and come to their rescue. They were chasing us, while we followed the
birds. It was really a perilous encounter! Our strong bows finally
gained the victory in a hand-to-hand struggle with the angry cranes;
but after that we hardly ever hunted a crane's nest. Almost all birds
make some resistance when their eggs or young are taken, but they will
seldom attack man fearlessly.
We used to climb large trees for birds of all kinds; but we never
undertook to get young owls unless they were on the ground. The hooting
owl especially is a dangerous bird to attack under these circumstances.
I was once trying to catch a yellow-winged woodpecker in its nest when
my arm became twisted and lodged in the deep hole so that I could not
get it out without the aid of a knife; but we were a long way from home
and my only companion was a deaf-mute cousin of mine. I was about fifty
feet up in the tree, in a very uncomfortable position, but I had to
wait there for more than an hour before he brought me the knife with
which I finally released myself.
Our devices for trapping small animals were rude, but they were often
successful. For instance, we used to gather up a peck or so of large,
sharp-pointed burrs and scatter them in the rabbit's furrow-like path.
In the morning, we would find the little fellow sitting quietly in his
tracks, unable to move, for the burrs stuck to his feet.
Another way of snaring rabbits and grouse was the following: We made
nooses of twisted horse-hair, which we tied very firmly to the top of a
limber young tree, then bent the latter down to the track and fastened
the whole with a slip-knot, after adjusting the noose. When the rabbit
runs his head through the noose, he pulls the slip-knot and is quickly
carried up by the spring of the young tree. This is a good plan, for
the rabbit is out of harm's way as he swings high in the air.
Perhaps the most enjoyable of all was the chipmunk hunt. We killed
these animals at any time of year, but the special time to hunt them
was in March. After the first thaw, the chipmunks burrow a hole through
the snow crust and make their first appearance for the season.
Sometimes as many as fifty will come together and hold a social
reunion. These gatherings occur early in the morning, from daybreak to
about nine o'clock.
We boys learned this, among other secrets of nature, and got our
blunt-headed arrows together in good season for the chipmunk
expedition.
We generally went in groups of six to a dozen or fifteen, to see which
would get the most. On the evening before, we selected several boys who
could imitate the chipmunk's call with wild oat-straws and each of
these provided himself with a supply of straws.
The crust will hold the boys nicely at this time of the year. Bright
and early, they all come together at the appointed place, from which
each group starts out in a different direction, agreeing to meet
somewhere at a given position of the sun.
My first experience of this kind is still well remembered. It was a
fine crisp March morning, and the sun had not yet shown himself among
the distant tree-tops as we hurried along through the ghostly wood.
Presently we arrived at a place where there were many signs of the
animals. Then each of us selected a tree and took up his position
behind it. The chipmunk-caller sat upon a log as motionless as he
could, and began to call.
Soon we heard the patter of little feet on the hard snow; then we saw
the chipmunks approaching from all directions. Some stopped and ran
experimentally up a tree or a log, as if uncertain of the exact
direction of the call; others chased one another about.
In a few minutes, the chipmunk-caller was besieged with them. Some ran
all over his person, others under him and still others ran up the tree
against which he was sitting. Each boy remained immovable until their
leader gave the signal; then a great shout arose, and the chipmunks in
their flight all ran up the different trees.
Now the shooting-match began. The little creatures seemed to realize
their hopeless position; they would try again and again to come down
the trees and flee away from the deadly aim of the youthful hunters.
But they were shot down very fast; and whenever several of them rushed
toward the ground, the little redskin hugged the tree and yelled
frantically to scare them up again.
Each boy shoots always against the trunk of the tree, so that the arrow
may bound back to him every time; otherwise, when he had shot away all
of them, he would be helpless, and another, who had cleared his own
tree, would come and take away his game, so there was warm competition.
Sometimes a desperate chipmunk would jump from the top of the tree in
order to escape, which was considered a joke on the boy who lost it and
a triumph for the brave little animal. At last all were killed or gone,
and then we went on to another place, keeping up the sport until the
sun came out and the chipmunks refused to answer the call.
VII
EVENING IN THE LODGE
I had been skating on that part of the lake where there was an
overflow, and came home somewhat cold. I cannot say just how cold it
was, but it must have been intensely so, for the trees were cracking
all about me like pistol-shots. I did not mind, because I was wrapped
up in my buffalo robe with the hair inside, and a wide leather belt
held it about my loins. My skates were nothing more than strips of
basswood bark bound upon my feet.
