TREE AND PLANT MYTHS
To primitive man, trees and plants seemed as mysterious as animals, and
there are many myths which tell of the descent of mankind from trees, and
many cases in which plants were totems instead of animals. Among various
Indian tribes who had such a belief may be mentioned the Miztecs, who
declared they were descended from two majestic trees that stood in the
gorge of the mountain of Apiola. The Chiapanecas thought they sprang
from the roots of a silk cotton tree. The Tamaraquas of South America
have a tradition that the human race sprang from the fruits of the date
palm after the Mexican age of water. Passing half way round the world
to the Damaras of South Africa we find still more remarkable qualities
attributed to the first tree. “In the beginning,” they say, “there was a
tree, and out of this tree came Damaras, Bushmen (the wildest of South
African tribes), oxen and zebras. The Damaras lit a fire which frightened
away the Bushmen and the zebras, but the oxen remained. Hence it is
that Bushmen and wild beasts live together in all sorts of inaccessible
places, but the Damaras and oxen possess the land.”
Even in Greek mythology, the idea of descent from trees had not quite
died out, for we read in the “Odyssey” that Penelope says to Odysseus,
while still in the disguise of a beggar, so that she does not recognize
him, “Now, I pray, declare thy lineage, for thou surely art not sprung
from the old fabulous oak nor from the rock.”
The oak was regarded with very great reverence by the Greeks. They
declared it to be the first tree that grew upon the earth, its acorns
being the earliest food of man. There is an interesting story to the
effect that the Deluge was due to quarrels between Zeus (Jupiter) and
Hera (Juno), and when the waters subsided an oaken statue emerged
supposed to be a symbol of peace between the king of gods and his consort.
When the imagination begins to sprout a little more the savage invents
a story telling how the first men and animals were made out of trees by
some divinity. Thus Glooskap, the Algonquin divinity, made man in this
way: “He took his bow and arrows and shot at trees, the basket tree,
the ash. Then Indians came out of the bark of the ash trees.” In Norse
mythology there is a similar legend, according to which there were no
intelligent men on earth until there came three mighty and benevolent
gods to the world. Men had no sense, nor blood, nor motive powers, nor
goodly color. Odin gave spirit, Haemir gave sense, and Lodur gave blood
by bestowing it upon the senseless ashes and elms.
The worship of trees is told of in stories from one end of the world to
the other.
The Ainos of Japan have a story that “at the beginning of the world the
ground was so hot that the creatures called men even got their feet
burnt. For this reason no tree or herb could grow. The only herb that
grew at that time was the mugwort. Of trees the only ones were the oak
and pine. For this reason these two trees are the oldest among trees.
This being so, these two trees are divine; they are trees which human
beings worship.”
They also believe in a mystic pine tree made of metal which grew at the
head of the world, against which the swords of the gods broke and bent
where they attacked it. The Japanese god, Izanagi, repels the eight
thunder gods in the infernal regions by throwing at them the three fruits
of the peach tree that grew at the entrance of the level pass of the dark
world.
There is also a Chinese peach tree of the gods which grows near the
palace of Si Wang Mu, the West Queen Mother. Its fruit of immortality
ripens once in thirteen thousand years and gives three thousand years of
life to the eater. Tung Fang So stole three and lived nine thousand years.
The Hindoos have more than one marvellous mythical tree. According to
the “Rig Veda,” the god Brahma himself was a tree and all the other
gods are considered branches of the divine parent stem. There is also
a supernatural tree sacred to Buddha. This cloud tree is the tree of
knowledge and wisdom and is covered with divine flowers. It glows and
sparkles with the brilliance of all manner of precious stones. The root,
the trunk, the branches, and the leaves are formed of gems of the most
glorious description. It grows in soil pure and delightfully even to
which the rich verdure of grass imparts the tints of a peacock’s neck.
This tree receives the homage of the gods. The arm of Maya, the mother of
Buddha, when she stretches it forth to grasp the bough which bends toward
her shines as the lightning illumines the sky. Beneath this tree Buddha,
at whose birth a flash of light pierced through all the world, sat down
with the firm resolve not to rise until he had attained the knowledge
which maketh free. Then the tempter Mara advanced with his demoniacal
forces. Encircling the sacred tree, hosts of demons assailed Buddha with
fiery darts, amid the whirl of hurricanes, darkness and the downpour of
floods of water, to drive him from the tree.
Buddha, however, maintained his position unmoved and at length the demons
were compelled to fly.
Still another marvellous tree is that of the Persians. It is called the
Haoma. It is the sacred vine of the Zoroastrians, which produces the
primal drink of immortality, after which it is named. It is the first
of all trees, planted in heaven by Ormuzd in the fountain of life. Near
this tree grows another, called the “impassive” or “inviolable,” which
bears the seeds of every kind of vegetable life. Both these trees are
situated in a lake and guarded by ten fish, who keep a ceaseless watch
upon a lizard sent by the evil power, Ahriman, to destroy the sacred
Haoma. The inviolable tree is also known both as the eagle’s and the
owl’s tree. Either one or the other of these birds sits perched upon the
top. The moment he rises from the tree a thousand branches shoot forth;
when he settles again, he breaks a thousand branches, and causes their
seed to fall. Another bird, his constant companion, picks up these seeds
and carries them to where the god Tistar draws water, which he then rains
down upon the earth with the seeds it contains.
YGDRASIL: THE NORSE WORLD TREE
The chief of all the great mythical trees is the Norse World Tree, an ash
tree called “Ygdrasil.” One of the stems of this tree springs from the
central primordial abyss, from the subterranean source of matter, runs
up through the earth which it supports, and issuing out of the celestial
mountain in the world’s center, called Asgard, spreads its branches
over the entire universe. These widespread branches are the ethereal or
celestial regions, their leaves the clouds, their buds or fruits the
stars. Four harts run across the branches of the tree and bite the buds.
