CHAPTER VII

MOTHER-MYTHS AND CHILD-MYTHS

In all the myths we have learned about so far there has been very little

of the purely human element of affection, yet it is true that reverence

and love for the mother of all things was one of the earliest instincts

in the mind of primitive man, as well as love and even reverence for

children.

The idea of the earth as a mother is a very simple and natural one, and

so we find everywhere that the earth has been personified as a mother.

Among the primitive people of America the Earth-Mother is a personage of

much importance. The Peruvians worshipped her as Mama-Pacha or Mother

Earth. The Caribs, when there was an earthquake said it was their Mother

Earth dancing and signifying to them to dance and make merry likewise,

which accordingly they did. Among the North American Indians, the

Comanches call on the earth as their mother, while they regard the Great

Spirit as their father.

In the mythology of the Finns, Lapps and Esths, the Earth-Mother is

a divinely honored personage. One of the most primitive forms of the

Earth-Mother is that of the Zulus. She is described as a very little

animal about as large as a pole-cat, and is marked with little white and

black stripes. The Zulus say of her that she is not commonly seen. We

hear it said that primitive men knew her. No one existing at the present

time ever saw her. In spite of this fact, however, they seem to have very

definite ideas of her appearance, for upon one side of this little black

and white animal there grow a bed of reeds, a forest, and grass. She

always goes about followed by a large troop of children which resemble

her, and in whose welfare she takes a great interest. The name of this

goddess is Inkosa-za-na.

The oldest of all their gods in Polynesian mythology is a mother-goddess

called Vari. She is the very beginning of things in the abyss. She is

celebrated as the source of all from whom all beings claim descent. She

sheltered the Earth-Mother, who in Polynesian mythology is called Papa,

whose husband was Rangi, the Heaven. How these two came to be separated

is told in the story of the “Children of Heaven and Earth.”

We see from this myth of Vari that the earth is not the only

mother-goddess.

The very beginnings of things in night and chaos were frequently

represented as mother goddesses. For example, the Egyptian Mother-goddess

was Neith, the goddess of night. She is celebrated as the “Only One.”

“Glory to thee! Thou art mightier than the Gods! The forms of the living

souls which are in their places give glory to the terrors of thee, their

mother; thou art their origin.” She is represented as self-existing. “I

am all that was and is and is to be; no mortal hath lifted my veil.” In

the Public Library in Boston the artist Sargent has made the vague, black

figure of this goddess the background in his fresco, giving a symbolic

representation of Egyptian religion. The face of Neith shows inscrutable

calm, and she wears as a necklace the constellations of the Zodiac, and

on her head the winged globe of the sun. She was said also to have been

the mother of the sun.

The Hindoo, Aditi, mother of the gods, seems to have been a goddess of

the same kind. She is said to represent free, unbounded infinity, and

is the mother of twelve heavenly beings—sun-gods, called Adityas. Her

kinship with other mother-goddesses is shown by the fact that she was

invoked as the bestower of blessings on children and cattle.

In the naïve and poetical little myth of the Malayan Peninsula given

later, the sun and moon both figure as mother-goddesses.

The worship of mother-goddesses among the ancient Mexican Indians was

prominent. Hymns descriptive of two are given here. The first is to the

goddess Teteoinan, the “Mother of the Gods.” She was also called Soci,

“Our Mother,” and also by another name which signified “The Heart of

the Earth.” This last name was given to her because she was believed to

be the cause of earthquakes. She presided over the vegetable and animal

world and her chief temple at Tepeyacac was one of the most renowned in

ancient Mexico. The other goddess, Cihuacoatl, was the mythical mother

of the human race, and was regarded with veneration on account of her

antiquity. As well as being an Earth-Goddess, she was the Goddess of War.

It would be possible to give many illustrations of mother-tree goddesses,

but we have space for only one, that of the Persian world-tree in whose

midst dwelt the mother of all. “In Eridu a dark pine grew. It was planted

in a holy place. Its crown was crystal white, which spread toward the

deep vault above. The Abyss of Hea was its pasturage in Eridu, a canal

full of waters. Its station was the center of the earth. Its shrine was

the couch of Mother Zicam. The roof of its holy house like a forest

spread its shade; there were none who entered within. It was the seat of

the mighty mother, who passes athwart the heavens.”

The Norse earth-goddess, consort of Odin, appears in three forms—Jord,

Frigg, and Rind. Jord is the original uninhabited earth, Frigg is the

inhabited, cultivated earth, and Rind is the frozen earth of winter. The

child of the first is Thor, the thunderer; of the second is Balder, the

good or the beautiful; and of the third is Vale, who revenged the death

of Balder. Of these, Frigg is more nearly like other mother-goddesses,

though she seems to be somewhat withdrawn from active participation

in the duties of the mother-goddess. These are handed over to her

maid-servants, of whom she had seven—Fulla, Hlyn, Guaa, Snotra, Var,

Lofu, and Syn. Fulla, with golden hair adorned with a ribbon, looks

after harvests. Hlyn is the protectress who delivers people from peril.

Guaa is the messenger who runs errands for Frigg. Var has charge of

marriage, Lofu of love, and Syn of justice. The counterpart of Frigg in

Greek mythology is Demeter (Roman name, Ceres), the daughter of another

earth-goddess, Rhea. Like Frigg, she represents the bountiful life-giving

aspects of nature. She is best described in the hymn written in her honor

by Callimachus given later, and in which you will recognize another

version of the story of Erisichthon.

MALAYAN STORY OF THE SUN AND MOON

The Moon is a woman, and the Sun also. The stars are the Moon’s children,

and the Sun had in olden times as many. Fearing, however, that mankind

could not bear so much brightness and heat, they agreed each to devour

her children. But the Moon instead of eating up her stars hid them from

the Sun’s sight, who, believing them all devoured, ate up her own; no

sooner had she done it than the Moon brought her family out of their

hiding-place. When the Sun saw them, filled with rage, she chased the

Moon to kill her. The chase has lasted ever since, and sometimes the Sun

even comes near enough to bite the Moon, and that is an eclipse. The Sun,

as men may see, still devours her stars at dawn, and the Moon hides hers

all day while the Sun is near, and only brings them out at night when her

pursuer is far away.