I had taken off my frozen moccasins and put on dry ones in their
places.
"Where have you been and what have you been doing?" Uncheedah asked as
she placed before me some roast venison in a wooden bowl. "Did you see
any tracks of moose or bear?"
"No, grandmother, I have only been playing at the lower end of the
lake. I have something to ask you," I said, eating my dinner and supper
together with all the relish of a hungry boy who has been skating in
the cold for half a day.
"I found this feather, grandmother, and I could not make out what tribe
wear feathers in that shape."
"Ugh, I am not a man; you had better ask your uncle. Besides, you
should know it yourself by this time. You are now old enough to think
about eagle feathers."
I felt mortified by this reminder of my ignorance. It seemed a
reflection on me that I was not ambitious enough to have found all such
matters out before.
"Uncle, you will tell me, won't you?" I said, in an appealing tone.
"I am surprised, my boy, that you should fail to recognize this
feather. It is a Cree medicine feather, and not a warrior's."
"Then," I said, with much embarrassment, "you had better tell me again,
uncle, the language of the feathers. I have really forgotten it all."
The day was now gone; the moon had risen; but the cold had not
lessened, for the trunks of the trees were still snapping all around
our teepee, which was lighted and warmed by the immense logs which
Uncheedah's industry had provided. My uncle, White Footprint, now
undertook to explain to me the significance of the eagle's feather.
"The eagle is the most war-like bird," he began, "and the most kingly
of all birds; besides, his feathers are unlike any others, and these
are the reasons why they are used by our people to signify deeds of
bravery.
"It is not true that when a man wears a feather bonnet, each one of the
feathers represents the killing of a foe or even a _coup_. When a man
wears an eagle feather upright upon his head, he is supposed to have
counted one of four _coups_ upon his enemy."
"Well, then, a _coup_ does not mean the killing of an enemy?"
"No, it is the after-stroke or touching of the body after he falls. It
is so ordered, because oftentimes the touching of an enemy is much more
difficult to accomplish than the shooting of one from a distance. It
requires a strong heart to face the whole body of the enemy, in order
to count the _coup_ on the fallen one, who lies under cover of his
kinsmen's fire. Many a brave man has been lost in the attempt.
"When a warrior approaches his foe, dead or alive, he calls upon the
other warriors to witness by saying: 'I, Fearless Bear, your brave,
again perform the brave deed of counting the first (or second or third
or fourth) _coup_ upon the body of the bravest of your enemies.'
Naturally, those who are present will see the act and be able to
testify to it. When they return, the heralds, as you know, announce
publicly all such deeds of valor, which then become a part of the man's
war record. Any brave who would wear the eagle's feather must give
proof of his right to do so.
"When a brave is wounded in the same battle where he counted his
_coup_, he wears the feather hanging downward. When he is wounded, but
makes no count, he trims his feather, and in that case it need not be
an eagle feather. All other feathers are merely ornaments. When a
warrior wears a feather with a round mark, it means that he slew his
enemy. When the mark is cut into the feather and painted red, it means
that he took the scalp.
"A brave who has been successful in ten battles is entitled to a
war-bonnet; and if he is a recognized leader, he is permitted to wear
one with long, trailing plumes. Also those who have counted many
_coups_ may tip the ends of the feathers with bits of white or colored
down. Sometimes the eagle feather is tipped with a strip of weasel
skin; that means the wearer had the honor of killing, scalping and
counting the first _coup_ upon the enemy all at the same time.
"This feather you have found was worn by a Cree--it is indiscriminately
painted. All other feathers worn by the common Indians mean nothing,"
he added.
"Tell me, uncle, whether it would be proper for me to wear any feathers
at all if I have never gone upon the war-path."
"You could wear any other kind of feathers, but not an eagle's,"
replied my uncle, "although sometimes one is worn on great occasions by
the child of a noted man, to indicate the father's dignity and
position."
The fire had gone down somewhat, so I pushed the embers together and
wrapped my robe more closely about me. Now and then the ice on the lake
would burst with a loud report like thunder. Uncheedah was busy
re-stringing one of uncle's old snow-shoes. There were two different
kinds that he wore; one with a straight toe and long; the other shorter
and with an upturned toe. She had one of the shoes fastened toe down,
between sticks driven into the ground, while she put in some new
strings and tightened the others. Aunt Four Stars was beading a new
pair of moccasins.
