ANIMALS IN PRIMITIVE MYTHS
The stories now to be told belong to that very early time in human life,
when, as we learned in the last chapter, men regarded every thing in
nature as if it were gifted with life like themselves. The strange ideas
to which this belief gave rise are, of course, reflected in their myths.
Many of the stories have in them animals and plants which talk, while the
transformation of men into animals or animals into men or even gods into
animals, when animals are not actually worshipped is frequent.
The most curious of all these beliefs is that mankind is descended
from animals, all the more curious because some modern scientific men
have, as every one knows, tried to prove very much the same thing. The
modern scientist, however, does not have any especial reverence for
the antediluvian ape from which he supposes he may have evolved, while
the primitive savage regarded with awe and reverence the animals from
which he thought himself descended. Groups of savages called clans—all
tracing their descent from the same animal, considered that animal to
be especially their friend. They would not kill it or eat it, except in
a few instances when it was killed for the purposes of sacrifice. Many
different animals were regarded as ancestral animals, and became the sign
or totem, as it was called, of the tribe. Among totem animals may be
mentioned the following in Australia: Opossum, Swan, Duck, Fish. Most of
the Australian tribes declare that the family started by a transformation
of these animals into mankind. The North American Indians have a great
variety of totem animals: Wolf, Bear, Beaver, Turtle, Deer, Snipe, Heron,
Hawk, Crane, Duck, Loon, Turkey, Muskrat, Pike, Catfish, Carp, and so on.
It was an easy step for the savage from the belief in his own descent
from some animal to a belief in the sacredness and mystery of animals,
naturally leading to the worship of them. The Indians of Peru, for
example, regarded the dog as their most exalted deity. They set up the
image of a dog in their temples. They were also in the habit of choosing
a live dog as a representation of their deity. They worshipped this and
offered sacrifices to it, and when it was well fattened up they ate it
with solemn religious ceremonies. This is one of the cases where the
sacred animal was eaten. Serpent worship is one of the most wide-spread
forms of animal worship, an example of which is found among the Zulus
to whom certain species are sacred because they are supposed to be the
incarnations of ancestral spirits.
Another form which the sacred animal took was that of a supernatural
being not only concerned in the origin of men but who had a part to play
in the origin of the whole world.
In a large number of these myths, the water already existed and, also
of course, the remarkable animal who brought to pass such wonders. The
animal was sometimes very humble as in the story told by the Indians of
British Columbia of the creation of the world.
HOW A MUSKRAT MADE THE WORLD
In the beginning nothing existed but water and a muskrat. As the little
animal kept diving down to the bottom of the water in search of food,
his mouth became frequently filled with mud. This he spat out and so
gradually formed by alluvial deposit, an island, which grew and grew
until it finally became large enough to be the earth.
* * * * *
The natives of the Philippine Islands tell this story of the creation of
the world.
HOW THE KITE HELPED TO MAKE THE WORLD
The world at first consisted only of sky and water and between these two
there flew a kite. The kite became weary of flying about, and finding
no place to rest; so he set the water at variance with the sky. Then,
in order to keep the water within bounds and so that it should not get
uppermost, the sky loaded the water with a number of islands in which
the kite might settle and leave them at peace. Now, it happened that
floating about in the water was a large cane with two joints which was
at length thrown up by the waves at the feet of the kite as it stood on
the shore of one of the islands. The kite split open the cane with its
bill, and behold, a man came out of one joint and a woman out of the
other. They were soon after married by the consent of their god, Bathala
Meycapal, and from them are descended the different nations of the world.
* * * * *
In some stories, a fish instead of a bird or an animal is the maker of
the earth, while there is an interesting Polynesian myth in which the
earth itself was a fish and was fished up out of the waters with a fish
hook. The person who accomplished this remarkable feat was the youngest
of the Maui brothers, and the flower of the family, by all accounts. We
shall hear of him again in the chapter on child myths.
HOW MAUI FISHED UP THE EARTH
The youngest Maui was always very badly treated by his elder brothers.
They were in the habit of going off and leaving him alone at home with
nothing to do and nobody to play with. Their treatment of him at meals
was even more shocking. They would devour the best of every thing
themselves, and toss him a bone or offal to eat.
Finally, little Maui plucks up courage to assert himself, and the next
time his brothers go a-fishing, he takes his place in the boat and
insists on going, too. “Where is your hook,” ask the two brothers. “Oh
this will do,” says little Maui, taking out his ancestor’s jawbone. This
he throws overboard for his fish-hook, but on trying to pull it in again
he finds it very heavy. By hauling away at it, however, he at last lifts
it, and finds it has brought up the land from the bottom of the deep.
This land proved to be an extraordinary combination of an enormous fish
and an island with houses and men and animals on it.
* * * * *
The world supporting tortoise is a familiar mythological friend, believed
in by Asia, and holding an important place in the mythology of the North
American Indian, where a turtle, the lonely inhabitant of the waste of
waters, dived to the depths for the earth.
Even so humble an insect as the grasshopper figures in the Bushman’s
story of the creation of the world. Insignificant as the grasshopper
appears to us, to the Bushman he appeared a great creature, called Cagn,
with truly omnipotent powers, for he undertook the work of creation
without even the usual raw material of water. He simply gave orders and
caused all things to appear and to be made,—sun, moon, stars, wind,
mountains, animals.
In many of the primitive stories, magic is the means by which the most
wonderful effects are produced. It was believed that a magician could
bring about any effect he desired by the mere use of his will, and often
without any visible symbol of magic power. Sometimes, however, magic
wands were used, and sometimes ceremonies were performed for the purpose
of producing magical results. On the other hand magical prodigies such
as the changing of shape from man to animal often occur without the
intervention of any magician.
Whatever may have been the origin of this belief, it is certain that it
was just as sincerely believed in as a theory of the universe by early
mankind as the doctrine of an endless, persistent energy, always working
from cause to effect has been believed in by the nineteenth century
scientist.
Very fanciful stories have clustered about the idea that the spirit might
be detached from the body, and placed somewhere far away, as you will see
when you read the story of “Punchkin.”
So firmly was this idea fixed in the savage mind that, it seems probable,
his worship of animals, even in the earliest stages of life was really
a worship of the spirit within the animal, rather than of the animal
itself, and from this phase he passed on to the worship of a great spirit
that might manifest itself in many forms. This was the belief of many of
the North American Indian tribes. The Great Spirit, above all the lesser
gods, is frequently referred to in their stories.
Of the following stories the first three, are examples of a very large
class of early myths, which attempt to account for the origin or
peculiarities of animals. Curiosity having been awakened, the savage
tries to explain what he sees and often invents pretty and even elaborate
myths in his effort to find a truth beyond his knowledge.
In the “Origin of the Robin,” a custom observed among Indians is referred
to in the young man’s fast. Instead of college commencements, with
Baccalaureate sermons, and valedictories, the young Indian boy or maiden
was made to observe a solitary fast afar from the parental wigwam, and
while suffering the pangs of hunger and loneliness, it was believed that
the Great Spirit or a guardian spirit would reveal to him his future.