These are the four cardinal winds. Perched upon the top branches is an
eagle and between his eyes sits a hawk. The eagle symbolizes the air and
the hawk the wind-still ether. A squirrel runs up and down the ash, and
seeks to cause strife between the eagle and Nidhögg, a monster which is
constantly gnawing the roots. The squirrel signifies hail and other
atmospheric phenomena. Nidhögg and serpents which gnaw the roots of the
tree are the volcanic agencies which are constantly seeking to destroy
the earth’s foundation. Another stem springs from the holy Urdan-fountain
where the gods sit in judgment. In this fountain swim two swans, the
progenitors of all the species. These are by some thought to typify the
sun and the moon. Near the fountain dwell three maidens who fix the
lifetime of all men, called Norns. Every day they draw water from the
spring and with it sprinkle the ash Ygdrasil in order that its branches
may not rot and wither away. This water is so holy that everything placed
in the spring becomes as white as the film within an egg-shell. The dew
that falls from the tree upon the earth men call honey-dew, and it is the
food of the bees. The third stem of the Ygdrasil takes its rise in the
cold and cheerless regions of the North (the land of the Frost Giants),
over the source of the ocean, which is typified by a spring called
Mirmir’s Well, in which wisdom and wit lie hidden. Mirmir, the owner of
this spring, is full of wisdom because he drinks of the waters.
* * * * *
In this myth the whole universe is symbolized as a tree, and so we see
how the simple thoughts of the early savage about trees grow and expand
until a great poet comes upon the earth and with his larger powers of
imagination throws into a myth so much wonder and beauty that we can
scarcely realize what a humble little beginning it had in the groping
mind of a primitive savage.
In Greek mythology the woods are peopled with fauns and satyrs, dryads
and hamadryads. The first were spirits or gods of the wood and were
represented as goats with the heads of men. The principal of these was
Pan, already mentioned as an example of an animal myth. Since, however,
he is a personification of nature as a whole he partakes of the qualities
of a plant myth, as do all the other gods of the wood.
The dryads and hamadryads sometimes appeared in the form of peasant
girls, or shepherdesses, or followers of the hunt, but it was thought
that they perished when certain trees which had been their abode died
or were felled, and upon whose existence theirs depended. The Romans,
whose mythology is based for the most part upon the Greek mythology,
except that their names for the gods were different, have some special
plant gods of their own. Faunus was worshipped as a god of fields and
shepherds, and the god Sylvanus presided over forest glades and ploughed
fields. Then there was Flora, the goddess of flowers, and Pomona, the
goddess of fruit trees, and Vertumnus, the husband of Pomona, the
guardian of fruit trees, gardens and vegetables.
Many lovely stories are based upon this idea that the plant world is
also a living world, some of which you may read for yourselves in this
chapter.
STORY OF THE AINO WHO FELL ASLEEP AT THE FOOT OF A PINE TREE
(_Japanese_)
There was once a young Aino who fell asleep at the foot of a pine of
extraordinary height. While asleep there appeared to him in a dream the
goddess of the tree. This pine was near the entrance of an immense cavern
at the far end of which is a gleam of light, where there is an issue to
another world. He found this cavern by pursuing a bear, who turned out to
be a god, up a mountain of the underworld, until it took refuge in a hole
in the ground which led into the cavern. When he awoke, he offered up
thanks to the tree and set up divine symbols in its honor.
WUNZH, THE FATHER OF INDIAN CORN
(_North American Indian_)
In time past—we cannot tell exactly how many, many years ago—a poor
Indian was living, with his wife and children, in a beautiful part of the
country. He was not only poor, but he had the misfortune to be inexpert
in procuring food for his family, and his children were all too young to
give him assistance.
Although of a lowly condition and straitened in his circumstances, he
was a man of kind and contented disposition. He was always thankful to
the Great Spirit for everything he received. He even stood in the door
of his lodge to bless the birds that flew past in the summer evenings;
although, if he had been of a complaining temper, he might have repined
that they were not rather spread upon the table for his evening meal.
The same gracious and sweet disposition was inherited by his eldest son,
who had now arrived at the proper age to undertake the ceremony of the
fast, to learn what kind of a spirit would be his guide and guardian
through life.
Wunzh, for that was his name, had been an obedient boy from his
infancy—pensive, thoughtful, and gentle—so that he was beloved by the
whole family.
As soon as the first buds of spring appeared, and the delicious fragrance
of the young year began to sweeten the air, his father, with the help
of his younger brothers, built for Wunzh the customary little lodge, at
a retired spot at some distance from their own, where he would not be
disturbed during the solemn rite.
To prepare himself, Wunzh sought to clear his heart of every evil
thought, and to think of nothing that was not good and beautiful and
kindly.
That he might store his mind with pleasant ideas for his dreams, for the
first few days he amused himself by walking in the woods and over the
mountains, examining the early plants and flowers.
As he rambled far and wide, through the wild country, he felt a strong
desire to know how the plants and herbs and berries grew, without any
aid from man, and why it was that some kinds were good to eat, and that
others were possessed of medicinal or poisonous power.
After he had become too languid to walk about, and confined himself
strictly to the lodge, he recalled these thoughts, and turning
them in his mind, he wished he could dream of something that would
prove a benefit to his father and family, and to all others of his
fellow-creatures.
“True,” thought Wunzh, “the Great Spirit made all things, and it is to
him that we owe our lives. Could he not make it easier for us to get our
food than by hunting animals and taking fish? I must try to find this out
in my visions.”
On the third day Wunzh became weak and faint, and kept his bed. Suddenly
he fancied, as he lay thus, that a bright light came in at the lodge
door, and ere he was aware he saw a handsome young man, with a complexion
of the softest and purest white, coming down from the sky, and advancing
toward him.
The beautiful stranger was richly and gayly dressed, having on a great
many garments of green and yellow colors, but differing in their deeper
or lighter shades. He had a plume of waving feathers on his head, and
all his motions were graceful, and reminded Wunzh of the deep green of
the summer grass, and the clear amber of the summer sky, and the gentle
blowing of the summer wind. Beautiful as the stranger was, he paused on a
little mound of earth, just before the door of the lodge.
“I am sent to you, my friend,” said this celestial visitor, in a voice
most soft and musical to listen to, “I am sent to you by that Great
Spirit who made all things in the sky and on the earth. He has seen
and knows your motives in fasting. He sees that it is from a kind and
benevolent wish to do good to your people and to procure a benefit for
them; that you do not seek for strength in war, or the praise of the men
of the bloody hand. I am sent to instruct you and to show you how you can
do your kindred good.”
He then told the young man to arise, and to prepare to wrestle with him,
as it was only by this means that he could hope to succeed in his wishes.
Wunzh knew how weak he was from fasting, but the voice of the stranger
was cheery, and put such a courage in his heart, that he promptly
sprang up, determined to die rather than fail. Brave Wunzh! if you ever
accomplish anything, it will be through the power of the resolve that
spake within you at that moment.