Wabeda, the dog, the companion of my boyhood days, was in trouble
because he insisted upon bringing his extra bone into the teepee, while
Uncheedah was determined that he should not. I sympathized with him,
because I saw the matter as he did. If he should bury it in the snow
outside, I knew Shunktokecha (the coyote) would surely steal it. I knew
just how anxious Wabeda was about his bone. It was a fat bone--I mean a
bone of a fat deer; and all Indians know how much better they are than
the other kind.
Wabeda always hated to see a good thing go to waste. His eyes spoke
words to me, for he and I had been friends for a long time. When I was
afraid of anything in the woods, he would get in front of me at once
and gently wag his tail. He always made it a point to look directly in
my face. His kind, large eyes gave me a thousand assurances. When I was
perplexed, he would hang about me until he understood the situation.
Many times I believed he saved my life by uttering the dog word in
time.
Most animals, even the dangerous grizzly, do not care to be seen when
the two-legged kind and his dog are about. When I feared a surprise by
a bear or a gray wolf, I would say to Wabeda: "Now, my dog, give your
war-whoop!" and immediately he would sit up on his haunches and bark
"to beat the band," as you white boys say. When a bear or wolf heard
the noise, he would be apt to retreat.
Sometimes I helped Wabeda and gave a war-whoop of my own. This drove
the deer away as well, but it relieved my mind.
When he appealed to me on this occasion, therefore, I said: "Come, my
dog, let us bury your bone so that no Shunktokecha will take it."
He appeared satisfied with my suggestion, so we went out together.
We dug in the snow and buried our bone wrapped up in a piece of old
blanket, partly burned; then we covered it up again with snow. We knew
that the coyote would not touch anything burnt. I did not put it up a
tree because Wabeda always objected to that, and I made it a point to
consult his wishes whenever I could.
I came in and Wabeda followed me with two short rib bones in his mouth.
Apparently he did not care to risk those delicacies.
"There," exclaimed Uncheedah, "you still insist upon bringing in some
sort of bone!" but I begged her to let him gnaw them inside because it
was so cold. Having been granted this privilege, he settled himself at
my back and I became absorbed in some specially nice arrows that uncle
was making.
"Oh, uncle, you must put on three feathers to all of them so that they
can fly straight," I suggested.
"Yes, but if there are only two feathers, they will fly faster," he
answered.
"Woow!" Wabeda uttered his suspicions.
"Woow!" he said again, and rushed for the entrance of the teepee. He
kicked me over as he went and scattered the burning embers.
"En na he na!" Uncheedah exclaimed, but he was already outside.
"Wow, wow, wow! Wow, wow, wow!"
A deep guttural voice answered him. Out I rushed with my bow and arrows
in my hand.
"Come, uncle, come! A big cinnamon bear!" I shouted as I emerged from
the teepee.
Uncle sprang out, and in a moment he had sent a swift arrow through the
bear's heart. The animal fell dead. He had just begun to dig up
Wabeda's bone, when the dog's quick ear had heard the sound.
"Ah, uncle, Wabeda and I ought to have at least a little eaglet's
feather for this! I too sent my small arrow into the bear before he
fell," I exclaimed. "But I thought all bears ought to be in their
lodges in the winter time. What was this one doing at this time of the
year and night?"
"Well," said my uncle, "I will tell you. Among the tribes, some are
naturally lazy. The cinnamon bear is the lazy one of his tribe. He
alone sleeps out of doors in the winter, and because he has not a warm
bed, he is soon hungry. Sometimes he lives in the hollow trunk of a
tree, where he has made a bed of dry grass; but when the night is very
cold, like to-night, he has to move about to keep himself from
freezing, and as he prowls around, he gets hungry."
We dragged the huge carcass within our lodge. "Oh, what nice claws he
has, uncle!" I exclaimed eagerly. "Can I have them for my necklace?"
[Illustration: "Oh, what nice claws he has, uncle!" I exclaimed
eagerly. _Page 69._]
"It is only the old medicine-men who wear them regularly. The son of a
great warrior who has killed a grizzly may wear them upon a public
occasion," he explained.
"And you are just like my father and are considered the best hunter
among the Santees and Sissetons. You have killed many grizzlies, so
that no one can object to my bear's-claw necklace," I said appealingly.