THE ORIGIN OF THE ROBIN
(_From the Odjibwa_)
An old man had an only son, named Opeechee, who had come to that age
which is thought to be most proper to make the long and final fast which
is to secure through life a guardian genius or spirit. The father was
ambitious that his son should surpass all others in whatever was deemed
wisest and greatest among his people. To accomplish his wish, he thought
it necessary that the young Opeechee should fast a much longer time than
any of those renowned for their power of wisdom, whose fame he coveted.
He therefore directed his son to prepare with great ceremony for the
event. After Opeechee had been several times in the sweating-lodge and
bath, which were to prepare and purify him for communion with his good
spirit, his father ordered him to lie down upon a clean mat in a little
lodge expressly provided for him. He enjoined upon him at the same time
to endure his fast like a man, and promised that at the expiration of
twelve days he should receive food and the blessing of his father.
The lad carefully observed the command, and lay with his face covered,
calmly awaiting the approach of the spirit which was to decide his good
or evil fortune for all the days of his life.
Every morning his father came to the door of the little lodge and
encouraged him to persevere, dwelling at length on the vast honor and
renown that must ever attend him, should he accomplish the full term of
trial allotted to him.
To these glowing words of promise and glory the boy never replied, but
he lay without the least sign of discontent or murmuring until the ninth
day, when he addressed his father as follows:
“My father, my dreams forebode evil. May I break my fast now, and at a
more favorable time make a new fast?”
The father answered:
“My son, you know not what you ask. If you get up now all your glory will
depart. Wait patiently a little longer. You have but three days more,
and your term will be completed. You know it is for your own good, and I
encourage you to persevere. Shall not your aged father live to see you a
star among the chieftains and the beloved of battle?”
The son assented; and covering himself more closely, that he might shut
out the light which prompted him to complain, he lay till the eleventh
day, when he repeated his request.
The father addressed Opeechee as he had the other day, and promised that
he would himself prepare his first meal, and bring it to him by the dawn
of the morning.
The son moaned, and the father added:
“Will you bring shame upon your father when his sun is falling in the
West?”
“I will not shame you, my father,” replied Opeechee; and he lay so still
and motionless that you could only know that he was living by the gentle
heaving of his breast.
At the spring of the day, the next morning, the father, delighted at
having gained his end, prepared a repast for his son, and hastened to
set it before him. On coming to the door of the little lodge, he was
surprised to hear his son talking to himself.
He held his ear down to listen, and, looking through a small opening, he
was yet more astonished when he beheld his son painted with vermilion
over all his breast, and in the act of finishing his work by laying on
the paint as far back on his shoulders as he could reach with his hands,
saying at the same time, to himself: “My father has destroyed my fortune
as a man. He would not listen to my requests. He has urged me beyond my
tender strength. He will be the loser. I shall be forever happy in my
new state, for I have been obedient to my parent. He alone will be the
sufferer, for my guardian spirit is a just one. Though not propitious to
me in the manner I desired, he has shown me pity in another way—he has
given me another shape; and now I must go.”
At this moment the old man broke in exclaiming:
“My son! I pray you leave me not!”
But the young man with the quickness of a bird flew to the top of the
lodge and perched himself on the highest pole, having been changed into a
beautiful robin red-breast. He looked down upon his father with pity, and
addressed him as follows:
“Regret not, my father, the change you behold. I shall be happier in my
present state than I could have been as a man. I shall always be the
friend of men, and keep near their dwellings. I shall ever be contented;
and although I could not gratify your wishes as a warrior, it will be
my daily aim to make you amends for it as a harbinger of peace and joy.
I shall cheer you by my songs, and strive to inspire in others the joy
and lightsomeness of heart I feel in my present state. This will be some
compensation to you for the loss of glory you expected. I am now free
from the cares and pains of human life. My food is furnished by the
mountains and fields, and my pathway of life is in the bright air.”
Then, stretching himself on his toes, as if delighted with the gift of
wings, Opeechee caroled one of his sweetest songs, and flew away into a
neighboring wood.
THE ORIGIN OF THE HARE
(_From the Aino_)
Suddenly, there was a large house on the top of a mountain, wherein were
six people beautifully arrayed, but constantly quarreling. Whence they
came was unknown. Thereupon Okikurumi came and said: “Oh! you bad hares!
you wicked hares! Who does not know your origin? The children in the sky
were pelting each other with snow balls, and the snow balls fell into the
world of men. As it would be a pity to waste anything that falls from the
sky, the snow balls were turned into hares, and those hares are you. You
who dwell in this world which belongs to me, should not quarrel. What is
that you are making such a noise about?”
With these words, Okikurumi seized a fire-brand, and beat each of the six
with it in turn. Thereupon all the hares ran away. This is the origin of
the hare and for this reason the body of the hare is white because made
of snow, while its ears, which are the place where it was charred by the
fire-brand,—are black.
HOW THE MOLE BECAME BLIND
(_North American Indian_)
Once a squirrel was being chased by an Indian, and in order to escape,
the squirrel ran all the way up a tree into the sky. The Indian set a
snare for the squirrel at the top of the tree and then came down, but
he found the next day that the sun was caught in the snare, and this
brought on night. He saw at once how much harm he had caused, and being
an Indian of very good intentions he was anxious to do what he could to
remedy the mischief. So he sent up great numbers of animals in the hope
that they might cut the noose and release the sun, but the intense heat
burned them all to ashes. At length the slow mole succeeded; he burrowed
under the road in the sky till he reached the place of the sun, gnawed in
twain the cords, and released the captive. But the sun’s flash put his
eyes out and this is the reason why the mole is blind. The effect of the
burning is still to be seen on the nose and the teeth of the mole, for
they are brown as if burnt. From that time on, however, the gait of the
sun has been more deliberate and slow.
THE BOY AND THE WOLVES; OR, THE BROKEN PROMISE
(_North American Indian_)
In the depths of a solitary forest a hunter had built his lodge, for he
was weary of the companionship of the people of his tribe; their habits
of deceit and cruelty had turned his heart from them. With his family,
his wife and three children, he had selected a home in the solitude of
the forest. Years passed by while he peacefully enjoyed the quiet of
his home, or the more attractive pleasures of the chase, in which he
was joined by his eldest son. At length his peaceful enjoyments were
interrupted: sickness entered the solitary lodge, and the hunter was
prostrated upon his couch never more to rise.
As death drew near, he addressed his family in these words: “You,” said
he turning to his wife, “you, who have been the companion of my life,
shall join me in the Isle of the Blessed. You have not long to suffer.
But oh, my children!” and he turned his eyes affectionately upon them,
“you have just commenced life; and, mark me, unkindness, ingratitude,
and every wickedness is before you. I left my tribe and kindred to come
to this unfrequented place, because of the evils of which I have just
warned you. I have contented myself with the company of your mother and
yourselves, for I was solicitous that you might be kept from bad example;
and I shall die contented if you, my children, promise to cherish each
other, and not to forsake your youngest brother.”