He began the trial, and after a long-sustained struggle he was almost
overpowered, when the beautiful stranger said:
“My friend, it is enough for once, I will come again to try you;” and
smiling on him, he returned through the air in the same direction in
which he had come.
The next day, although he saw how sweetly the wild flowers bloomed upon
the slopes, and the birds warbled from the woodland, he longed to see the
celestial visitor, and to hear his voice.
To his great joy he reappeared at the same hour, toward the going down
of the sun, and rechallenged Wunzh to a trial of strength.
The brave Wunzh felt that his strength of body was even less than on the
day before, but the courage of his mind seemed to grow. Observing this,
and how Wunzh put his whole heart in the struggle, the stranger again
spoke to him in the words he used before, adding:
“To-morrow will be your last trial. Be strong, my friend, for this is the
only way in which you can overcome me and obtain the boon you seek.”
The light which shone after him as he left Wunzh was brighter than before.
On the third day he came again and renewed the struggle. Very faint
in body was poor Wunzh, but he was stronger at heart than ever, and
determined to prevail now or perish. He put forth his utmost powers,
and after a contest more severe than either of the others, the stranger
ceased his efforts, and declared himself conquered.
For the first time he entered Wunzh’s little fasting-lodge, and sitting
down beside the youth, he began to deliver his instructions to him and
to inform him in what manner he should proceed to take advantage of his
victory.
“You have won your desire of the Great Spirit,” said the beautiful
stranger. “You have wrestled manfully. To-morrow will be the seventh day
of your fasting. Your father will give you food to strengthen you, and as
it is the last day of trial you will prevail. I know this, and now tell
you what you must do to benefit your family and your people. To-morrow,”
he repeated, “I shall meet you and wrestle with you for the last time. As
soon as you have prevailed against me, you will strip off my garments and
throw me down, clean the earth of roots and weeds, make it soft, and bury
me in the spot. When you have done this, leave my body in the earth, and
do not disturb it, but come at times to visit the place, to see whether
I have come to life, and above all be careful never to let the grass or
weeds grow upon my grave. Once a month cover me with fresh earth. If you
follow these my instructions you will accomplish your object of doing
good to your fellow-creatures by teaching them the knowledge I now teach
you.”
He then shook Wunzh by the hand and disappeared, but he was gone so soon
that Wunzh could not tell what direction he took.
In the morning, Wunzh’s father came to his lodge with some slight
refreshments, saying:
“My son, you have fasted long enough. If the Great Spirit will favor you,
he will do it now. It is seven days since you have tasted food, and you
must not sacrifice your life. The Master of Life does not require that.”
“My father,” replied Wunzh, “wait till the sun goes down. I have a
particular reason for extending my fast to that hour.”
“Very well,” said the old man, “I shall wait till the hour arrives, and
you shall be inclined to eat.”
At his usual hour of appearing, the beautiful sky-visitor returned, and
the trial of strength was renewed. Although he had not availed himself
of his father’s offer of food, Wunzh felt that new strength had been
given him. His heart was mighty within him to achieve some great purpose.
Courage within the bosom of the brave Wunzh was like the eagle that
spreads his wings within the treetop for a great flight.
He grasped his angel challenger with supernatural strength, threw him
down, and, mindful of his own instructions, tore from him his beautiful
garments and plume, and finding him dead, he immediately buried him
on the spot, using all the precautions he had been told of, and very
confident was Wunzh, all the time, that his friend would again come to
life.
Wunzh now returned to his father’s lodge, where he was warmly welcomed,
for as it had been appointed to him during the days of his fasting to
walk apart with Heaven, he was not permitted to see any human face save
that of his father, the representative to the little household upon earth
of the Good Father who is in Heaven.
Wunzh partook sparingly of the meal that had been prepared for him, and
once more mingled in the cares and sports of the family. But he never
for a moment forgot the grave of his friend. He carefully visited it
throughout the spring, and weeded out the grass, and kept the ground in
a soft and pliant state; and sometimes, when the brave Wunzh thought of
his friend that was gone from his sight, he dropped a tear upon the earth
where he lay.
Watching and tending, and moistening the earth with his tears, it was
not long before Wunzh saw the tops of green plumes coming through the
ground; and the more faithful he was in obeying his instructions in
keeping the ground in order, and in cherishing the memory of his departed
friend, the faster they grew. He was, however, careful to conceal the
charge of the earth which he had from his father.
Days and weeks had passed in this way; the summer was drawing toward a
close, when one day, after a long absence in hunting, Wunzh invited his
father to follow him to the quiet and lonesome spot of his former fast.
The little fasting-lodge had been removed, and the weeds kept from
growing on the circle where it had stood; but in its place rose a tall
and graceful plant, surmounted with nodding plumes and stately leaves
and golden clusters. There was in its aspect and bearing the deep green
of the summer grass, the clear amber of the summer sky, and the gentle
blowing of the summer wind.
“It is my friend!” shouted Wunzh, “it is the friend of all mankind. It
is Mondawmin: it is our Indian Corn! We need no longer rely on hunting
alone, for as long as this gift is cherished and taken care of, the
ground itself will give us a living.”
He then pulled an ear.
“See, my father,” said he, “this is what I fasted for. The Great Spirit
has listened to my voice, and sent us something new, and henceforth our
people will not alone depend upon the chase or upon the waters.”
Wunzh then communicated to his father the instructions given to him by
the stranger. He told him that the broad husks must be torn away, as he
had pulled off the garments in his wrestling, and having done this, he
directed him how the ear must be held before the fire till the outer skin
became brown—as the complexion of his angel friend had been tinted by the
sun—while all the milk was retained in the grain.
The whole family, in high spirits, and deeply grateful to the Merciful
Master who gave it, assisted in a feast on the newly grown ears of corn.
So came that mighty blessing into the world, and we owe all of those
beautiful fields of healthful grain to the dream of the brave boy Wunzh.
LEELINAU, THE LOST DAUGHTER
(_North American Indian_)
Leelinau was the favorite daughter of a hunter who lived on the lake
shore, near the base of the lofty highlands, called Kang Wudjoo.
From her earliest youth she was observed to be thoughtful and retiring.
She passed much of her time in solitude, and seemed ever to prefer the
companionship of her own shadow to the society of the lodge circle.