[Illustration: Demeter or Ceres. _The Vatican._]

HYMN TO THE MOTHER OF THE GODS

(_Mexican Indian_)

Hail to our mother, who caused the yellow flowers to blossom, she who

scattered the seeds of the maguey, as she came forth from Paradise.

Hail to our mother, who poured forth white flowers in abundance, who

scattered the seeds of the maguey, as she came forth from Paradise.

Hail to the goddess who shines in the thorn-bush like a bright butterfly.

Ho! she is our mother, goddess of the earth; she supplies food in the

desert to the wild beasts, and causes them to live.

Thus, thus, you see her to be an ever-fresh model of liberality toward

all flesh.

And as you see the goddess of the earth do to the wild beasts, so also

does she toward the green herbs and the fishes.

HYMN TO CIHUACOATL, THE MOTHER OF MORTALS

(_Mexican Indian_)

Quilaztli, plumed with eagle feathers, with the crest of eagles, painted

with serpents’ blood, comes with her hoe, beating her drum, from

Colhuacan.

She alone, who is our flesh, goddess of the fields and shrubs, is strong

to support us.

With the hoe, with the hoe, with hands full, with the hoe, with hands

full, the goddess of the fields is strong to support us.

With a broom in her hands the goddess of the fields strongly supports us.

Our mother is as twelve eagles, goddess of drum-beating, filling the

fields of tzioac and maguey like our lord Mixcoatl.

She is our mother, a goddess of war, our mother, a goddess of war, an

example and a companion from the home of our ancestors.

She comes forth, she appears when war is waged, she protects us in war

that we shall not be destroyed, an example and companion from the home of

our ancestors.

She comes adorned in the ancient manner with the eagle crest, in the

ancient manner with the eagle crest.

THE CHILDREN OF HEAVEN AND EARTH

(_Polynesian_)

Men had but one pair of primitive ancestors; they sprang from the vast

Heaven that exists above us, and from the Earth which lies beneath us.

According to the traditions of our race, Rangi and Papa, or Heaven

and Earth, were the source from which, in the beginning, all things

originated. Darkness then rested upon the Heaven and upon the Earth, and

they still both clave together, for they had not yet been rent apart,

and their children were ever thinking among themselves what might be the

difference between darkness and light.

At last, worn out by the continued darkness, the children of Heaven and

Earth consulted amongst themselves, saying: “Let us now determine what we

should do with Rangi and Papa, whether it would be better to slay them

or to rend them apart.” Then spoke Tu-Matauenga, the fiercest of the

children of Heaven and Earth: “It is well, let us slay them.”

Then spoke Tane-Mahuta, the father of forests and of all things that

inhabit them, or that are constructed from trees: “Nay, not so. It is

better to rend them apart, and to let the Heaven stand far above us, and

the Earth lie under our feet. Let the Sky become as a stranger to us, but

the Earth remain close to us as our nursing mother.”

The brothers all consented to this proposal, with the exception of

Tawhiri-ma-tea, the father of winds and storms, and he, fearing that his

kingdom was about to be overthrown, grieved greatly at the thought of his

parents being torn apart.

Finally, however, having come to an agreement as to their plans, lo,

Rongo-matane, the god and father of the cultivated food of man, rises up

that he may rend apart Heaven and Earth; he struggles, but he cannot rend

them apart. Lo, next, Tangawa, the god and father of fish and reptiles,

rises up, that he may rend apart Heaven and Earth; he also struggles,

but he cannot rend them apart. Lo, next, Haumia-tikitiki, the god and

father of the food of man which springs without cultivation, rises up and

struggles, but ineffectually. Lo, then, Tu-Matauenga, the god and father

of fierce human beings, rises up and struggles, but he, too, fails in his

efforts. Then, at last, slowly uprises Tane-Mahuta, the god and father

of forests, of birds, and of insects, and he struggles with his parents;

in vain he strives to rend them apart with his hands and arms. Lo, he

pauses; his head is now firmly planted on his mother the Earth, his feet

he raises up and rests against his father the Heaven, he strains his back

and limbs with mighty effort. Now are rent apart Rangi and Papa, and with

cries and groans of woe they shriek aloud: “Wherefore slay you thus your

parents? Why commit you so dreadful a crime as to slay us, as to rend

your parents apart?” But Tane-Mahuta pauses not; he regards not their

shrieks and cries; far, far beneath him he presses down the Earth; far,

far above him he thrusts up the Sky.

Then, also, there arose in the breast of Tawhiri-ma-tea, the god and

father of winds and storms, a fierce desire to wage war with his

brothers, because they had rent apart their common parents.

The god of hurricanes and storms dreads also that the world should become

too fair and beautiful, so he rises, follows his father to the realms

above, and hurries to the sheltered hollows in the boundless skies; there

he hides and clings, and nestling in this place of rest he consults

long with his parent, and as the vast Heaven listens to the suggestions

of Tawhiri-ma-tea, thoughts and plans are formed in his breast, and

Tawhiri-ma-tea also understands what he must do.

He sends forth fierce squalls, whirlwinds, dense clouds, massy clouds,

dark clouds, gloomy thick clouds, fiery clouds, clouds which precede

hurricanes, clouds of fiery black, clouds reflecting glowing red light,

clouds wildly drifting from all quarters and wildly bursting, clouds

of thunder-storms, and clouds hurriedly flying. In the midst of these

Tawhiri-ma-tea himself sweeps wildly on. Alas! Alas! then rages the

fierce hurricane; and whilst Tane-Mahuta and his gigantic forests still

stand, unconscious and unsuspecting, the blast of the breath of the mouth

of Tawhiri-ma-tea smites them, the gigantic trees are snapped off right

in the middle; alas! alas! they are rent to atoms, dashed to the earth,

with boughs and branches torn and scattered, and lying on the earth,

trees and branches all alike left for the insect, for the grub, and for

loathsome rottenness.