Exhausted with speaking, the dying hunter closed his eyes for a few
moments, and then, rousing himself with great effort, he took the hand
of his two eldest children and said: “My daughter, never forsake your
youngest brother. My son, never forsake your youngest brother.”
“Never! never!” responded both; and the hunter sank back upon his pallet
and soon expired.
His wife, according to his predictions, followed him after the brief
expiration of eight months; but in her last moments she reminded the two
children of the promise made their father. During the winter following
their mother’s death, the two elder children were exceedingly thoughtful
in regard to their brother, who was a mere child and very delicate
and sickly; but when the winter had passed away, the young man became
restless, and at length determined to break his promise to his father,
and seek the village of his father’s tribe.
He communicated this determination to his sister, who replied: “My
brother, I cannot wonder at your desire, as we are not prohibited the
society of our fellow-men; but we were told to cherish each other, and
protect our little brother. If we follow our own inclinations, we may
forget him.”
To this the young man made no reply, but, taking his bow and arrows, left
the lodge and never returned. Several moons passed after his departure,
during which the girl tenderly watched over her little brother; but at
length the solitude of her life became unendurable, and she began to
meditate escaping from the care of her brother, and leaving him alone in
his helplessness. She gathered into the lodge a large amount of food, and
then said to her brother, “My brother, do not leave the lodge; I go to
seek our brother, and shall soon return.”
Then she went in search of the village of her tribe, where she hoped
to find her elder brother. When she reached the village, she was so
delighted with the novelty of society and the pleasure of seeing others
of her own age that she entirely forgot her little brother. She found her
elder brother nicely settled in life, he having married very happily;
and, on receiving a proposal of marriage herself, abandoned all thought
of returning to the solitary lodge in the forest, accepting a home in the
village with the young man who became her husband.
As soon as the little brother had eaten all the food collected by his
sister, he went into the woods and picked berries and dug up roots. That
satisfied his hunger as long as the weather was mild; but, when the
winter drew on, he was obliged to wander about in very great distress for
want of food. He often passed his nights in the clefts and hollows of old
trees, and was glad to eat the refuse-meat left by the wolves; and he
became so fearless of those animals that he would sit by them while they
devoured their prey, and the animals themselves were so accustomed to him
that they seemed pleased with his presence, and always left some of their
food for him. Thus the little boy lived on through the winter, succored
from hunger by the wild beasts of the woods.
When the winter had passed away and the ice had melted from the Great
Lake, he followed the wolves to its open shore. It happened one day that
his elder brother was fishing in his canoe on the lake, and, hearing the
cry of a child, hastened to the shore, where at a short distance from him
he discovered his little brother, who was singing plaintively these lines:
Nesia, Nesia, shug wuh, gushuh!
Ne mien gun-iew! Ne mien gun-iew!
My brother, my brother!
I am turning into a wolf!
I am turning into a wolf!
At the termination of his song, he howled like a wolf; and the elder,
approaching him, was startled at seeing that the little fellow had indeed
half turned into a wolf, when, running hastily forward, he shouted, “My
brother, my little brother, come to me!” But the boy fled from him, while
he continued to sing: “I am turning into a wolf!—Ne mien gun-iew! Ne mien
gun-iew!” Filled with anguish and remorse, the elder brother continued to
cry, “My brother, my little brother, come to me!” But the more eagerly he
called, the more rapidly his brother fled from him, while he became more
and more like a wolf, until, with a prolonged howl, his whole body was
transformed, when he bounded swiftly away into the depths of the forest.
The elder brother, in the deepest sorrow, now returned to his village,
where with his sister he lamented the dreadful fate of his brother until
the end of his life.
HOW WASBASHAS, THE SNAIL, BECAME A MAN
(_North American Indian_)
Upon the banks of the Missouri River there once lived a snail, in great
enjoyment; for he found plenty of food, and was never in want of anything
that a snail could desire. At length, however, disaster reached him.
The waters of the river overflowed its banks; and, although the little
creature clung to a log with all his strength,—hoping thereby to remain
safe upon the shore,—the rising flood carried both him and the log away,
and they floated helplessly many days, until the waters subsided, when
the poor snail was left upon a strange shore that was covered with the
river’s slime, where, as the sun arose, the heat was so intense that he
was irrecoverably fixed in the mud. Oppressed with the heat and drought,
and famishing for want of nourishment, in despair he resigned himself
to his fate and prepared to die. But suddenly new feelings arose, and a
renewed vigor entered his frame. His shell burst open; his head gradually
arose above the ground; his lower extremities assumed the character
of feet and legs; arms extended from his sides, and their extremities
divided into fingers; and, thus beneath the influence of the shining sun,
he became a tall and noble-looking man. For a while he was stupefied
with the change; he had no energy, no distinct thoughts; but by degrees
his brain assumed its activity, and returning recollection induced him
to travel back to his native shore. Naked and ignorant, and almost
perishing with hunger, he walked along. He saw beasts and birds enticing
to the appetite; but, not knowing how to kill them, his hunger was left
unappeased.
At last he became so weak that he laid himself down upon the ground in
despair, thinking that he must die. He had not been lying thus very long,
when he heard a voice calling him by name, “Wasbashas, Wasbashas!” He
looked up, and before him beheld the Great Spirit sitting upon a white
animal. And the eyes of the Spirit were like stars; the hair of his head
shone like the sun. Trembling from head to foot, Wasbashas bowed his
head. He could not look upon him. Again the voice spoke, in a mild tone,
“Wasbashas, why art thou terrified?” “I tremble,” replied Wasbashas,
“because I stand before him who raised me from the ground. I am faint;
I have eaten nothing since I was left a little shell upon the shore.”
The Great Spirit then lifted up his hands, displaying in them a bow and
arrows; and telling Wasbashas to look at him, he put an arrow to the
string of the bow, and sent it into the air, striking a beautiful bird,
that dropped dead upon the ground. A deer then coming in sight, he placed
another arrow to the string, and pierced it through and through. “There,”
said the Great Spirit, “is your food, and these are your arms,”—handing
him the bow and arrows. The beneficent Being then instructed him how
to remove the skin of the deer, and prepare it for a garment. “You are
naked,” said he, “and must be clothed; for although it is now warm, the
skies will change, and bring rains and snow and cold winds.” Having said
this, he also imparted the gift of fire, and instructed him how to roast
the flesh of the deer and bird. He then placed a collar of wampum around
his neck. “This,” said he, “is your title of authority over all the
beasts.” Having done this, the Great Spirit arose in the air and vanished
from sight. Wasbashas refreshed himself with the food, and afterward
pursued his way to his native land. Having walked a long distance, he
seated himself on the banks of a river, and meditated on what had
transpired, when a large beaver arose up from the channel and addressed
him. “Who art thou?” said the beaver, “that comest here to disturb my
ancient reign?”
“I am a man,” he replied. “I was once a creeping shell; but who art
thou?” “I am king of the nation of beavers,” was answered; “I lead my
people up and down this stream. We are a busy people, and the river is my
dominion.”