Whenever she could leave her father’s lodge she would fly to remote
haunts and recesses in the woods, or sit in lonely revery upon some high
promontory of rock overlooking the lake. In such places she would often,
with her face turned upward, linger long in contemplation of the air, as
if she were invoking her guardian spirit, and beseeching him to lighten
her sadness.
But amid all the leafy haunts, none drew her steps toward it so often
as a forest of pines on the open shore, called Manitowok, or the Sacred
Wood. It was one of those hallowed places which is the resort of the
little wild men of the woods, and of the turtle spirits or fairies
which delight in romantic scenes. Owing to this circumstance, its green
retirement was seldom visited by Indians, who feared to fall under the
influence of its mischievous inhabitants.
And whenever they were compelled by stress of weather to make a landing
on this part of the coast, they never failed to leave an offering of
tobacco, or some other token, to show that they desired to stand well
with the proprietors of the fairy ground.
To this sacred spot Leelinau had made her way at an early age, gathering
strange flowers and plants, which she would bring home to her parents,
and relate to them all the haps and mishaps that had occurred in her
rambles.
Although they discountenanced her frequent visits to the place, they were
not able to restrain them, for she was of so gentle and delicate a temper
that they feared to thwart her.
Her attachment to the fairy wood, therefore, grew with her years. If she
wished to solicit her spirits to procure pleasant dreams, or any other
maiden favor, Leelinau repaired to the Manitowok. If her father remained
abroad in the hunt later than usual, and it was feared that he had
been overwhelmed by the tempest, or had met with some other mischance,
Leelinau offered up her prayers for safety at the Manitowok. It was there
that she fasted, mused, and strolled.
She at length became so engrossed by the fairy pines that her parents
began to suspect that some evil spirit had enticed her to its haunts, and
had cast upon her a charm which she had not the power to resist.
This belief was confirmed when, one day, her mother, who had secretly
followed her, overheard her murmuring to some unknown and invisible
companion appeals like these:
“Spirit of the dancing leaves!” whispered Leelinau, “hear a throbbing
heart in its sadness. Spirit of the foaming stream! visit thou my nightly
pillow, shedding over it silver dreams of mountain brook and pebbly
rivulet. Spirit of the starry night! lead my footprints to the blushing
mis-kodeed, or where the burning passion-flower shines with carmine hue.
Spirit of the greenwood plume!” she concluded, turning with passionate
gaze to the beautiful young pines which stood waving their green beauty
over her head, “shed on me, on Leelinau the sad, thy leafy fragrance,
such as spring unfolds from sweetest flowers, or hearts that to each
other show their inmost grief. Spirits! hear, O hear a maiden’s prayer!”
Day by day these strange communings with unseen beings drew away the
heart of Leelinau more and more from the simple duties of the lodge, and
she walked among her people, melancholy and silent, like a spirit who had
visited them from another land.
The pastimes which engaged the frolic moments of her young companions,
passed by her as little trivial pageants in which she had no concern.
When the girls of the neighboring lodges assembled to play at the
favorite female game of pappus-e-ko-waun, or the block and string, before
the lodge-door, Leelinau would sit vacantly by, or enter so feebly into
the spirit of the play as to show that it was irksome to her.
Again, in the evening, when the young people formed a ring around the
lodge, and the piepeend-jigun, or leather and bone, passed rapidly from
one to the other, she either handed it along without attempting to play,
or if she took a part, it was with no effort to succeed.
The time of the corn gathering had come, and the young people of the
tribe were assembled in the field, busy in plucking the ripened maize.
One of the girls, noted for her beauty, had found a red ear, and every
one congratulated her that a brave admirer was on his way to her father’s
lodge. She blushed, and hiding the trophy in her bosom, she thanked the
Good Spirit that it was a red ear, and not a crooked, that she had found.
Presently it chanced that one who was there among the young men espied
in the hands of Leelinau, who had plucked it indifferently, one of the
crooked kind, and at once the word “Wa-ge-min!” was shouted aloud
through the field, and the whole circle was set in a roar.
“The thief is in the corn-field!” exclaimed the young man, Iagoo by name,
and famous in the tribe for his mirthful powers of story-telling; “see
you not the old man stooping as he enters the field? See you not signs
that he crouched as he crept in the dark? Is it not plain by this mark on
the stalk that he was heavily bent in his back? Old man, be nimble, or
some one will take thee while thou art taking the ear.”
These questions Iagoo accompanied with the action of one bowed with age
stealthily entering the corn-field. He went on:
“See how he stoops as he breaks off the ear. Nushka! He seems for a
moment to tremble. Walker, be nimble! Hooh! It is plain the old man is
the thief.”
He turned suddenly where she sat in the circle, pensively regarding the
crooked ear which she held in her hand, and exclaimed:
“Leelinau, the old man is thine!”
Laughter rang merrily through the corn-field, but Leelinau, casting down
upon the ground the crooked ear of maize, walked pensively away.
The next morning the eldest son of a neighboring chief called at her
father’s lodge. He was quite advanced in years; but he enjoyed such
renown in battle, and his name was so famous in the hunt, that the
parents accepted him as a suitor for their daughter. They hoped that
his shining qualities would draw back the thoughts of Leelinau from that
spirit-land whither she seemed to have wholly directed her affections.
It was this chief’s son whom Iagoo had pictured as the corn-taker, but,
without objecting to his age, or giving any other reason, Leelinau
firmly declined his proposals. The parents ascribed the young daughter’s
hesitancy to maiden fear, and paying no further heed to her refusal, a
day was fixed for the marriage-visit to the lodge.
The warrior came to the lodge-door, and Leelinau refused to see him,
informing her parents, at the same time, that she would never consent to
the match.
It had been her custom to pass many of her hours in her favorite place of
retirement, under a broad-topped young pine, whose leaves whispered in
every wind that blew; but most of all in that gentle murmur of the air at
the evening hour, dear to lovers, when the twilight steals on.
Thither she now repaired, and, while reclining pensively against the
young pine tree, she fancied that she heard a voice addressing her. At
first it was scarcely more than a sigh; presently it grew more clear, and
she heard it distinctly whisper:
“Maiden, think me not a tree, but thine own dear lover, glad to be with
thee in my tall and blooming strength, with the bright green nodding
plume that waves above thee. Thou art leaning on my breast, Leelinau;
lean forever there and be at peace. Fly from men who are false and
cruel, and quit the tumult of their dusty strife, for this quiet, lonely
shade. Over thee I my arms will fling, fairer than the lodge’s roof. I
will breathe a perfume like that of flowers over thy happy evening rest.