From the forests and their inhabitants Tawhiri-ma-tea next swoops down

upon the seas, and lashes in his wrath the ocean. Ah! ah! waves steep as

cliffs arise, whose summits are so lofty that to look from them would

make the beholder giddy; these soon eddy in whirlpools, and Tangawa, the

god of ocean, and father of all that dwell therein, flies affrighted

through his seas.

Tawhiri-ma-tea next rushed on to attack his brothers Rongo-matane and

Haumia-tikitiki, the gods and progenitors of cultivated and uncultivated

food; but Papa, to save these for her other children, caught them up, and

hid them in a place of safety; and so well were these children of hers

concealed by their Mother Earth, that Tawhiri-ma-tea sought for them in

vain.

Tawhiri-ma-tea having thus vanquished all his other brothers, next rushed

against Tu-Matauenga, to try his strength against his; he exerted all his

force against him, but he could neither shake him nor prevail against

him. What did Tu-Matauenga care for his brother’s wrath? he was the

only one of the whole party of brothers who had planned the destruction

of their parents, and had shown himself brave and fierce in war.

Tu-Matauenga, or man, still stood erect and unshaken upon the breast of

his Mother Earth; and now at length the hearts of Heaven and of the god

of storms became tranquil, and their passions were assuaged.

Up to this time the vast Heaven has still ever remained separated from

his spouse the Earth. Yet their mutual love still continues—the soft

warm sighs of her loving bosom still ever rise up to him, ascending from

the woody mountains and valleys, and men call these mists; and the vast

Heaven, as he mourns through the long nights his separation from his

beloved, drops frequent tears upon her bosom, and men seeing these, term

them dewdrops.

STORY OF DEMETER

(_Greek: From the Hymn of Callimachus_)

He sings how Demeter was the first to cut off wheat, straw, and handfuls

of ears, and introduced oxen to tread out the corn. He tells also how

she punishes those who are guilty of disrespect to her power. She made

the son of Triopus pitiable by hunger. Not yet were the Pelasgians

inhabiting the Cnidian land, but sacred Dotium; but to thyself had raised

a beautiful enclosure, thickly grown with trees; scarce would an arrow

have penetrated it. In it was the pine, in it tall elms, and pear-trees

also, and beautiful, sweet apples, whilst the water, like as amber, was

bursting forth from springs. Then the son of Triopus hastened forth with

twenty servants, all in their prime, all giant men, having armed them in

both respects with hatchets and axes, so they rushed without shame into

the grove of Demeter.

Now there was a poplar, a large tree reaching to heaven, and under it the

nymphs were wont to disport themselves in the noontide, which, stricken

first, sounded an evil melody for the rest. Demeter became aware that her

sacred grove was in danger, and said in anger, “Who is hewing down my

beautiful trees?”

Forthwith she likened herself to Nicippe, whom the state had appointed as

her public priestess, and she grasped in her hand the fillets and poppies

and kept her key on her shoulders. Then said she, soothing the sad and

shameless man: “My son who fellest the sacred trees which are consecrated

to gods, stay, my son, child, much beloved by thy parents, forbear and

turn away thy servants, lest anywise our Lady Demeter be wroth with thee;

Demeter, whose holy precinct thou art pillaging.”

At her then, looking askance more fiercely than a lioness with savage

brood: “Give way, lest I fasten this great axe in thy flesh. These trees

thou shalt behold my well-roofed house, wherein I shall ever and anon

hold pleasant banquets to my heart’s content with my companions.” So

spake the youth, and Nemesis recorded the wicked speech.

Demeter was wroth in an unspeakable degree, and she became the goddess.

Her steps, indeed, trod the ground, but her head touched Olympus. Then

were they half dead, I wot, when they had seen the awful goddess, and on

a sudden rushed away, having left the axe among the oaks. The rest she

left alone, for by constraint they followed beneath their lord’s hands,

but she replied to the king that vexed her: “So, so; build thy hall, thou

dog, thou dog, wherein thou mayst hold banquets, for frequent festivals

thou shalt have hereafter.” Forthwith she sent upon him a grievous,

fierce hunger, burning and violent. So terrible was his appetite that he

ate up everything his mother had, causing her to call on Neptune:

“Either remove thou from him his sad disorder or thyself take and

maintain him, for my tables have fallen short. Reft are my folds, and my

stalls now void of beasts; and at length my cooks have declined the task.

Nay, more, they have unyoked the mules from the great wains, and he ate

the heifer which his mother was feeding for Vesta, and the prize-gaining

steed and war horse, and the cat which lesser animals dread.”

O Demeter, may he be no friend to me who is hated by you.... Sing ye

virgins, and ye mothers join the acclaim. All hail, Demeter, many

nurturing of many measures. And as the four white-maned steeds carry the

basket, so shall the great goddess, wide ruling, come, bringing to us

fair spring, fair summer, winter and autumn, and shall keep them for us

to another year.

Hail, goddess, and preserve this city in harmony and prosperity, and

bring all things home ripe from the fields. Feed our cattle; support our

fruit trees; bring forth the ear, produce the harvest; nurse also peace;

that he who has sowed, that same may reap. Be propitious at my bidding, O

thou, thrice-prayed-for, widely ruling among goddesses.

THE STORY OF DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE

(_Greek_)

Once upon a time, when the giants had all been imprisoned by Zeus under

Mount Ætna, Pluto, the ruler over the lower regions, or Hades, became

very much alarmed lest the shock of their fall might expose his kingdom

to the light of day. Under this apprehension, he mounted his chariot,

drawn by black horses, and made a journey of inspection to satisfy

himself of the extent of the damage. While he was thus engaged, he was

espied by the Goddess of Love, Aphrodite (Venus), who was sitting on

Mount Eryx, playing with her little boy Eros (Cupid).