White Foot-print smiled. "My boy, you shall have them," he said, "but
it is always better to earn them yourself." He cut the claws off
carefully for my use.
"Tell me, uncle, whether you could wear these claws all the time?" I
asked.
"Yes, I am entitled to wear them, but they are so heavy and
uncomfortable," he replied, with a superior air.
At last the bear had been skinned and dressed and we all resumed our
usual places. Uncheedah was particularly pleased to have some more fat
for her cooking.
"Now, grandmother, tell me the story of the bear's fat. I shall be so
happy if you will," I begged.
"It is a good story and it is true. You should know it by heart and
gain a lesson from it," she replied. "It was in the forests of
Minnesota, in the country that now belongs to the Ojibways. From the
Bedawakanton Sioux village a young married couple went into the woods
to get fresh venison. The snow was deep; the ice was thick. Far away in
the woods they pitched their lonely teepee. The young man was a
well-known hunter and his wife a good maiden of the village.
"He hunted entirely on snow-shoes, because the snow was very deep. His
wife had to wear snow-shoes too, to get to the spot where they pitched
their tent. It was thawing the day they went out, so their path was
distinct after the freeze came again.
"The young man killed many deer and bears. His wife was very busy
curing the meat and trying out the fat while he was away hunting each
day. In the evenings she kept on trying the fat. He sat on one side of
the teepee and she on the other.
"One evening, she had just lowered a kettle of fat to cool, and as she
looked into the hot fat she saw the face of an Ojibway scout looking
down at them through the smoke-hole. She said nothing, nor did she
betray herself in any way.
"After a little she said to her husband in a natural voice:
'Marpeetopah, some one is looking at us through the smoke-hole, and I
think it is an enemy's scout.'
"Then Marpeetopah (Four-skies) took up his bow and arrows and began to
straighten and dry them for the next day's hunt, talking and laughing
meanwhile. Suddenly he turned and sent an arrow upward, killing the
Ojibway, who fell dead at their door.
"'Quick, Wadutah!' he exclaimed; 'you must hurry home upon our trail. I
will stay here. When this scout does not return, the war-party may come
in a body or send another scout. If only one comes, I can soon dispatch
him and then I will follow you. If I do not do that, they will overtake
us in our flight.'
"Wadutah (Scarlet) protested and begged to be allowed to stay with her
husband, but at last she came away to get re-inforcements.
"Then Marpeetopah (Four-skies) put more sticks on the fire so that the
teepee might be brightly lit and show him the way. He then took the
scalp of the enemy and proceeded on his track, until he came to the
upturned root of a great tree. There he spread out his arrows and laid
out his tomahawk.
"Soon two more scouts were sent by the Ojibway war-party to see what
was the trouble and why the first one failed to come back. He heard
them as they approached. They were on snow-shoes. When they came close
to him, he shot an arrow into the foremost. As for the other, in his
effort to turn quickly his snow-shoes stuck in the deep snow and
detained him, so Marpeetopah killed them both.
"Quickly he took the scalps and followed Wadutah. He ran hard. But the
Ojibways suspected something wrong and came to the lonely teepee, to
find all their scouts had been killed. They followed the path of
Marpeetopah and Wadutah to the main village, and there a great battle
was fought on the ice. Many were killed on both sides. It was after
this that the Sioux moved to the Mississippi river."
I was sleepy by this time and I rolled myself up in my buffalo robe and
fell asleep.
PART TWO
STORIES OF REAL INDIANS
I
WINONA'S CHILDHOOD
Hush, hushaby, little woman!
Be brave and weep not!
The spirits sleep not;
'Tis they who ordain
To woman, pain.
Hush, hushaby, little woman!
Now, all things bearing,
A new gift sharing
From those above--
To woman, love.
_--Sioux Lullaby._
"Chinto, weyanna! Yes, indeed; she is a real little woman," declares
the old grandmother, as she receives and critically examines the tiny
bit of humanity.
There is no remark as to the color of its hair or eyes, both so black
as almost to be blue, but the old woman scans sharply the delicate
profile of the baby face.
"Ah, she has the nose of her ancestors! Lips thin as a leaf, and eyes
bright as stars in midwinter!" she exclaims, as she passes on the furry
bundle to the other grandmother for her inspection.
"Tokee! she is pretty enough to win a twinkle from the evening star,"
remarks that smiling personage.