In my bark canoe I’ll waft thee o’er the waters of the sky-blue lake. I
will deck the folds of thy mantle with the sun’s last rays. Come, and on
the mountain free rove a fairy bright with me!”
Leelinau drank in with eager ear these magical words. Her heart was
fixed. No warrior’s son should clasp her hand. She listened in the hope
to hear the airy voice speak more; but it only repeated, “Again! again!”
and entirely ceased.
On the eve of the day fixed for her marriage, Leelinau decked herself in
her best garments. She arranged her hair according to the fashion of her
tribe, and put on all of her maiden ornaments in beautiful array. With a
smile, she presented herself before her parents.
“I am going,” she said, “to meet my little lover, the chieftain of the
Green Plume, who is waiting for me at the Spirit Grove.”
Her face was radiant with joy, and the parents, taking what she had said
as her own fanciful way of expressing acquiescence in their plans, wished
her good fortune in the happy meeting.
“I am going,” she continued, addressing her mother as they left the
lodge, “I am going from one who has watched my infancy and guarded my
youth; who has given me medicine when I was sick, and prepared my food
when I was well. I am going from a father who has ranged the forest to
procure the choicest skins for my dress, and kept his lodge supplied
with the best spoil of the chase. I am going from a lodge which has been
my shelter from the storms of winter, and my shield from the heats of
summer. Farewell, my parents, farewell!”
So saying, she sped faster than any could follow her to the margin of the
fairy wood, and in a moment was lost to sight.
As she had often thus withdrawn herself from the lodge, the parents were
not in fear, but confidently awaited her return. Hour chased hour, as
the clouds of evening rolled up in the west; darkness came on, but no
daughter returned. With torches they hastened to the wood, and although
they lit up every dark recess and leafy gloom, their search was in vain.
Leelinau was nowhere to be seen. They called aloud, in lament, upon her
name, but she answered not.
Suns rose and set, but nevermore in their light did the bereaved parents’
eyes behold the lost form of their beloved child. Their daughter was lost
indeed. Whither she had vanished no mortal tongue could tell; although
it chanced that a company of fishermen, who were spearing fish near the
Spirit Grove, descried something that seemed to resemble a female figure
standing on the shore. As the evening was mild and the waters calm, they
cautiously pulled their canoe toward land, but the slight ripple of their
oars excited alarm. The figure fled in haste, but they could recognize
in the shape and dress as she ascended the bank, the lost daughter, and
they saw the green plumes of her fairy-lover waving over his forehead as
he glided lightly through the forest of young pines.
BIRTH OF THE ARBUTUS
(_Iroquois_)
Many, many moons ago there lived an old man alone in his lodge beside a
frozen stream in the great forest beyond the wide waters of the northern
lakes. His locks were long and white with age and frost. The fur of
the bear and cunning beaver covered his body, but none too warmly, for
snow and ice were everywhere. Over all the earth there was winter. The
winds came down the bleak mountain sides and wildly hurried through the
branches of the trees and bushes, looking for song birds that they might
chill to the heart. Even the evil spirits shivered in the desolation and
sought to dig for themselves sheltering caves in the deep snow and ice.
Lonely and halting, the old man went abroad in the forest, looking for
the broken branches that had fallen from the trees that he might keep
alive the fire in his lodge. Few fagots could he find, and in despair he
again sought his lodge, where, hovering over the fading embers on his
hearth, he cried in anguish to the Great Spirit that he might not perish.
Then the wind moaned in the tree-tops, and circling through the forests
came back and blew aside the skin of the great bear hanging over his
lodge-door, and, lo! a beautiful maiden entered. Her cheeks were red
like the leaves of wild roses; her eyes were large and glowed like the
eyes of the fawn at night; her hair was black as the wing of the crow,
and so long that it brushed the ground as she walked; her hands were clad
in willow buds; over her head was a crown of flowers; her mantle was
woven with sweet grasses and ferns, and her moccasins were white lilies,
laced and embroidered with the petals of honeysuckle. When she breathed,
the air of the lodge became warm, and the cold winds rushed back in
affright.
The old man looked in wonder at his strange visitor, and then opened
his lips and said: “My daughter, thou art welcome to the poor shelter
of my cheerless lodge. It is lonely and desolate, and the Great Spirit
has covered the fallen branches of the trees with his death-cloth that
I may not find them and light again the fire of my lodge. Come sit thou
here and tell me who thou art that thou dost wander like the deer in
the forest. Tell me also of thy country and what people gave thee such
beauty and grace, and then I, the desolate Manito, will tell thee of my
victories till thou dost weary of my greatness.”
The maiden smiled, and the sunlight streamed forth and shot its warmth
through the roof of the lodge. The desolate Manito filled his pipe of
friendship, and when he had drawn of the fragrant tobacco, he said: “When
I, the Manito, blow the breath from my nostrils the waters of the river
stand still, the great waves on the lakes rest, and the murmurings of the
streams die away in silence.”
Then the maiden said: “The Manito is great and strong and the waters
know the touch of his breath; but when I, the loved of the birds, smile,
the flowers spring up over all the forest and the plains are covered with
a carpet of green.”
Then said the Manito: “I shake my locks, and lo! the earth is wrapped in
the death-cloth of snow.”
Then the maiden replied: “I breathe into the air and the warm rains
come and the death-cloth vanishes like the darkness when the great fire
awakens from its bed in the morning.”
Then the Manito said: “When I walk about, the leaves die on the trees and
fall to the ground; the birds desert their nests and fly away beyond the
lakes; the animals bury themselves in holes in the earth or in caves in
the mountain side, and the winds wail the death-chant over all the land.”
“Ah, great is the Manito,” said the maiden, “and his mighty name is
feared by all living things in the land. ‘Great is the Manito,’ says all
the world, and his fame has spread among the children of the Great Spirit
till they crouch with fear and say: ‘Mighty and cruel is the Manito!