He is one of the children in mythology who never grows up and never grows

any wiser. He carries about with him always a bow and a quiver full of

arrows, which he shoots right into the hearts of people and fills them

with a love so overwhelming for some one they have seen that they will

even carry that person off against his or her will, as this present story

shows. As soon as Aphrodite saw Pluto, she exclaimed: “My son, take thy

darts which subdue all, even Zeus himself, and send one into the breast

of yonder dark monarch, who rules the realm of Tartarus. Dost thou not

see that even in heaven some despise our power? Athēne and Artemis defy

us; and there is that daughter of Demeter, who threatens to follow their

example. Now, if thou regardest thine own interest or mine, join these

two in one.” The boy selected his sharpest and truest arrow, and sped it

right to the heart of Pluto.

Now in the vale of Enna is a lake embowered in woods, where Spring

reigns perpetual. Here Persephone (Roman, Proserpina) was playing with

her companions, gathering lilies and violets, when the god Pluto saw

her. He immediately loved her, and, without waiting to find out whether

she returned his love or not, he caught her up and carried her off. She

screamed for help to her mother and her companions, but Pluto urged on

his steeds and outdistanced pursuit. When he reached the river Cyane, it

opposed his passage; whereupon he struck the bank with his trident, and

the earth opened and gave him a passage to Tartarus.

Then Demeter, overwhelmed with grief, sought her daughter through the

whole world. Bright-haired Aurora, when she came forth in the morning,

and Hesperus, when he led out the stars in the evening, found her still

busy in the search. At length, weary and sad, she sat down upon a stone,

and remained nine days and nine nights, in the open air, under the

sunlight and moonlight and falling showers. It was where the city of

Eleusis now stands, near the home of an old man named Celeus. His little

girl, pitying the old woman, said to her: “Mother”—and the name was sweet

to the ears of Demeter—“why sittest thou here alone upon the rocks?” The

old man begged her to come into his cottage. She declined. He urged her.

“Go in peace,” she replied, “and be happy in thy daughter; I have lost

mine.” But their compassion finally prevailed. Demeter rose from the

stone and went with them. As they walked, Celeus said that his only son

lay sick of a fever. The goddess stooped and gathered some poppies. Then,

entering the cottage where all was in distress—for the boy, Triptolemus,

seemed past recovery—she restored the child to life and health with a

kiss. In grateful happiness the family spread the table, and put upon it

curds and cream, apples, and honey in the comb. While they ate, Demeter

mingled poppy juice in the milk of the boy. When night came, she arose

and, taking the sleeping boy, moulded his limbs with her hands, and

uttered over him three times a solemn charm, then went and laid him in

the ashes. His mother, who had been watching what her guest was doing,

sprang forward with a cry and snatched the child from the fire. Then

Demeter assumed her own form, and a divine splendor shone all around.

While they were overcome with astonishment, she said: “Mother, thou hast

been cruel in thy fondness; for I would have made thy son immortal.

Nevertheless, he shall be great and useful. He shall teach men the use

of the plough, and the rewards which labor can win from the soil.” So

saying, she wrapped a cloud about her, and, mounting her chariot, rode

away.

Demeter continued her search for her daughter, until at last she returned

to Sicily, whence she had at first set out, and stood by the banks of

the river Cyane. The river nymph would have told the goddess all she had

witnessed, but dared not for fear of Pluto; so she ventured merely to

take up the girdle which Persephone had dropped in her flight, and float

it to the feet of her mother. Demeter, seeing this, laid her curse upon

the innocent earth in which her daughter had disappeared. Then succeeded

drought and famine, flood and plague, until at last the fountain Arethusa

made intercession for the land. For she had observed that it had opened

all unwillingly to the might of Pluto, and she had also, in her flight

from Alpheus through the lower regions of the earth, beheld the missing

Persephone. She reported that the daughter of Demeter seemed sad, but no

longer showed alarm in her countenance. Her look was such as became a

queen—the queen of Erebus, the powerful bride of the monarch of the realm

of the dead.

When Demeter heard this she stood a while like one stupefied; then she

implored Zeus to interfere to procure the restitution of her daughter.

Zeus consented on condition that Persephone should not, during her stay

in the lower world, have taken any food; otherwise, the Fates forbade her

release. Accordingly, Hermes was sent, accompanied by Spring, to demand

Persephone of Pluto. The wily monarch consented; but, alas! the maiden

had taken a pomegranate which Pluto offered her, and had sucked the sweet

pulp from a few of the seeds. A compromise, however, was effected by

which she was to pass half the time with her mother and the rest with the

lord of Hades—so the flowers bloom upon the earth for half the year, and

for the other half are buried underground, out of sight.

Demeter, pacified with this arrangement, restored the earth to her favor.

She remembered, also, about Celeus and his family, and her promise to

his infant son, Triptolemus. She taught the boy the use of the plough

and how to sow the seed. She took him in her chariot, drawn by winged

dragons, through all the countries of the earth; and under her guidance

he imparted to mankind valuable grains, and the knowledge of agriculture.

After his return, Triptolemus built a temple to Demeter in Eleusis, and

established the worship of the goddess under the name of the Eleusinian

mysteries, which, in the splendor and solemnity of their observance,

surpassed all other religious celebrations among the Greeks.

* * * * *

Myths in which children figure are so numerous that it will be possible

to give but a few of the most important ones. There are sun and moon

children, and star children, and children of the wind; strong children

and clever children and tricksy children, and even children who are

worshipped as ancestors. A charming tale of the Zuni Indians tells how

they came to worship children. Once some mothers were crossing a river

with their children. By some magical means the children were changed

into such ugly and mischievous shapes that many of the mothers, in their

fright, let them fall into the water. Some of them held fast to their

children, and these were restored to their natural shapes on the other

side of the river, but those who had lost their children grieved deeply,

and nothing could comfort them. Thereupon, two little twin brothers,

who were called Sons of the Sun, went downward beneath the waters of a

lake to the dwelling of the children, who as soon as they saw the twins

inquired lovingly how it fared with their mothers. Their visitors told

them of the grief and sorrow of their parents, whereupon the children

said: “Tell our mothers we are not dead, but live and sing in this

beautiful place, which is the home for them when they sleep. One day they

will wake here and be happy always. And we are here to intercede with the

Sun, our father, that he may give to our people rain and the fruits of

the earth, and all that is good for them.” Ever since these children have

been worshipped as ancestral gods.