“I must divide it with you,” said Wasbashas; “the Great Spirit has placed
me at the head of beasts and birds, fishes and fowls, and has provided me
with the power of maintaining my rights;” and then he exhibited the gifts
of the Great Spirit, the bow and arrows and the wampum.
“Come, come,” said the beaver in a modified tone, “I perceive we are
brothers; walk with me to my lodge, and refresh yourself after your
journey.” So saying he conducted Wasbashas, who had accepted the
invitation with great alacrity, to a beautiful large village, where he
was entertained in the chief’s lodge, which was built in a cone shape;
and, as the floor was covered with pine mats, it had a very delightful
appearance to the eyes of Wasbashas.
After they had seated themselves, the chief bade his wife and daughter
prepare for them the choicest food in their possession. Meanwhile he
entertained his guest by informing him how they constructed their lodges,
and described their manner of cutting down trees with their teeth,
and felling them across streams so as to dam up the water; and also
instructed him in the method of finishing the dams with leaves and clay.
With this wise conversation the chief beguiled the time, and also gained
the respect of Wasbashas. His wife and daughter now entered, bringing in
fresh peeled poplar and willow and sassafras and elder-bark, which was
the most choice food known to them. Of this Wasbashas made a semblance
of tasting, while his entertainer devoured a large amount with great
enjoyment. The daughter of the chief now attracted the eyes of Wasbashas.
Her modest deportment and cleanly attire, her assiduous attention to
the commands of her father, heightened very much her charms, which in
the estimation of the guest were very great; and the longer Wasbashas
gazed upon the maiden, the more deeply he was enamoured, until at length
he formed the resolution to seek her in marriage; upon which, with
persuasive words, he spoke to the chief, begging him to allow his suit.
The chief gladly assented; and as the daughter had formed a favourable
opinion of the suitor, a marriage was consummated—but not without a feast
to which beavers and friendly animals were invited. From this union of
the snail and beaver the Osage tribe has its origin.
THE AMAZING ADVENTURES OF MASTER RABBIT WITH THE OTTER AND THE WOODPECKER
GIRLS
ALSO A FULL ACCOUNT OF THE FAMOUS CHASE, IN WHICH HE FOOLED LUSIFEE, THE
WILD CAT
(_Algonquin_)
I. HOW MASTER RABBIT SOUGHT TO RIVAL KEEOONY, THE OTTER
Of old times, _Mahtigwess_, the Rabbit, who is called in the Micmac
tongue _Ableegumooch_, lived with his grandmother, waiting for better
times; and truly he found it a hard matter in midwinter, when ice was
on the river and snow was on the plain, to provide even for his small
household. And running through the forest one day he found a lonely
wigwam, and he that dwelt therein was _Keeoony_, the Otter. The lodge
was on the bank of a river, and a smooth road of ice slanted from the
door down to the water. And the Otter made him welcome, and directed his
housekeeper to get ready to cook; saying which, he took the hooks on
which he was wont to string fish when he had them, and went to fetch a
mess for dinner. Placing himself on the top of the slide, he coasted in
and under the water, and then came out with a great bunch of eels, which
were soon cooked, and on which they dined.
“By my life,” thought Master Rabbit, “but that is an easy way of getting
a living! Truly these fishing-folk have fine fare, and cheap! Cannot I,
who am so clever, do as well as this mere Otter? Of course I can. Why
not?” Thereupon he grew so confident of himself as to invite the Otter to
dine with him—_adamadusk ketkewop_—on the third day after that, and so
went home.
“Come on!” he said to his grandmother the next morning; “let us remove
our wigwam down to the lake.” So they removed; and he selected a site
such as the Otter had chosen for his home, and the weather being cold he
made a road of ice, of a coast, down from his door to the water, and all
was well. Then the guest came at the time set, and Rabbit, calling his
grandmother, bade her get ready to cook a dinner. “But what am I to cook,
grandson?” inquired the old dame.
“Truly I will see to that,” said he, and made him a _nabogun_, or stick
to string eels. Then going to the ice path, he tried to slide like one
skilled in the art, but indeed with little luck, for he went first to the
right side, then to the left, and so hitched and jumped till he came to
the water, where he went in with a bob backwards. And this bad beginning
had no better ending, since of all swimmers and divers the Rabbit is the
very worst, and this one was no better than his brothers. The water was
cold, he lost his breath, he struggled, and was well-nigh drowned.
“But what on earth ails the fellow?” said the Otter to the grandmother,
who was looking on in amazement.
“Well, he has seen somebody do something, and is trying to do likewise,”
replied the old lady.
“Ho! come out of that now,” cried the Otter, “and hand me your
_nabogun_!” And the poor Rabbit, shivering with cold, and almost frozen,
came from the water and limped into the lodge. And there he required much
nursing from his grandmother, while the Otter, plunging into the stream,
soon returned with a load of fish. But, disgusted at the Rabbit for
attempting what he could not perform, he threw them down as a gift, and
went home without tasting the meal.
II. HOW MAHTIGWESS, THE RABBIT, DINED WITH THE WOODPECKER GIRLS, AND WAS
AGAIN HUMBLED BY TRYING TO RIVAL THEM.
Now Master Rabbit, though disappointed, was not discouraged, for this
one virtue he had, that he never gave up. And wandering one day in
the wilderness, he found a wigwam well filled with young women, all
wearing red head-dresses; and no wonder, for they were Woodpeckers. Now,
Master Rabbit was a well-bred Indian, who made himself as a melody to
all voices, and so he was cheerfully bidden to bide to dinner, which
he did. Then one of the red-polled pretty girls, taking a _woltes_, or
wooden dish, lightly climbed a tree, so that she seemed to run; and
while ascending, stopping here and there and tapping now and then, took
from this place and that many of those insects called by the Indians
_apchel-moal-timpkawal_, or rice, because they so much resemble it. And
note that this rice is a dainty dish for those who like it. And when it
was boiled, and they had dined, Master Rabbit again reflected, “La! how
easily some folks live! What is to hinder me from doing the same? Ho, you
girls! come over and dine with me the day after to-morrow!”
And having accepted this invitation, all the guests came on the day set,
when Master Rabbit undertook to play woodpecker. So having taken the head
of an eel-spear and fastened it to his nose to make a bill, he climbed
as well as he could—and bad was the best—up a tree, and tried to get
his harvest of rice. Truly he got none; only in this did he succeed in
resembling a Woodpecker, that he had a red poll; for his pate was all
torn and bleeding, bruised by the fishing-point. And the pretty birds all
looked and laughed, and wondered what the Rabbit was about.
“Ah!” said his grandmother, “I suppose he is trying again to do something
which he has seen some one do. ’Tis just like him.”
“Oh, come down there!” cried Miss Woodpecker, as well as she could for
laughing. “Give me your dish!” And having got it she scampered up the
trunk, and soon brought down a dinner. But it was long ere Master Rabbit
heard the last of it from these gay tree-tappers.
III. RELATING HOW THE RABBIT BECAME WISE BY BEING ORIGINAL, AND OF THE
TERRIBLE TRICKS WHICH HE BY MAGIC PLAYED LOUP-CERVIER.