Terrible is the Manito, and more cruel and cunning in his tortures than
the red men. His strength is greater than the strength of the giant trees
of the forest, for does he not rend them with his mighty hands?’ But when
I, the gentle maiden, walk forth, the trees cover with many leaves the
nakedness which thou, the great Manito, hath caused; the birds sing in
the branches and build again the nests from which thou drivest them; the
animals seek their mates and rear their young; the wind sings soft and
pleasant music to the ears of the red man, while his wives and pappooses
sport in the warm sunshine near his wigwam.”
As the maiden spoke the lodge grew warm and bright, but the boasting
Manito heeded it not, for his head drooped forward on his breast, and he
slept.
Then the maiden passed her hands above the Manito’s head and he began to
grow small. The bluebirds came and filled the trees about the lodge, and
sang, while the rivers lifted up their waters and boiled with freedom.
Streams of water poured from the Manito’s mouth, and the garments that
covered his shrunken and vanishing form turned into bright and glistening
leaves.
Then the maiden knelt upon the ground and took from her bosom most
precious and beautiful rose-white flowers. She hid them under the leaves
all about her, and as she breathed with love upon them, said:
“I give to you, oh, precious jewels, all my virtues and my sweetest
breath, and men shall pluck thee with bowed head on bended knee.”
Then the maiden moved over the plains, the hills and the mountains. The
birds and the winds sang together in joyous chorus, while the flowers
lifted up their heads and greeted her with fragrance.
Wherever she stepped, and nowhere else, grows the arbutus.
* * * * *
In the two little poems following, by an ancient Mexican Indian, the poet
calls the songs he sings “flowers,” which he seems to think he gathers
in some mysterious land of the spirit. The idea is a very beautiful one,
worthy of any poet, and certainly shows that some, at least, of the
Indians had reached a high plane of poetic fancy.
SONG AT THE BEGINNING
(_Ancient Mexican Indian_)
1. I am wondering where I may gather some pretty, sweet flowers. Whom
shall I ask? Suppose that I ask the brilliant humming-bird, the emerald
trembler; suppose that I ask the yellow butterfly; they will tell me they
know where bloom the pretty, sweet flowers, whether I may get them here
in the laurel woods where dwell the tzinitzcan birds, or whether I may
gather them in the flowery forests where the thanquehol lives. There they
may be plucked sparkling with dew, there they come forth in perfection.
Perhaps there I shall see them if they have appeared; I shall place them
in the folds of my garment, and with them I shall greet the children, I
shall make glad the nobles.
2. Truly as I walk along I hear the rocks as it were replying to the
sweet songs of the flowers; truly the glittering, chattering water
answers; the bird-green fountain, there it sings, it dashes forth, it
sings again; the mocking-bird answers; perhaps the coyol bird answers;
and many sweet singing birds scatter their songs around like music. They
bless the earth, pouring out their sweet voices.
3. I said, I cried aloud: May I not cause you pain, ye beloved ones, who
are seated to listen; may the brilliant humming-birds come soon. Whom
do we seek, O noble poet? I ask, I say: Where are the pretty, fragrant
flowers with which I may make glad you, my noble compeers? Soon they will
sing to me: “Here we will make thee to see, thou singer, truly wherewith
thou shalt make glad the nobles, thy companions.”
4. They led me within a valley to a fertile spot, a flowery spot, where
the dew spread out in glittering splendor, where I saw various lovely
fragrant flowers, lovely odorous flowers, clothed with the dew, scattered
around in rainbow glory. There they said to me: “Pluck the flowers,
whichever thou wishest, mayest thou the singer be glad, and give them to
thy friends, to the nobles, that they may rejoice on the earth.”
5. So I gathered in the folds of my garment the various fragrant flowers,
delicate scented, delicious, and I said: May some of our people enter
here, may very many of us be here; and I thought I should go forth
to announce to our friends that here all of us should rejoice in the
different lovely, odorous flowers, and that we should cull the various
sweet songs with which we might rejoice our friends here on earth, and
the nobles in their grandeur and dignity.
6. So I, the singer, gathered all the flowers to place them upon the
nobles, to clothe them and put them in their hands, and soon I lifted
my voice in a worthy song glorifying the nobles before the face of the
Cause of All, where there is no servitude.
7. Where shall one pluck them? Where gather the sweet flowers? And how
shall I attain the flowery land, that fertile land, where there is no
servitude nor affliction? If one purchases it here on earth, it is only
through submission to the Cause of All; here on earth grief fills my soul
as I recall where I, the singer, saw the flowery spot.
8. And I said: Truly there is no good spot here on earth, truly in some
other bourne there is gladness; for what good is this earth? Truly there
is another life in the hereafter. There may I go, there the sweet birds
sing, there may I learn to know those good flowers, those sweet flowers,
those delicious ones, which alone pleasurably, sweetly intoxicate, which
alone pleasurably, sweetly intoxicate.
FLOWER SONG
(_Ancient Mexican Indian_)
1. In the place of tears, I, the singer, watch my flowers; they are in
my hand; they intoxicate my soul and my song, as I walk alone with them,
with my sad soul among them.
2. In this spot, where the herbage is like sweet ointment and green as
the turquoise and emerald, I think upon my song, holding the beauteous
flowers in my hand, as I walk alone with them, with my sad soul among
them.
3. In this spot of turquoise and emerald, I think upon beauteous songs,
beauteous flowers; let us rejoice now, dear friends and children, for
life is not long upon earth.
4. I shall hasten forth, I shall go to the sweet songs, the sweet
flowers, dear friends and children.
5. O he! I cried aloud; O he! I rained down flowers as I left.
6. Let us go forth anywhere; I, the singer, shall find and bring forth
the flowers; let us be glad while we live; listen to my song.
7. I, the poet, cry out a song for a place of joy, a glorious song which
descends to Mictlan, and there turns about and comes forth again.
8. I seek neither vestment nor riches, O children, but a song for a place
of joy.