We have already had a little story in which the stars appear as the

children of the sun and moon. In another one, of the Indians of British

Columbia, the dark spots which we see on the moon are supposed to be

a child and her little basket. According to this legend, one night a

child of the chief class awoke and cried for water. Its cries were very

affecting—“Mother, give me a drink!”—but the mother heeded not. The Moon

was touched, and came down, entered the house, and approached the child,

saying: “Here is water from heaven; drink.” The child eagerly took hold

of the jar and drank the water, and was then enticed to go away with its

benefactor, the Moon. They took an underground passage until they got

quite clear of the village, and then ascended to heaven. And still we

see in the moon the figure of that very child, carrying the little round

basket it had in its hand when it went to sleep.

The Indians of Mt. Shasta have a little wind child, who also became the

ancestress of the grizzly-bear people. They tell how once a terrific

storm came up from the sea and shook to its base the wigwam—Mt. Shasta

itself—in which lived the Great Spirit and his family. Then the Great

Spirit commanded his daughter, little more than an infant, to go up and

command the wind to be still; but he cautioned her at the same time, in

a tender, fatherly manner, to be sure and not put her head out into the

blast, but to thrust out her little red arm and make a sign before she

delivered her message. But she could not withstand the temptation to look

out upon the world, and of course, being such a little thing, she was

caught up by the storm and blown down the mountain into the land of the

grizzly-bear people. She married one of them, and became the ancestress

of a new race of men. When the Great Spirit heard that his daughter

still lived, he ran down the mountain for joy, but when he found out

that his daughter had married one of the grizzly-bear people, he was so

angry that he cursed the grizzly people and turned them into the present

race of bears of that name. Then he drove them and the new race of men

out of their wigwam, shut to the door, and passed away to his mountains,

carrying his daughter with him; and her or him no eye has since seen.

A very important mythical being in Polynesian mythology is a little boy

called Maui-tiki-tiki-o-Taranga, and how he caught the Sun is told in the

story of him in this chapter.

The Egyptians called the sun itself a child when it was rising. The name

of this Child-Sun was Horus, and he was sometimes regarded as the god

of silence and represented as a child with his finger held up to his

lip. The principal children in Greek myths are Heracles and Hermes, who,

although they figure in many stories after they had become full-grown

gods, were both very remarkable when they were babies. Heracles was the

God of Strength, but it is very probable that there are some cosmic

elements in the conception of this god. His struggle with the serpents in

his babyhood resembles very closely other battles in mythology between

the sun and the powers of darkness, Ra and Anapef or Apollo and the

Python. Hermes, who is a roguish little imp, is full of such tricks as

the wind plays, and he has become the model of many a mediæval tale of

tricksy thieves and wonder-workers.

Other stories to be given in this chapter show how important little human

children were among primitive people—so important in one story that all

the animals in the world assembled and tried to save two little boys who

went sound asleep upon a rock that gradually rose higher and higher until

their faces touched the moon; and so important in another that even the

great god of the Algonquins, Glooskap himself, was conquered by the baby;

and in still another Indian myth so important that if it had not been for

the wishes of the little son of a Manito, there would never have been any

summer; but this last, if he really were the son of a Manito, was, of

course, a little more than human.

LEGEND OF TU-TOK-A-NU-LA

(_Indians of the Yosemite Valley_)

There were once two little boys living in the valley, who went down

to the river to swim. After paddling and splashing about to their

hearts’ content, they went on shore and crept upon a huge bowlder that

stood beside the water, on which they lay down in the warm sunshine

to dry themselves. Very soon they fell asleep, and slept so soundly

that they never wakened more. Through moons and snows, winter and

summer, they slumbered on. Meantime the great rock whereon they slept

was treacherously rising day and night, little by little, until it

soon lifted them up beyond the sight of their friends, who sought them

everywhere, weeping. Thus they were borne up at last beyond all human

help or reach of human voice; lifted up into the blue heavens, far up,

far up, until their faces touched the moon; and still they slumbered and

slept, year after year, safe among the clouds.

Then, upon a time, all the animals assembled together to bring down the

little boys from the top of the great rock. Every animal made a spring up

the face of the wall as far as he could leap. The little mouse could only

jump up a hand-breadth; the rat, two hand-breadths; the raccoon, a little

farther; and so on—the grizzly bear making a mighty leap far up the wall,

but falling back like all the others. Last of all the lion tried, and he

jumped up farther than any other animal, but he, too, fell down flat on

his back.

Then came along an insignificant measuring-worm, which even the mouse

could have crushed by treading on it, and began to creep up the rock.

Step by step, a little at a time, he measured his way up, until he

presently was above the lion’s jump, then pretty soon out of sight. So he

crawled up and up, through many sleeps, for about one whole snow, and at

last he reached the top. Then he took the little boys and came downward

as he went up, so bringing them safely to ground.

And the rock is called the measuring-worm—Tutokanula.

NEZHIK-E-WA-WA-SUN; OR, THE LONE LIGHTNING

(_Odjibwa_)

A little orphan boy, who had no one to care for him, was once living

with his uncle, who treated him very badly, making him do hard things

and giving him very little to eat; so that the boy pined away, he never

grew much, and became, through hard usage, very thin and light. At last

the uncle felt ashamed of this treatment, and determined to make amends

for it by fattening him up, but his real object was to kill him by

over-feeding. He told his wife to give the boy plenty of bear’s meat, and

let him have the fat, which is thought to be the best part. They were

both very assiduous in cramming him, and one day came near choking him to

death by forcing the fat down his throat. The boy escaped and fled from

the lodge. He knew not where to go, but wandered about. When night came

on, he was afraid the wild beasts would eat him; so he climbed up into

the forks of a huge pine tree, and there he fell asleep in the branches,

and had an _aupoway_, or ominous dream.