There are men who are bad at copying, yet are good originals, and of this
kind was Master Rabbit, who, when he gave up trying to do as others did,
succeeded very well. And, having found out his foible, he applied himself
to become able in good earnest, and studied _m’téoulin_, or magic, so
severely that in time he grew to be an awful conjurer, so that he could
raise ghosts, crops, storms, or devils whenever he wanted them. For
he had perseverance, and out of this may come anything, if it be only
brought into the right road.
Now it came to pass that Master Rabbit got into great trouble. The
records of the Micmacs say that it was from his stealing a string of fish
from the Otter, who pursued him; but the Passamaquoddies declare that he
was innocent of this evil deed, probably because they make great account
of him as their ancestor and as the father of the Wabanaki. Howbeit, this
is the way in which they tell the tale.
Now the Rabbit is the natural prey of the Loup-Cervier, or Lusifee, who
is a kind of wild-cat, none being more obstinate. And this Wild-Cat once
went hunting with a gang of wolves, and they got nothing. Then Wild-Cat,
who had made them great promises and acted as chief, became angry, and,
thinking of the Rabbit, promised them that this time they should indeed
get their dinner. So he took them to Rabbit’s wigwam; but he was out, and
the Wolves, being vexed and starved, reviled Wild-Cat, and then rushed
off howling through the woods.
Now I think that the Rabbit is _m’téoulin_. Yes, he must be, for when
Wild-Cat started to hunt him alone, he determined with all his soul not
to be caught, and made himself as magical as he could. So he picked up a
handful of chips, and threw one as far as possible, then jumped to it—for
he had a charm for a long jump; and then threw another, and so on, for a
great distance. This was to make no tracks, and when he thought he had
got out of scent and sight and sound he scampered away like the wind.
Now, as I said, when the wolves got to Master Rabbit’s house and found
nothing, they smelt about and left Wild-Cat, who swore by his tail that
he would catch Rabbit, if he had to hunt forever and run himself to
death. So, taking the house for a center, he kept going round and round
it, all the time a little further, and so more around and still further.
Then at last having found the track, he went in hot haste after Mr.
Rabbit. And both ran hard, till, night coming on, Rabbit, to protect
himself, had only just time _to trample down the snow a little, and stick
up a spruce twig on end and sit on it_. But when Wild-Cat came up he
found there a fine wigwam, and put his head in. All that he saw was an
old man of very grave and dignified appearance, whose hair was gray, and
whose majestic (_sogmoye_) appearance was heightened by a pair of long
and venerable ears. And of him Wild-Cat asked in a gasping hurry if he
had seen a Rabbit running that way.
“Rabbits!” replied the old man. “Why, of course, I have seen many.
They abound in the woods about here. I see dozens of them every day.”
With this he said kindly to Wild-Cat that he had better tarry with him
for a time. “I am an old man,” he remarked with solemnity—“an old man,
living alone, and a respectable guest, like you, sir, comes to me like a
blessing.” And the Cat, greatly impressed, remained. After a good supper
he lay down by the fire, and, having run all day, was at once asleep,
and made but one nap of it till morning. But how astonished, and oh, how
miserable he was, when he awoke, to find himself on the open heath in the
snow and almost starved! The wind blew as if it had a keen will to kill
him; it seemed to go all through his body. Then he saw that he had been
a fool and cheated by magic, and in a rage swore again by his teeth, as
well as his tail, that the Rabbit should die. There was no hut now, only
the trampled snow and a spruce twig, and yet out of this little, Rabbit
had conjured up so great a delusion.
Then he ran again all day. And when night came, Master Rabbit, having a
little more time than before, again trampled down the snow, but for a
greater space, and strewed many branches all about, for now a huge effort
was to be made. And when Wild-Cat got there he found a great Indian
village, with crowds of people going to and fro. The first building he
saw was a church, in which service was being held. And he, entering,
said hastily to the first person he saw, “Ha! ho! have you seen a Rabbit
running by here?”
“Hush—sh, sh!” replied the man. “You must wait till meeting is over
before asking such questions.” Then a young man beckoned to him to come
in, and he listened till the end to a long sermon on the wickedness of
being vindictive and rapacious; and the preacher was a gray ancient, and
his ears stood up over his little cap like the two handles of a pitcher,
yet for all that the Wild-Cat’s heart was not moved one whit. And when it
was all at an end he said to the obliging young man, “But _have_ you seen
a Rabbit running by?”
“Rabbits! Rab-bits!” replied the young man. “Why, there are hundreds
racing about in the cedar swamps near this place, and you can have as
many as you want.” “Ah!” replied Wild-Cat, “but they are not what I
seek. Mine is an entirely different kind.” The other said that he knew
of no sort save the wild wood-rabbits, but that perhaps their Governor,
or Chief, who was very wise, could tell him all about them. Then the
Governor, or Sagamore, came up. Like the preacher, he was very remarkable
and gray, with the long locks standing up one on either side of his head.
And he invited the stranger to his house, where his two very beautiful
daughters cooked him a fine supper. And when he wished to retire they
brought out blankets and a beautiful _white bear’s skin_, and made up a
bed for him by the fire. Truly, his eyes were closed as soon as he lay
down, but when he awoke there had been a great change. For now he was in
a wet cedar swamp, the wind blowing ten times worse than ever, and his
supper and sleep had done him little good, for they were all a delusion.
All around him were rabbits’ tracks and broken twigs, but nothing more.
Yet he sprang up, more enraged than ever, and swearing more terribly by
his tail, teeth, and claws that he would be revenged. So he ran on all
day, and at night, when he came to another large village, he was so weary
that he could just gasp, “Have—you—seen a Rab—bit run this way?” With
much concern and kindness they all asked him what was the matter. So he
told them all this story, and they pitied him very much; yea, one gray
old man—and this was the Chief—with two beautiful daughters, shed tears
and comforted him, and advised him to stay with them. So they took him to
a large hall, where there was a great fire burning in the middle thereof.
And over it hung two pots with soup and meat, and two Indians stood by
and gave food to all the people. And he had his share with the rest, and
all feasted gayly.
Now, when they had done eating, the old Governor, who was very gray,
and from either side of whose head rose two very venerable, long white
feathers, rose to welcome the stranger, and in a long speech said it was,
indeed, the custom of their village to entertain guests, but that they
expected from them a song. Then Wild-Cat, who was vain of his voice,
uplifted it in vengeance against the Rabbits:
Oh, how I hate them!
How I despise them!
How I laugh at them!
May I scalp them all!
Then he said that he thought the Governor should sing. And to this the
Chief consented, but declared that all who were present should bow their
heads while seated, and shut their eyes, which they did. Then Chief
Rabbit, at one bound, cleared the heads of his guests, and drawing his
_timheyen_, or tomahawk, as he jumped, gave Wild-Cat a wound which cut
deeply into his head and only fell short of killing him by entirely
stunning him. When he recovered, he was again in snow, slush and filth,
more starved than ever, his head bleeding from a dreadful blow, and he
himself almost dead. Yet, with all that, the Indian devil was stronger in
him than ever, for every new disgrace did but bring more resolve to be
revenged, and he swore it by his tail, claws, teeth, and eyes.