THE STORY OF ERISICHTHON
(_Greek_)
Erisichthon was a profane person and a despiser of the gods. On one
occasion he presumed to violate with the axe a grove sacred to Ceres
(Demeter). There stood in this grove a venerable oak, so large that it
seemed a wood in itself, its ancient trunk towering aloft, whereon votive
garlands were often hung and inscriptions carved expressing the gratitude
of suppliants to the nymph of the tree. Often had the dryads danced
round it hand in hand. Its trunk measured fifteen cubits round, and it
overtopped the other trees as they overtopped the shrubbery. But for all
that, Erisichthon saw no reason why he should spare it, and he ordered
his servants to cut it down. When he saw them hesitate he snatched an
axe from one, and thus impiously exclaimed, “I care not whether it be a
tree beloved of the goddess or not. Were it the goddess herself it should
come down, if it stood in my way.” So saying, he lifted the axe, and
the oak seemed to shudder and utter a groan. When the first blow fell
upon the trunk, blood flowed from the wound. All the bystanders were
horror-struck, and one of them ventured to remonstrate and hold back
the fatal axe. Erisichthon, with a scornful look, said to him, “Receive
the reward of your piety,” and turned against him the weapon which he
had held aside from the tree, gashed his body with many wounds, and cut
off his head. Then from the midst of the oak came a voice: “I who dwell
in this tree am a nymph, beloved by Ceres, and, dying by your hands,
forewarn you that punishment awaits you.” He desisted not from his crime;
and at last the tree, sundered by repeated blows and drawn by ropes, fell
with a crash, and prostrated a great part of the grove in its fall.
The dryads, in dismay at the loss of their companion, and at seeing
the pride of the forest laid low, went in a body to Ceres, all clad in
garments of mourning, and invoked punishment upon Erisichthon. She nodded
her assent, and as she bowed her head, the grain ripe for harvest in the
laden fields bowed also. She planned a punishment so dire that one would
pity him, if such a culprit as he could be pitied—to deliver him over
to Famine. As Ceres herself could not approach Famine, for the Fates
have ordained that these two goddesses shall never come together, she
called on Oread from her mountain and spoke to her in these words: “There
is a place in the farthest part of ice-clad Scythia, a sad and sterile
region without trees and without crops. Cold dwells there, and Fear,
and Shuddering, and Famine. Go and tell the last to take possession of
the bowels of Erisichthon. Let not Abundance subdue her, nor the power
of my gifts drive her away. Be not alarmed at the distance, for Famine
dwells very far from Ceres, but take my chariot. The dragons are fleet
and obey the rein, and will take you through the air in a short time.”
So she gave her the reins, and she drove away and soon reached Scythia.
On arriving at Mount Caucasus she stopped the dragons and found Famine
in a stony field, pulling up with teeth and claws the scanty herbage.
Her hair was rough, her eyes sunk, her face pale, her lips blanched, her
jaws covered with dust, and her skin drawn tight, so as to show all her
bones. As Oread saw her afar off (for she did not dare to come near), she
delivered the commands of Ceres; and though she stopped as short a time
as possible, and kept her distance as well as she could, yet she began to
feel hungry, and turned the dragons’ heads and drove back to Thessaly.
Famine obeyed the commands of Ceres and sped through the air to the
dwelling of Erisichthon, entered the bed-chamber of the guilty man, and
found him asleep. She enfolded him with her wings and breathed herself
into him, infusing her poison into his veins. Having discharged her task,
she hastened to leave the land of plenty and returned to her accustomed
haunts. Erisichthon still slept, and in his dreams craved food, and moved
his jaws as if eating. When he awoke his hunger was raging. Without a
moment’s delay he would have food set before him, of whatever kind earth,
sea, or air produces, and complained of hunger even while he ate. What
would have sufficed for a city or a nation was not enough for him. The
more he ate the more he craved.
His property rapidly diminished under the unceasing demands of his
appetite, but his hunger continued unabated. At length he had spent all,
and had only his daughter left, a daughter worthy of a better parent.
Her, too, he sold. She scorned to be the slave of a purchaser, and, as
she stood by the sea-side, raised her hands in prayer to Neptune. He
heard her prayer, and, though her new master was not far off, and had
his eyes on her a moment before, Neptune changed her form, and made her
assume that of a fisherman busy at his occupation. Her master, looking
for her and seeing her in her altered form, addressed her and said:
“Good fisherman, whither went the maiden whom I saw just now, with hair
dishevelled and in humble garb, standing about where you stand? Tell
me truly, so may your luck be good, and not a fish nibble at your hook
and get away.” She perceived that her prayer was answered, and rejoiced
inwardly at hearing herself inquired of about herself. She replied:
“Pardon me, stranger, but I have been so intent upon my line that I have
seen nothing else; but I wish I may never catch another fish if I believe
any woman or other person except myself to have been hereabouts for some
time.” He was deceived and went his way, thinking his slave had escaped.
Then she resumed her own form. Her father was well pleased to find her
still with him, and the money, too, that he got by the sale of her; so he
sold her again. But she was changed by the favor of Neptune as often as
she was sold—now into a horse, now a bird, now an ox, and now a stag—got
away from her purchasers, and came home.
PAN AND SYRINX
(_Greek_)
Once there was a beautiful nymph of the woods whose name was Syrinx. She
was much admired by all the satyrs and spirits of the wood, but she was a
faithful worshipper of Artemis and did not respond to the attentions of
any of her admirers. One day, however, Pan met her, and was so delighted
with her that he persistently wooed her with many compliments. Away she
ran from him without stopping to hear what he had to say, but on the
bank of the river he overtook her. Then she called on her friends the
water-nymphs to help her. They heard her, and just as Pan was about to
throw his arms around her they changed her into a tuft of reeds. As
he breathed a sigh, the air sounded through the reeds and produced a
plaintive melody. Pan, delighted with the music and with the novelty of
the experience, exclaimed, “Thus, then, at least, you shall be mine.” So
he took some of the reeds, of unequal lengths, and placing them together
side by side, he made an instrument and called it Syrinx, in honor of the
nymph.
POMONA AND VERTUMNUS
(_Roman_)
Pomona was a hamadryad who presided over fruit trees and especially
over apple orchards. She had scorned the offers of love made her by Pan
and other spirits of the woods, and also those of Vertumnus, the god of
gardens and of the changing seasons. But, unwearied, he wooed her in as
many guises as his seasons themselves could assume. Now as a reaper, now
as haymaker, now as ploughman, now as vine-dresser, now as apple picker,
now as fisherman, now as soldier, all to no avail.
At last he disguised himself as an old woman and came to her. He admired
her fruit, especially the luxuriance of her grapes, and enlarged upon
the dependence of the luxuriant vine, close by, upon the elm to which
it was clinging; advised Pomona, likewise, to choose some youth—say,
for instance, the young Vertumnus—about whom to twine her arms. Then he
told the melancholy tale of how the worthy Iphio, spurned by Anaxarete,
had hanged himself to her gate-post; and how the gods had turned the
hard-hearted virgin to stone even as she gazed on her lover’s funeral.