"And what shall her name be?
"Winona, the First-born, of course. That is hers by right of birth."
"Still, it may not fit her. One must prove herself worthy in order to
retain that honorable name."
"Ugh," retorts the first grandmother, "she can at least bear it on
probation!"
"Tosh, tosh," the other assents.
Thus the unconscious little Winona has passed the first stage of the
Indian's christening.
Presently she is folded into a soft white doeskin, well lined with the
loose down of cattails, and snugly laced into an upright oaken cradle,
the front of which is a richly embroidered buckskin bag, with porcupine
quills and deer's hoofs suspended from its profuse fringes. This gay
cradle is strapped upon the second grandmother's back, and that
dignitary walks off with the newcomer.
"You must come with me," she says. "We shall go among the father and
mother trees, and hear them speak with their thousand tongues, that you
may know their language forever. I will hang the cradle of the
woman-child upon Utuhu, the oak; and she shall hear the love-sighs of
the pine maiden!"
In this fashion Winona is introduced to nature and becomes at once
"nature-born," in accord with the beliefs and practices of the wild red
man.
The baby girl is called Winona for some months, when the medicine-man
is summoned and requested to name publicly the first-born daughter of
Chetonska, the White Hawk; but not until he has received a present of a
good pony with a finely painted buffalo-robe. It is usual to confer
another name besides that of the "First-born," which may be resumed
later if the maiden proves worthy. The name Winona implies much of
honor. It means charitable, kind, helpful; all that an eldest sister
should be!
The herald goes around the ring of lodges announcing in singsong
fashion the christening, and inviting everybody to a feast in honor of
the event. A real American christening is always a gala occasion, when
much savage wealth is distributed among the poor and old people. Winona
has only just walked, and this fact is also announced with additional
gifts. A well-born child is ever before the tribal eye and in the
tribal ear, as every little step in its progress toward manhood or
womanhood--the first time of walking or swimming, first shot with bow
and arrow (if a boy), first pair of moccasins made (if a girl)--is
announced publicly with feasting and the giving of presents.
So Winona receives her individual name of Tatiyopa, or Her Door. It is
symbolic, like most Indian names, and implies that the door of the
bearer is hospitable and her home attractive.
The two grandmothers, who have carried the little maiden upon their
backs, now tell and sing to her by turns all the legends of their most
noted female ancestors, from the twin sisters of the old story, the
maidens who married among the star people of the sky, down to their own
mothers. All their lullabies are feminine, and designed to impress upon
her tender mind the life and duties of her sex.
As soon as she is old enough to play with dolls, she plays mother in
all seriousness and gravity. She is dressed like a miniature woman (and
her dolls are clad likewise), in garments of doeskin to her ankles,
adorned with long fringes, embroidered with porcupine quills, and dyed
with root dyes in various colors. Her little blanket or robe, with
which she shyly drapes or screens her head and shoulders, is the skin
of a buffalo calf or a deer, soft, white, embroidered on the smooth
side, and often with the head and hoofs left on.
"You must never forget, my little daughter, that you are a woman like
myself. Do always those things that you see me do," her mother often
admonishes her.
Even the language of the Sioux has its feminine dialect, and the tiny
girl would be greatly abashed were it ever needful to correct her for
using a masculine termination.
This mother makes for her little daughter a miniature copy of every
rude tool that she uses in her daily tasks. There is a little scraper
of elk-horn to scrape raw-hides preparatory to tanning them, another
scraper of a different shape for tanning, bone knives, and stone
mallets for pounding choke-cherries and jerked meat.
While her mother is bending over a large buffalo-hide stretched and
pinned upon the ground, standing upon it and scraping off the fleshy
portion as nimbly as a carpenter shaves a board with his plane, Winona,
at five years of age, stands upon a corner of the great hide and
industriously scrapes away with her tiny instrument. When the mother
stops to sharpen her tool, the little woman always sharpens hers also.
Perhaps there is water to be fetched in bags made from the dried
pericardium of an animal; the girl brings some in a smaller water-bag.
When her mother goes for wood she carries one or two sticks on her
back. She pitches her play teepee to form an exact copy of her
mother's. Her little belongings are nearly all practical, and her very
play is real!
II
WINONA'S GIRLHOOD
Braver than the bravest,
You sought honors at death's door;
Could you not remember
One who weeps at home--
Could you not remember me?