So he tottered along, though he could hardly walk; nor could he,
indeed, go very far that day. And when almost broken down with pain and
weariness, he came about noon to two good wigwams. Looking into one, he
saw a gray-haired old man, and in the other a young girl, apparently his
daughter. And they received him kindly, and listened to his story, saying
it was very sad, the old man declaring that he must really remain there,
and that he would get him a doctor, since, unless he were well cared for
at once, he would die. Then he went forth as if in great concern, leaving
his daughter to nurse the weary, wounded stranger.
Now, when the doctor came, he, too, was an old gray man, with a
scalp-lock strangely divided like two horns. But the Wild-Cat had become
a little suspicious, having been so often deceived, for much abuse will
cease to amuse even the most innocent; and truly he was none of these.
And, looking grimly at the Doctor, he said: “I was asking if any Rabbits
are here, and truly you look very much like one yourself. How did you
get that split nose?” “Oh, that is very simple,” replied the old man.
“Once I was hammering wampum beads, and the stone on which I beat them
broke in halves, and one piece flew up, and, as you see, split my nose.”
“But,” persisted the Wild-Cat, “why are the soles of your feet so yellow,
even like a Rabbit’s?” “Ah, that is because I have been preparing some
tobacco, and I had to hold it down with my feet, for, truly, I needed
both my hands to work with. So the tobacco stained them yellow.” Then the
Wild-Cat suspected no more, and the Doctor put salve on his wound, so
that he felt much better.
But oh, the wretchedness of the awaking in the morning! For then Wild-Cat
found himself indeed in the extreme of misery. His head was swollen and
aching to an incredible degree, and the horrible wound, which was gaping
wide, had been stuffed with hemlock needles and pine splinters, and this
was the cool salve which the Doctor had applied. And then he swore by all
his body and soul that he would slay the next being he met, Rabbit or
Indian. Verily this time he would be utterly revenged.
Now Mahtigwess, the Rabbit, had almost come to an end of his _m’téoulin_,
or wizard power, for that time, yet he had still enough left for one
more great effort. And, coming to a lake, he picked up a very large chip,
and, having seamed it with sorcery and magnified it by magic, threw it
into the water, where it at once seemed to be a great ship, such as white
men build. And when the Wild-Cat came up he saw it, with sails spread
and flags flying, and the captain stood so stately on the deck, with
folded arms, and he was a fine, gray-haired, dignified man, with a cocked
hat, the two points of which were like grand and stately horns. But the
Wild-Cat had sworn, and he was mindful of his great oath; so he cried,
“You cannot escape me this time, Rabbit! I have you now!” Saying this
he plunged in, and tried to swim to the ship. And the captain, seeing a
Wild-Cat in the water, being engaged in musket drill, ordered his men to
fire at it, which they did with a bang! Now this was caused by a party
of night-hawks overhead, who swooped down with a sudden cry like a shot;
at least it seemed so to Wild-Cat, who, deceived and appalled by this
volley, deeming that he had verily made a mistake this time, turned tail
and swam ashore into the dark old forest, where, if he is not dead, he is
running still.
* * * * *
In the following two stories, the two most celebrated heroes of American
Indian Mythology figure. The first is known as Manabozho among the
Algonquin Indians and as Hiawatha among the Iroquois. Although he appears
most often in the form of a man in Indian legends, he seems at times to
be endowed with divine attributes. According to the ordinary account of
him[1] he is regarded as the messenger of the Great Spirit, sent down
to mankind, in the character of a wise man or prophet. But he has all
the attributes of humanity as well as the power of performing miraculous
deeds. He adapts himself perfectly to their manners and customs and
ideas. He marries, builds a lodge, hunts and fishes, goes to war, has
his triumphs and his failures like other Indians. Whatever man could do
in strength or wisdom he could do, but when he encounters situations
requiring more than human strength, his miraculous powers come into
play. He is provided with a magic canoe which goes where it is bid. He
could leap over extensive regions of country like an _ignis fatuus_. He
appears suddenly like a god, or wanders over weary wastes of country a
poor and starving hunter. His voice is at one moment deep and sonorous
as a thunder-clap, and at another clothed with the softness of feminine
supplication. He could transform himself into any animal he pleased. He
often conversed with animals, fowls, reptiles, and fishes. He deemed
himself related to them, and always in speaking to them called them “my
brother,” and one of his greatest resources when finding himself hard
pressed was to change himself into their shapes.
He could conquer Manitoes, no matter what their evil power might
be. Manitoes in Indian stories are not unlike fairies in their
characteristics. They were of all imaginary kinds, grades, powers,
sometimes benign, sometimes malicious, but Manabozho was a personage
strong enough in his necromantic powers to baffle the most malicious,
beat the stoutest, and overreach the most cunning. He was not, however,
the wholly benevolent being we might expect he would be with all these
great gifts; he was unfortunately ambitious, vainglorious, and deceitful,
and at times not much better himself than a wicked Manito. But what could
be expected of a son of the West Wind, for his father was Ningabiun, the
West Wind, and you will find that mythical beings which personify the
wind are always of a tricksy disposition just as the wind itself is. As a
god he was often spoken of as the great white Hare.
The Algonquin hero, Glooskap,[2] is equally interesting, and of a more
truly heroic disposition than Manabozho. The name of this divinity,
Glooskap, means a liar, because it is said that when he left the earth
for the land of spirits he promised to return and he has never done so.
Many and wonderful are the tales told of Glooskap, but he is never silly,
or cruel, or fantastic like Manabozho. Any one who goes to Nova Scotia,
to-day, may see the grand Cape Blomidon, where Glooskap lived. It juts
out between the Bay of Fundy and the Basin of Minas. Its foundations are
of red sandstone and far up toward the sky it is crowned with granite
battlements. Sometimes the waters of the Basin of Minas gently wash
against the base of this gigantic cape and sometimes one could walk a
mile or two from the cape to reach the water. Twice a day this happens as
the tide comes up and recedes. Truly, it is a magical land, and Blomidon
is a noble home, well befitting the great Indian divinity whose head
rises to the stars, and who could slay a giant enemy with a mere tap of
his bow. We shall meet with both of these heroes again later.
THE STORY OF MANABOZHO
(_Iroquois_)
To begin at the beginning, Manabozho, while yet a youngster, was living
with his grandmother, near the edge of a wide prairie. It was on this
prairie that he first saw animals and birds of every kind; he also there
made first acquaintance with thunder and lightning; he would sit by the
hour watching the clouds as they rolled, and musing on the shades of
light and darkness as the day rose and fell.
For a stripling, Manabozho was uncommonly wide-awake. Every new sight he
beheld in the heavens was a subject of remark; every new animal or bird,
an object of deep interest; and every sound that came from the bosom of
nature, was like a new lesson which he was expected to learn. He often
trembled at what he heard and saw.
