as plow, hoe, and cultivator combined. Arriving at the waste of
sand which is his unpromising seed-field, he sits down on the ground,
digs a hole, and puts in perhaps twenty grains, covering them with the
hands. Whether he has any rule like
One for the cutworm,
One for the crow,
One for luck,
is doubtful, but in the years when cutworms are likely to be
plentiful he plants more corn to the hill.
One hill finished, he gets up, moves away about ten feet, sits down,
and goes through the same process. He never thins the corn, but leaves
the numerous stalks close together for shade and protection from the
winds. His care of the field consists merely in hoeing the weeds and
keeping a watch on the crows, which he frightens away by demoniac
shouts. His scarecrows are also wonders of ingenuity, and many a time
one takes them for watchful Indians.
When the corn is fit for roasting ears the Hopi get fat and there is
feasting from morn till night. Tall columns of smoke arise from the
roasting pits in the fields. These large pits are dug in the sand,
heated with burning brush, filled with roasting ears, and closed up
tightly for a day. The opening of a pit is usually the occasion of
frolicking and feasting, where laughter and song prevail. Some of the
corn is consumed at once in making puddings and other dishes of which
the Hopi prepare many, and what remains is dried on the cob and hung
in bunches in the houses for the winter.
The ears of the Indian corn are close to the ground and are hidden by
the blades, which touch the sand. The blades are usually tattered and
blown away by the wind, so that by the time the corn is ripe, the
fodder is not of much value. The ripe corn is gathered and laboriously
carried by back-loads up the steep mesa to the houses, where it is
stored away in the corn chamber. Here the ears are piled up in
symmetrical walls, separate from the last year's crop, which may now
be used, as the Hopi, taught by famine, keep one year's harvest in
reserve. Once in a while, the women bring out the old corn, spread it
on the roof to sun, and carefully brush off each ear before returning
it to the granary, for in this dry country, though corn never molds,
insect pests are numerous.
Among the superstitions connected with corn the Hopi believe that the
cobs of the seed corn must not be burned until rain has fallen on the
crop for fear of keeping away or "drying up" the rains.
No cereal in the world is so beautiful as Hopi corn. The grains,
though small, are full and highly polished; the ears are white,
yellow, red of several shades, a lovely rose madder, blue, a very dark
blue or purple which the Hopi call black, and mottled. A tray of
shelled corn of various colors looks like a mosaic.