Long ago a young hunter said to his mother, “I will go and hunt for
buffalo.” But she answered, “It is far to go, and evil may befall you!
Tarry a little, my son.”
So he laid away his bow and spear and stayed at her bidding. That
was in winter; but when the spring rains had washed the earth clean
and bright and carpeted the prairie with flowers, again he took his
weapons, and, resisting all pleading, he went away from his village
just as the sun rose.
The prairie grass was sweet and cool to his feet; the larks were
calling cheerily, and his heart was very happy; and he went on, miles
and miles away from home, until the sun told him it was noon; so he
stopped at a spring to eat the parched corn his mother had given him.
Bending to drink, he saw a leaf floating on the water, and on it a
wounded cricket. It chirped feebly, and the young hunter cried, “No,
little brother, you shall not drown!” and took him out of the water.
Resting on a grass blade, the grateful insect shrilled its thanks, and
said:
“Across the prairie is a purple hill. On this hillside you will find
something worth seeking; but take care to keep what first comes to you,
for if you do not, you will mourn all your life.”
The young hunter laughed at the thought of finding something on the
hillside and mourning all his life; yet he promised to be careful, and
went on his way.
Although he walked far, he found nothing. At last, tired and hungry,
he decided to go home, yet, knowing how the villagers would laugh if
he returned empty-handed, thought to hunt a little longer. So, though
the sun was down and the stars were out, he persevered, until in the
distance he saw a purple hill outlined against the dying fire of the
sunset.
Remembering the cricket’s promise, he hastened on, and just as twilight
faded into night, he discerned, among the trees upon the hillside, a
globe of light, and heard delicious music.
Down, down the dazzling ball floated to the foot of the hill, and
he saw that it was a great golden basket, out of which sprang twelve
lovely maidens in gossamer robes like moonlight. Joining hands, their
music swelled into a song, to which they danced in and out among the
trees, while fireflies flitted through the dusk and the starlight fell
soft and pale over the prairie.
In vain he called to them; they did not heed, but wove in and out in
their graceful dance, singing sweetly. Their long, dark hair hung over
their glittering robes like dusky mantles, and their faces were like
lilies and roses, save one who moved more lightly than the rest. Her
face was like a pearl, her eyes two sapphires darkly blue, and her hair
fell in a shower of gold to her feet.
Of all the beautiful ones, this one seemed the brightest, and the
hunter followed them, vainly endeavoring to stay her, though she moved
on softly as a cloud.
But at last the dancing feet paused, the song died away into a sweet
refrain. With beating heart and panting breath, the young hunter came
near and stretched out eager hands towards the brightest one; but she
glided away, leaving in her stead one of the darker beauties. Then,
forgetful of the cricket’s warning, he released her and sprang forward
with a cry, clasping the maiden he desired. Her bright hair sweeping
over him obscured his sight for a moment, but he heard a plaintive
minor chord, which died away in the distance, and when he could see,
the dancers were fled, leaving the golden-haired maiden alone with him.
There in the starlight he wooed her. But she told him she was not of
his kind and that it would not be well for him to take her for wife.
But he would not have no for answer, and when she refused him, wept,
and said she would go with him. Then he kissed her, and she took his
hand and went back with him to his people. So the hunter did not return
from his hunt empty-handed.
The village people marveled at her beauty and did homage to her. But in
private his mother wept, saying, “He has wed a daughter of the stars,
and he cannot be happy.”
But the star maiden, though she did not mingle with the people nor join
in the work of the women, seemed to love her husband very much. And at
night, when the village slept and the fires were low, she would sit
out upon the prairie with his head on her lap and sing him songs of
the sky, or tell tales of her beautiful home beyond the seven golden
mountains, across the seven golden bridges, in the land of the seven
golden fountains; and it seemed to the young hunter that he was the
happiest man in all the world.
Autumn came; the flowers faded, the grass grew sear upon the prairie,
and the men of the village said, “Come, it is time for the fall hunt.”
So, sorrowfully he bade his beautiful wife good-by and set off for the
hunting-ground. When night was come and the village all asleep, the
hunter’s mother was awakened by a soft sighing, and, looking up, saw
that her son’s wife stood at the tepee door with her hand stretched
up to the stars. And when the mother asked why the young wife sighed,
she answered, “O mother dear, I long for home.” Then she began a sad,
sweet song that made the tears stand in the old mother’s eyes; but its
music soon lulled her to sleep, and when she awoke it was morning, and
the young wife was gone. But by and by she came with her robe full of
rushes and her feet all wet with dew, for she had walked far over the
sear grass to a little pond where they grew.
When the hunter’s mother asked what she did with the rushes, she
answered, “I shall weave a basket,” and she sat all day weaving and
weaving; but though the basket grew under her skilful fingers, night
came and it was not finished.
And that night she sighed as before and said, “Mother dear, I long for
home.” And in the morning she was gone, but presently came again with
more rushes, and sat to weave as before; and when the old mother said,
“Daughter, you weave a great basket,” she answered, “Not greater than
my need, mother,” and worked away until nightfall, when it was finished.
“How pleased your husband will be, daughter, at the fine basket you
have woven, when he comes on the morrow!” But the son’s wife answered,
“Nay, he will like it not,” and fell to sighing in the night as before,
and answered the mother’s questionings with “Ah, mother dear, I long
for home!”
Then she sang a sad, sweet strain in her own language. “Why, it is as
if it were farewell!” cried the mother; but her eyes grew heavy, and
when she awoke, her daughter was gone, and the great basket, too.
When noon had come and the wife did not return, she was afraid, and
when at night her son, laden with game, entered the village with the
rest of the hunters amid the shouts of the people, he cried, “Mother,
where is my wife?”
The mother wept and could not tell him.
All night the people of the village searched and called, all night
their torches lit the prairie, but no trace of the beautiful wife could
they find; and at last, worn and spent, the young hunter staggered into
his mother’s tepee at daybreak and fell asleep on a mat before the
fire, and in a dream he thought his wife came to him and kissed him,
that her golden hair swept over his breast and her tears fell upon his
face. Then a plaintive minor chord sounded through the tepee, and he
awoke.
On his cheek was a drop of water like a splash of rain, and upon his
breast lay one long golden hair; but his bride was not there. Days went
by, but she did not return, and finally the young hunter made a long
journey to a wise woman who, when she heard his story, shook her head
and said, as had his mother, “You wedded a daughter of the stars and
you could not be happy, for she could never be satisfied with earth
life, and longed for home. So she made a basket of rushes secretly, and
by help of a charm ascended to her father.”
Weeping bitterly, the hunter went away over the dreary prairie. The
snow fell fast and the cold winds wailed about him.
On, on he went, not knowing whither, until in the chill dusk of a
winter’s twilight, he saw in the distance the purple hill where he had
wooed his star maiden.
In vain hope of her return, he tried to reach it, but, weary and spent
with sorrow, his limbs refused to carry him farther, and he sank down
as the night closed over the prairie and fell asleep. Then the soft
snow covered him with its white blanket and he never woke again.
Years have gone, and the people of the young hunter have vanished like
the daughter of the stars, but the springtime still brings the flowers
to deck the prairie and the fireflies still flit at evening among the
trees on the purple hill, and if you will walk there in the gathering
twilight, you will hear the plaintive call sounding from the hillside.
Sweet, low, and sad it rings out, never changing its mournful cadence.
They say it is a night bird which sings there when daylight is fading,
but it is the spirit of the young hunter calling to the daughter of the
stars.