To the scene of the wide open prairie his grandmother sent him at an
early age to watch. The first sound he heard was that of the owl, at
which he was greatly terrified, and, quickly descending the tree he had
climbed, he ran with alarm to the lodge. “Noko! noko! grandmother!” he
cried. “I have heard a monedo.”
She laughed at his fears, and asked him what kind of noise his reverence
made. He answered, “It makes a noise like this: ko-ko-ko-ho.”
His grandmother told him he was young and foolish; that what he heard was
only a bird which derived its name from the peculiar noise it made.
He returned to the prairie and continued his watch. As he stood there
looking at the clouds, he thought to himself, “It is singular that I am
so simple and my grandmother so wise; and that I have neither father nor
mother. I have never heard a word about them. I must ask and find out.”
He went home and sat down, silent and dejected. Finding that this did
not attract the notice of his grandmother, he began a loud lamentation,
which he kept increasing, louder and louder, till it shook the lodge, and
nearly deafened the old grandmother. She at length said, “Manabozho, what
is the matter with you? You are making a great deal of noise.”
Manabozho started off again with his doleful hubbub; but succeeded in
jerking out between his big sobs, “I haven’t got any father nor mother; I
haven’t;” and he set out again lamenting more boisterously than ever.
Knowing that he was of a wicked and revengeful temper, his grandmother
dreaded to tell him the story of his parentage; as she knew he would
make trouble of it.
Manabozho renewed his cries, and managed to throw out, for a third or
fourth time, his sorrowful lament that he was a poor unfortunate, who had
no parents and no relations.
She at last said to him, “Yes, you have a father and three brothers
living. Your mother is dead. She was taken for a wife by your father, the
West, without the consent of her parents. Your brothers are the North,
East, and South; and being older than yourself, your father has given
them great power with the winds, according to their names. You are the
youngest of his children. I have nursed you from your infancy; for your
mother, owing to the ill-treatment of your father, died when you were an
infant. I have no relations beside you this side of the planet in which
I was born, and from which I was precipitated by female jealousy. Your
mother was my only child, and you are my only hope.”
“I am glad my father is living,” said Manabozho. “I shall set out in the
morning to visit him.”
His grandmother would have discouraged him; saying it was a long distance
to the place where his father, Ningabiun, or the West, lived.
This information seemed rather to please than to disconcert Manabozho;
for by this time he had grown to such a size and strength that he had
been compelled to leave the narrow shelter of his grandmother’s lodge and
to live out of doors. He was so tall that, if he had been so disposed, he
could have snapped off the heads of the birds roosting in the topmost
branches of the highest trees, as he stood up, without being at the
trouble to climb. And if he had at any time taken a fancy to one of the
same trees for a walking stick, he would have had no more to do than to
pluck it up with his thumb and finger, and strip down the leaves and
twigs with the palm of his hand.
Bidding good-by to his venerable old grandmother, who pulled a very long
face over his departure, Manabozho set out at great headway, for he was
able to stride from one side of a prairie to the other at a single step.
He found his father on a high mountain-ground, far in the west. His
father espied his approach at a great distance, and bounded down the
mountain-side several miles to give him welcome, and, side-by-side,
apparently delighted with each other, they reached in two or three of
their giant paces the lodge of the West, which stood high up near the
clouds.
They spent some days in talking with each other—for these two great
persons did nothing on a small scale, and a whole day to deliver a
single sentence, such was the immensity of their discourse, was quite an
ordinary affair.
One evening Manabozho asked his father what he was most afraid of on
earth.
He replied—“Nothing.”
“But is there nothing you dread, here—nothing that would hurt you if you
took too much of it? Come, tell me.”
Manabozho was very urgent; at last his father said:
“Yes, there is a black stone to be found a couple of hundred miles from
here, over that way,” pointing as he spoke. “It is the only thing earthly
that I am afraid of, for if it should happen to hit me on any part of my
body it would hurt me very much.”
The West made this important circumstance known to Manabozho in the
strictest confidence.
“Now, you will not tell any one, Manabozho, that the black stone is bad
medicine for your father, will you?” he added. “You are a good son, and I
know will keep it to yourself. Now tell me, my darling boy, is there not
something that you don’t like?”
Manabozho answered promptly—“Nothing.”
His father, who was of a very steady and persevering temper, put the same
question to him seventeen times, and each time Manabozho made the same
answer—“Nothing.”
But the West insisted—“There must be something you are afraid of.”
“Well, I will tell you,” says Manabozho, “what it is.”
He made an effort to speak, but it seemed to be too much for him.
“Out with it,” said Ningabiun, or the West, fetching Manabozho such a
blow on the back as shook the mountain with its echo.
“Je-ee, je-ee—it is,” said Manabozho, apparently in great pain. “Yeo,
yeo! I cannot name it, I tremble so.”
The West told him to banish his fears, and to speak up; no one would hurt
him.
Manabozho began again, and he would have gone over the same make-believe
of anguish, had not his father, whose strength he knew was more than a
match for his own, threatened to pitch him into a river about five miles
off. At last he cried out:
“Father, since you will know, it is the root of the bulrush.”
He who could with perfect ease spin a sentence a whole day long, seemed
to be exhausted by the effort of pronouncing that one word, “bulrush.”
Some time after, Manabozho observed:
“I will get some of the black rock, merely to see how it looks.”
“Well,” said the father, “I will also get a little of the bulrush-root,
to learn how it tastes.”
They were both double-dealing with each other, and in their hearts
getting ready for some desperate work.
They had no sooner separated for the evening than Manabozho was striding
off the couple of hundred miles necessary to bring him to the place where
black rock was to be procured, while down the other side of the mountain
hurried Ningabiun.
At the break of day they each appeared at the great level on the
mountain-top, Manabozho with twenty loads, at least, of the black stone,
on one side, and on the other the West, with a whole meadow of bulrush in
his arms.
Manabozho was the first to strike—hurling a great piece of the black
rock, which struck the West directly between the eyes, who returned the
favor with a blow of bulrush, that rung over the shoulders of Manabozho,
far and wide, like the whip-thong of the lightning among the clouds.
And now either rallied, and Manabozho poured in a tempest of black
rock, while Ningabiun discharged a shower of bulrush. Blow upon blow,
thwack upon thwack—they fought hand to hand until black rock and bulrush
were all gone. Then they betook themselves to hurling crags at each
other, cudgeling with huge oak-trees, and defying each other from one
mountain-top to another; while at times they shot enormous boulders
of granite across at each other’s heads, as though they had been mere
jack-stones. The battle, which had commenced on the mountains, had
extended far west. The West was forced to give ground. Manabozho pressing
on, drove him across rivers and mountains, ridges and lakes, till at last
he got him to the very brink of the world.
“Hold!” cried the West. “My son, you know my power, and although I allow
that I am now fairly out of breath, it is impossible to kill me. Stop
where you are, and I will also portion you out with as much power as your
brothers. The four quarters of the globe are already occupied, but you
can go and do a great deal of good to the people of the earth, which is
beset with serpents, beasts, and monsters, who make great havoc of human
life. Go and do good, and if you put forth half the strength you have
to-day you will acquire a name that will last forever. When you have
finished your work I will have a place provided for you. You will then go
and sit with your brother, Kabinocca, in the North.”