A person appeared to him from the upper sky and said: “My poor little

lad, I pity you, and the bad usage you have received from your uncle has

led me to visit you; follow me, and step in my tracks.” Immediately his

sleep left him, and he rose up and followed his guide, mounting up higher

and higher into the air, until he reached the upper sky. Here twelve

arrows were put into his hands, and he was told that there were a great

many Manitoes in the northern sky, against whom he must go to war, and

try to waylay and shoot them. Accordingly, he went to that part of the

sky, and at long intervals shot arrow after arrow until he had expended

eleven, in vain attempts to kill the Manitoes. At the flight of each

arrow there was a long and solitary streak of lightning in the sky—then

all was clear again, and not a cloud or spot could be seen. The twelfth

arrow he held a long time in his hands, and looked around keenly on every

side to spy the Manitoes he was after. But these Manitoes were very

cunning, and could change their form in a moment. All they feared was the

boy’s arrows, for these were magic arrows, which had been given to him

by a good spirit, and had power to kill them if aimed aright. At length

the boy drew up his last arrow, settled in his aim, and let fly, as he

thought, into the very heart of the chief of the Manitoes; but before the

arrow reached him, the Manito changed himself into a rock. Into this rock

the head of the arrow sank deep and stuck fast.

“Now your gifts are all expended,” cried the enraged Manito, “and I

will make an example of your audacity and pride of heart for lifting

your bow against me.” And so saying, he transformed the boy into the

Nezhik-e-wa-wa-sun, or Lone Lightning, which may be observed in the

northern sky to this day.

WASIS, THE BABY

HOW THE LORD OF MEN AND BEASTS STROVE WITH THE MIGHTY WASIS, AND WAS

SHAMEFULLY DEFEATED

(_Penobscot_)

Now it came to pass when Glooskap had conquered all his enemies, even

the Kewahqu’, who were giants and sorcerers, and the M’téoulin, who were

magicians, and the Pamola, who is the evil spirit of the night air, and

all manner of ghosts, witches, devils, cannibals, and goblins, that he

thought upon what he had done, and wondered if his work was at an end.

And he said this to a certain woman. But she replied: “Not so fast,

Master, for there yet remains One whom no one has ever conquered or got

the better of in any way, and who will remain unconquered to the end of

time.”

“And who is he?” inquired the Master.

“It is the mighty Wasis,” she replied, “and there he sits; and I warn you

that if you meddle with him you will be in sore trouble.”

Now Wasis was the Baby. And he sat on the floor sucking a piece of

maple-sugar, greatly contented, troubling no one.

As the Lord of Men and Beasts had never married or had a child, he knew

naught of the way of managing children. Therefore he was quite certain,

as is the wont of such people, that he knew all about it. So he turned to

Baby with a bewitching smile and bade him come to him.

Then Baby smiled again, but did not budge. And the Master spake sweetly

and made his voice like that of the summer bird, but it was of no avail,

for Wasis sat still and sucked his maple-sugar.

Then the Master frowned and spoke terribly, and ordered Wasis to come

crawling to him immediately. And Baby burst out into crying and yelling,

but did not move for all that.

Then, since he could do but one thing more, the Master had recourse to

magic. He used his most awful spells, and sang the songs which raise the

dead and scare the devils. And Wasis sat and looked on admiringly, and

seemed to find it very interesting, but all the same he never moved an

inch.

So Glooskap gave it up in despair, and Wasis, sitting on the floor in the

sunshine, went _goo! goo!_ and crowed.

And to this day when you see a babe well contented, going _goo! goo!_ and

crowing, and no one can tell why, know that it is because he remembers

the time when he overcame the Master who had conquered all the world. For

of all the beings that have ever been since the beginning, Baby is alone

the only invincible one.

OJEEG ANNUNG; OR, THE SUMMER-MAKER

(_North American Indian_)

There lived a celebrated hunter on the southern shores of Lake Superior,

who was considered a Manito by some, for there was nothing but what he

could accomplish. He lived off the path, in a wild, lonesome place, with

a wife whom he loved, and they were blessed with a son, who had attained

his thirteenth year. The hunter’s name was Ojeeg, or the Fisher, which is

the name of an expert, sprightly little animal common to the region. He

was so successful in the chase that he seldom returned without bringing

his wife and son a plentiful supply of venison, or other dainties of the

woods. As hunting formed his constant occupation, his son began early to

emulate his father in the same employment, and would take his bow and

arrows, and exert his skill in trying to kill birds and squirrels. The

greatest impediment he met with was the coldness and severity of the

climate. He often returned home, his little fingers benumbed with cold,

and crying with vexation at his disappointment. Days and months and

years passed away, but still the same perpetual depth of snow was seen,

covering all the country as with a white cloak.

One day, after a fruitless trial of his forest skill, the little boy was

returning homeward with a heavy heart, when he saw a small red squirrel

gnawing the top of a pine bur. He had approached within a proper distance

to shoot, when the squirrel sat up on its hind legs and thus addressed

him:

“My grandchild, put up your arrows, and listen to what I have to tell

you.” The boy complied rather reluctantly, when the squirrel continued:

“My son, I see you pass frequently, with your fingers benumbed with cold,

and crying with vexation for not having killed any birds. Now, if you

will follow my advice we will see if you cannot accomplish your wishes.

If you will strictly pursue my advice, we will have perpetual summer, and

you will then have the pleasure of killing as many birds as you please;

and I will also have something to eat, as I am now myself on the point of

starvation.

“Listen to me. As soon as you get home you must commence crying. You

must throw away your bow and arrows in discontent. If your mother asks

you what is the matter, you must not answer her, but continue crying

and sobbing. If she offers you anything to eat, you must push it away

with apparent discontent, and continue crying. In the evening, when your

father returns from hunting, he will inquire of your mother what is the

matter with you. She will answer that you came home crying, and would

not so much as mention the cause to her. All this while you must not

leave off sobbing. At last your father will say: ‘My son, why is this

unnecessary grief? Tell me the cause. You know I am a spirit, and that

nothing is impossible for me to perform.’ You must then answer him, and

say that you are sorry to see the snow continually on the ground, and ask

him if he could not cause it to melt, so that we might have perpetual

summer. Say it in a supplicating way and tell him this is the cause of

your grief. Your father will reply: ‘It is very hard to accomplish your

request, but for your sake, and on account of my love for you, I will use

my utmost endeavors.’ He will tell you to be still, and cease crying. He

will try to bring summer with all its loveliness. You must then be quiet,

and eat that which is set before you.”