“Consider these things, dearest child,” said the seeming old woman, “lay
aside thy scorn and thy delays, and accept a lover. So may neither the
vernal frosts blight thy young fruits, nor furious winds scatter thy
blossoms!”
When Vertumnus had thus spoken he dropped his disguise, and stood before
Pomona in his proper person, a comely youth. Pleased with such ardent
wooing, Pomona consented and became his wife.
* * * * *
Although the god Osiris in Egyptian Mythology has been frequently
identified with the sun, there is no doubt that he was also regarded as a
god of vegetation. There is a representation of him in one of the great
temples in Egypt in which the dead body of Osiris is shown with stalks
of corn springing from it, and a priest is watering the stalks from a
pitcher which he holds in his hands. The inscription which accompanies
this representation sets forth, “This is the form of him one may not
name, Osiris of the Mysteries, who springs from the returning waters.”
He is often spoken of, also, as “The one in the tree,” “The solitary
one in the Acacia.” The myth here related seems to be one of the death
of vegetation, slain by the evil Typhon. This was caused in Egypt by
drought, while the springing up of vegetation was caused by the annual
overflow of the Nile.
A similar myth exists in Greece in which the god of vegetation, Adonis,
is mourned by Aphrodite, also called Cypris and Cytherea (Roman Venus),
who loved him.
MYTH OF OSIRIS AND ISIS
(_Egyptian_)
Osiris and Isis were at one time induced to descend to the earth to
bestow gifts and blessings on its inhabitants. Isis showed them first the
use of wheat and barley, and Osiris made the instruments of agriculture
and taught men the use of them, as well as how to harness the ox to the
plough. He then gave men laws, the institution of marriage, a civil
organization, and taught them how to worship the gods. After he had
thus made the valley of the Nile a happy country, he assembled a host
with which he went to bestow his blessings upon the rest of the world.
He conquered the nations everywhere but only with music and eloquence.
His brother Typhon saw this, and sought during his absence to usurp
his throne. But Isis, who held the reins of government, frustrated his
plans. Still more imbittered, he now resolved to kill his brother.
Having organized a conspiracy of seventy-two members, he went with them
to the feast which was celebrated in honor of the king’s return. He
then caused a box or chest to be brought in, which had been made to fit
exactly the size of Osiris, and declared that he would give that chest
of precious wood to whosoever could get into it. The rest tried in vain,
but no sooner was Osiris in it than Typhon and his companions closed
the lid and flung the chest into the Nile. When Isis heard of the cruel
murder she wept and mourned; and then, with her hair shorn, clothed in
black, and beating her breast, she sought diligently for the body of her
husband. In the search she was assisted by Anubis. They sought in vain
for some time; for when the chest, carried by the waves to the shores of
Byblos, had become entangled in the reeds that grew at the edge of the
water, the divine power that dwelt in the body of Osiris imparted such
strength to the shrub that it grew into a mighty tree, enclosing in its
trunk the coffin of the god. This tree, with its sacred deposit, was
shortly after felled, and erected as a column in the palace of the King
of Phœnicia. But at length, by the aid of Anubis and the sacred birds,
Isis ascertained these facts, and then went to the royal city. There she
offered herself at the palace as a servant, and, being admitted, threw
off her disguise, and appeared as the goddess, surrounded with thunder
and lightning. Striking the column with her wand, she caused it to split
open and give up the sacred coffin. This she seized, and returned with
it, and concealed it in the depth of a forest; but Typhon discovered it,
and cutting the body into fourteen pieces, scattered them hither and
thither. After a tedious search, Isis found thirteen pieces, the fishes
of the Nile having eaten the other. This she replaced by an imitation
of sycamore wood, and buried the body at Philæ, which became ever after
the burying place of the nation, and the spot to which pilgrimages were
made from all parts of the country. A temple of surpassing magnificence
was also erected there in honor of the god, and at every place where
one of his limbs had been found minor temples and tombs were built in
commemoration of the event.
THE DEATH OF ADONIS[4]
(_From Bion’s Lament for Adonis_)
Low on the hills is lying the lovely Adonis, and his thigh with the
boar’s tusk, his white thigh with the boar’s tusk, is wounded, and sorrow
on Cypris he brings, as softly he breathes his life away.
To Cypris his kiss is dear, though he lives no longer, but Adonis knew
not that she kissed him whenas he died.
_Woe, woe for Adonis, the Loves join in the lament!_
A cruel, cruel wound on his thigh hath Adonis, but a deeper wound in her
heart Cytherea bears. About him his dear hounds are loudly baying, and
the nymphs of the wild wood wail him; but Aphrodite with unbound locks
through the glades goes wandering—wretched, with hair unbraided, with
feet unsandalled, and the thorns as she passes wound her and pluck the
blossom of her sacred blood. Shrill she wails as down the long woodlands
she is borne, lamenting her Assyrian lord, and again calling him and
again.
_Woe, woe for Cytherea, the Loves join in the lament!_
...
No more in the oak woods, Cypris, lament thy lord. It is no fair couch
for Adonis, the lonely bed of reeds!
Now lay him down to sleep in his own soft coverlets, in a couch all of
gold, that yearns for Adonis, though sad is he to look upon. Cast on him
garlands and blossoms: all things have perished in his death, yea, all
the flowers are faded. Sprinkle him with ointments of Syria, sprinkle him
with unguents of myrrh. Nay, perish all perfumes, for Adonis, who was thy
perfume, hath perished.
He reclines, the delicate Adonis, in his raiment of purple, and around
him the Loves are weeping, and groaning aloud, clipping their locks for
Adonis. And one upon his shafts, another on his bow is treading, and
one hath loosed the sandals of Adonis, and another hath broken his own
feathered quiver, and one in a golden vessel bears water, and another
laves the wound, and another from behind him with his wings is fanning
Adonis.
_Woe, woe for Cytherea, the Loves join in the lament!_
...
And woe, woe for Adonis, shrilly cry the Muses, neglecting Pæan (Apollo),
and they lament Adonis aloud, and songs they chant to him, but he does
not heed them, not that he is loath to hear, but that the Maiden of
Hades doth not let him go.
Cease, Cytherea, from thy lamentations, to-day refrain from thy dirges.
Thou must again bewail him, again must weep for him another year.