Manabozho gave his father his hand upon this agreement. And parting from
him, he returned to his own grounds, where he lay for some time sore of
his wounds.
These being, however, greatly allayed, and soon after cured by his
grandmother’s skill in medicines, Manabozho, as big and sturdy as ever,
was ripe for new adventures. He set his thoughts immediately upon a war
excursion against the Pearl Feather, a wicked old Manito, living on the
other side of the great lake, who had killed his grandfather. He began
his preparations by making huge bows and arrows without number; but he
had no heads for his shafts. At last Noko told him that an old man, who
lived at some distance, could furnish him with such as he needed. He
sent her to get some. She soon returned with her wrapper full. Manabozho
told her that he had not enough, and sent her again. She came back with
as many more. He thought to himself, “I must find out the way of making
these heads.”
Instead of directly asking how it was done, he preferred—just like
Manabozho—to deceive his grandmother to come at the knowledge he desired,
by a trick. “Noko,” said he, “while I take my drum and rattle, and sing
my war-songs, do you go and try to get me some larger heads, for these
you have brought me are all of the same size. Go and see whether the old
man is not willing to make some a little larger.”
He followed her at a distance as she went, having left his drum at the
lodge, with a great bird tied at the top, whose fluttering should keep
up the drumbeat, the same as if he were tarrying at home. He saw the old
workman busy, and learned how he prepared the heads; he also beheld the
old man’s daughter, who was very beautiful; and Manabozho now discovered
for the first time that he had a heart of his own, and the sigh he heaved
passed through the arrow-maker’s lodge like a gale of wind.
“How it blows!” said the old man.
“It must be from the south,” said the daughter; “for it is very fragrant.”
Manabozho slipped away, and in two strides he was at home, shouting forth
his songs as though he had never left the lodge. He had just time to free
the bird which had been beating the drum, when his grandmother came in
and delivered to him the big arrow-heads.
In the evening the grandmother said, “My son, you ought to fast before
you go to war, as your brothers do, to find out whether you will be
successful or not.”
He said he had no objection; and having privately stored away, in a shady
place in the forest, two or three dozen juicy bears, a moose, and twenty
strings of the tenderest birds, he would retire from the lodge so far as
to be entirely out of view of his grandmother, fall to and enjoy himself
heartily, and at nightfall, having just despatched a dozen birds and
half a bear or so, he would return, tottering and woe-begone, as if quite
famished, so as to move deeply the sympathies of his wise old granddame.
The place of his fast had been chosen by Noko, and she had told him it
must be so far as to be beyond the sound of her voice or it would be
unlucky.
After a time Manabozho, who was always spying out mischief, said to
himself, “I must find out why my grandmother is so anxious to have me
fast at this spot.”
The next day he went but a short distance. She cried out, “A little
further off;” but he came nearer to the lodge, the rogue that he was, and
cried out in a low, counterfeited voice, to make it appear that he was
going away instead of approaching. He had now got so near that he could
see all that passed in the lodge.
He had not been long in ambush when an old magician crept into the lodge.
This old magician had very long hair, which hung across his shoulders and
down his back, like a bush or foot-mat. They commenced talking about him,
and in doing so, they put their two old heads so very close together that
Manabozho was satisfied they were kissing each other. He was indignant
that any one should take such a liberty with his venerable grandmother,
and to mark his sense of the outrage, he touched the bushy hair of the
old magician with a live coal which he had blown upon. The old magician
had not time to kiss the old grandmother more than once again before he
felt the flame; and jumping out into the air, it burned only the fiercer,
and he ran, blazing like a fire-ball, across the prairie.
Manabozho who had, meanwhile, stolen off to his fasting place, cried out,
in a heart-broken tone, and as if on the very point of starvation, “Noko!
Noko! is it time for me to come home?”
“Yes,” she cried. And when he came in she asked him, “Did you see
anything?”
“Nothing,” he answered, with an air of childish candor; looking as much
like a big simpleton as he could. The grandmother looked at him very
closely and said no more.
Manabozho finished his term of fasting; in the course of which he slyly
despatched twenty fat bears, six dozen birds, and two fine moose; sung
his war-song, and embarked in his canoe, fully prepared for war. Beside
weapons of battle, he had stowed in a large supply of oil.
He travelled rapidly night and day, for he had only to will or speak,
and the canoe went. At length he arrived in sight of the fiery serpents.
He paused to view them; he observed that they were some distance apart,
and that the flames which they constantly belched forth reached across
the pass. He gave them a good morning, and began talking with them in a
very friendly way; but they answered, “We know you, Manabozho; you cannot
pass.”
He was not, however, to be put off so easily. Turning his canoe as if
about to go back, he suddenly cried out with a loud and terrified voice:
“What is that behind you?”
The serpents, thrown off their guard, instantly turned their heads, and
he in a moment glided past them.
“Well,” said he, quietly, after he had got by, “how do you like my
movement?”
He then took up his bow and arrows, and with deliberate aim shot every
one of them, easily, for the serpents were fixed to one spot, and could
not even turn round. They were of an enormous length, and of a bright
color.
Having thus escaped the sentinel serpents, Manabozho pushed on in his
canoe until he came to a part of the lake called Pitch-water, as whatever
touched it was sure to stick fast. But Manabozho was prepared with his
oil, and rubbing his canoe freely from end to end, he slipped through
with ease, and he was the first person who had ever succeeded in passing
through the Pitch-water.
“There is nothing like a little oil to help one through pitch-water,”
said Manabozho to himself.
Now in view of land, he could see the lodge of the Shining Manito, high
upon a distant hill.
Putting his clubs and arrows in order, just at the dawn of day Manabozho
began his attack, yelling and shouting, and beating his drum, and calling
out in triple voices:
“Surround him! surround him! run up! run up!” making it appear that he
had many followers.
“It was you that killed my grandfather,” and shot off a whole forest of
arrows.
The Pearl Feather appeared on the height, blazing like the sun, and paid
back the discharges of Manabozho with a tempest of bolts, which rattled
like the hail.
All day long the fight was kept up, and Manabozho had fired all of his
arrows but three, without effect; for the Shining Manito was clothed
in pure wampum. It was only by immense leaps to right and left that
Manabozho could save his head from the sturdy blows which fell about him
on every side, like pine-trees, from the hands of the Manito. He was
badly bruised, and at his very wit’s end, when a large woodpecker flew
past and lit on a tree. It was a bird he had known on the prairie, near
his grandmother’s lodge.
“Manabozho,” called out the woodpecker, “your enemy has a weak point;
shoot at the lock of hair on the crown of his head.”
He shot his first arrow and only drew blood in a few drops. The Manito
made one or two unsteady steps, but recovered himself. He began to
parley, but Manabozho, now that he had discovered a way to reach him, was
in no humor to trifle, and he let slip another arrow, which brought the
Shining Manito to his knees. And now, having the crown of his head within
good range, Manabozho sent in his third arrow, which laid the Manito out
upon the ground, stark dead.