The squirrel ceased. The boy promised obedience to his advice, and

departed. When he reached home, he did as he had been instructed, and all

was exactly fulfilled, as it had been predicted by the squirrel.

Ojeeg told him that it was a great undertaking. He must first make a

feast, and invite some of his friends to accompany him on a journey.

Next day he had a bear roasted whole. All who had been invited to the

feast came punctually to the appointment. There were the Otter, Beaver,

Lynx, Badger, and Wolverine. After the feast, they arranged it among

themselves to set out on the contemplated journey in three days. When the

time arrived, the Fisher took leave of his wife and son, as he foresaw

that it was for the last time. He and his companions travelled in company

day after day, meeting with nothing but the ordinary incidents. On the

twentieth day they arrived at the foot of a high mountain, where they

saw the tracks of some person who had recently killed an animal, which

they knew by the blood that marked the way. The Fisher told his friends

that they ought to follow the track, and see if they could not procure

something to eat. They followed it for some time; at last they arrived

at a lodge, which had been hidden from their view by a hollow in the

mountain. Ojeeg told his friends to be very sedate, and not to laugh

on any account. The first object that they saw was a man standing at

the door of the lodge, but of so deformed a shape that they could not

possibly make out who or what sort of a man it could be. His head was

enormously large; he had such a queer set of teeth, and no arms. They

wondered how he could kill animals. But the secret was soon revealed.

He was a great Manito. He invited them to pass the night, to which they

consented.

He boiled his meat in a hollow vessel made of wood, and took it out of

this singular kettle in some way unknown to his guests. He carefully gave

each their portion to eat, but made so many odd movements that the Otter

could not refrain from laughing, for he is the only one who is spoken of

as a jester. The Manito looked at him with a terrible look, and then made

a spring at him, and got on him to smother him, for that was his mode of

killing animals. But the Otter, when he felt him on his neck, slipped

his head back and made for the door, which he passed in safety; but went

out with the curse of the Manito. The others passed the night, and they

conversed on different subjects. The Manito told the Fisher that he would

accomplish his object, but that it would probably cost him his life. He

gave them his advice, directed them how to act, and described a certain

road which they must follow, and they would thereby be led to the place

of action.

They set off in the morning, and met their friend, the Otter, shivering

with cold; but Ojeeg had taken care to bring along some of the meat that

had been given him, which he presented to his friend. They pursued their

way, and travelled twenty days more before they got to the place of

which the Manito had told them. It was a most lofty mountain. They rested

on its highest peak to fill their pipes and refresh themselves. Before

smoking, they made the customary ceremony, pointing to the heavens, the

four winds, the earth, and the zenith; in the meantime, speaking in a

loud voice, they addressed the Great Spirit, hoping that their object

would be accomplished. They then commenced smoking.

They gazed on the sky in silent admiration and astonishment, for they

were on so elevated a point that it appeared to be only a short distance

above their heads. After they had finished smoking, they prepared

themselves. Ojeeg told the Otter to make the first attempt to try and

make a hole in the sky. He consented with a grin. He made a leap, but

fell down the hill stunned by the force of his fall; and the snow being

moist, and falling on his back, he slid with velocity down the side of

the mountain. When he found himself at the bottom, he thought to himself:

“It is the last time I shall attempt such a jump, so I will make the

best of my way home.” Then it was the turn of the Beaver, who made the

attempt, but fell down senseless; then of the Lynx and Badger, who had no

better success.

“Now,” says Fisher to the Wolverine, “try your skill; your ancestors were

celebrated for their activity, hardihood, and perseverance, and I depend

on you for success. Now make the attempt.” He did so, but also without

success. He leaped the second time, but now they could see that the sky

was giving way to their repeated attempts. Mustering strength, he made

the third leap, and went in. The Fisher nimbly followed him.

They found themselves in a beautiful plain, extending as far as the

eye could reach, covered with flowers of a thousand different hues and

fragrance. Here and there were clusters of tall, shady trees, separated

by innumerable streams of the purest water, which wound around their

courses under the cooling shades, and filled the plain with countless

beautiful lakes, whose banks and bosom were covered with water-fowl,

basking and sporting in the sun. The trees were alive with birds of

different plumage, warbling their sweet notes, and delighted with

perpetual spring.

The Fisher and his friend beheld very long lodges, and the celestial

inhabitants amusing themselves at a distance. Words cannot express the

beauty and charm of the place. The lodges were empty of inhabitants,

but they saw them lined with _mocuks_, of different sizes, filled with

birds and fowls of different plumage. Ojeeg thought of his son, and

immediately commenced cutting open the mocuks and letting out the birds,

who descended in whole flocks through the opening which they had made.

The warm air of those regions also rushed down through the opening, and

spread its genial influence over the north.

When the celestial inhabitants saw the birds let loose, and the warm

gales descending, they raised a shout like thunder, and ran for their

lodges. But it was too late. Spring, summer, and autumn had gone; even

perpetual summer had almost all gone; but they separated it with a blow,

and only a part descended; but the ends were so mangled that, wherever it

prevails among the lower inhabitants, it is always sickly.

When the Wolverine heard the noise, he made for the opening and safely

descended. Not so the Fisher. Anxious to fulfil his son’s wishes, he

continued to break open the _mocuks_. He was, at last, obliged to run

also, but the opening was now closed by the inhabitants. He ran with

all his might over the plains of heaven, and, it would appear, took a

northerly direction. He saw his pursuers so close that he had to climb

the first large tree that he came to. They commenced shooting at him

with their arrows, but without effect, for all his body was invulnerable

except the space of about an inch near the tip of his tail. At last one

of the arrows hit the spot, for he had in this chase assumed the shape of

the Fisher after whom he was named.

He looked down from the tree, and saw some among his assailants with

the totems of his ancestors. He claimed relationship, and told them to

desist, which they only did at the approach of night. He then came down

to try and find an opening in the celestial plain, by which he might

descend to the earth. But he could find none. At last, becoming faint

from the loss of blood from the wound on his tail, he laid himself down

toward the north of the plain, and, stretching out his limbs, said: “I

have fulfilled my promise to my son, though it has cost me my life;

but I die satisfied in the idea that I have done so much good, not only

for him, but for my fellow-beings. Hereafter I will be a sign to the

inhabitants below for ages to come, who will venerate my name for having

succeeded in procuring the varying seasons. They will now have from eight

to ten moons without snow.”

He was found dead next morning, but they left him as they found him, with

the arrow sticking in his tail, as it can be plainly seen, at this time,

in the heavens.

THE LEGEND OF MAUI

(_Polynesian_)

Once when his relations were all dancing in the great House of Assembly

they found out who he was. For little Maui, the infant, crept into the

house, and went and sat behind one of his brothers, and hid himself, so

when their mother counted her children that they might stand up ready

for the dance, she said: “One, that’s Maui-taha; two, that’s Maui-roto;

three, that’s Maui-pae; four, that’s Maui-waho”; and then she saw

another, and cried out: “Hollo, where did this fifth come from?” Then

little Maui, the infant, answered: “Ah, I’m your child, too.” Then the

mother counted them all over again, and said: “Oh, no, there ought to be

only four of you; now for the first time I’ve seen you.” Then little Maui

and his mother stood for a long time disputing about this in the very

middle of the ranks of all the dancers.

At last she got angry, and cried out: “Come, you, be off now, out of

the house at once; you are no child of mine, you belong to some one

else.” Then little Maui spoke out quite boldly, and said: “Very well,

I’d better be off, then, for I suppose, as you say it, I must be the

child of some other person; but indeed I did think I was your child when

I said so, because I knew I was born by the side of the sea, and was

thrown by you into the foam of the surf, after you had wrapped me up in

a long tress of your hair, which you cut off for the purpose; then the

seaweed formed and fashioned me, as, caught in its long tangles, the

ever-heaving surges of the sea rolled me, folded as I was in them, from

side to side; at length the breezes and squalls which blew from the ocean

drifted me on shore again, and the soft jelly-fish of the long, sandy

beaches rolled themselves round me to protect me; then again myriads of

flies buzzed about me, and flocks of birds collected round me to tear

me to pieces, but at that moment appeared there also my great ancestor,

Tama-nui-ki-te-Rangi, and he saw the flies and birds collected in

clusters and flocks above the jelly-fish, and behold, within there lay

a human being; then he caught me up and carried me to his house, and he

hung me up in the roof that I might feel the warm smoke and the heat of

the fire, so I was saved alive by the kindness of that old man. At last

I grew, and then I heard of the fame of the dancing of this great House

of Assembly. It was that which brought me here. But ever since I can

remember I have heard the names of these your first-born children, as

you have been calling them over until this very night, when I again heard

you repeating them. In proof of this I will now recite your names to

you, my brothers. You are Maui-taha, and you are Maui-roto, and you are

Maui-pae, and you are Maui-waho, and as for me, I’m little Maui-the-baby,

and here I am sitting before you.”

When his mother, Taranga, heard all this, she cried out: “You dear little

child, you are indeed my last-born, therefore I now tell you your name

shall be Maui-tiki-tiki-o-Taranga,” and he was called by that name.

It was now night; but early in the morning Taranga rose up, and suddenly,

in a moment of time, she was gone from the house where her children were.

As soon as they woke up they looked all about to no purpose, as they

could not see her; the elder brothers knew she had left them, and were

accustomed to it; but the little child was exceedingly vexed; yet he

thought: “I cannot see her, ’tis true, but perhaps she has only gone to

prepare some food for us.” No-no—she was off, far, far away.

Now, at nightfall when their mother came back to them, her children were

dancing and singing as usual. As soon as they had finished, she called

to her last-born, “Come here, my child, let us sleep together”; so they

slept together; but as soon as day dawned, she disappeared. The little

fellow now felt quite suspicious at such strange proceedings on the part

of his mother every morning. So, at length, another night, he crept out

of bed in the night and stole his mother’s apron, her belt, and clothes,

and hid them; then he went and stopped up every crevice in the wooden

window, and in the doorway, so that the light of the dawn might not shine

into the house, and make his mother hurry to get up. But after he had

done this his little heart still felt very anxious and uneasy, lest his

mother should, in her impatience, rise in the darkness, and defeat his

plans. But the night dragged its slow length along without his mother

moving; at last there came the faint light of early morn, but his mother

still slept on; then the sun rose up, and mounted far up above the

horizon; now at last his mother moved, and began to think to herself,

“What kind of night can this be, to last so long?” and having thought

thus, she dropped asleep again. Again she awoke, and began to think to

herself, but could not tell that it was broad daylight outside, as the

window and every chink in the house were stopped up closely.

At last up she jumped; and finding herself without her clothes or her

belt or her apron, she ran and pulled out the things with which the

windows and chinks in the doors were stopped up, and whilst doing so, oh,

dear! oh, dear! there she saw the sun high up in the heavens; then she

snatched up, as she ran off, the old flax cloak, with which the door of

the house had been stopped up, and carried it off as her only covering;

getting, at last, outside the house, she hurried away, and ran crying at

the thought of having been so badly treated by her own children.

As soon as his mother got outside the house, little Maui jumped up, and

kneeling upon his hands and knees peeped after her through the doorway

into the bright light. Whilst he was watching her, she reached down to

a clump of rushes, and snatching it up from the ground, dropped into a

hole underneath it, and clapping the rushes into the hole again as if it

were its covering, so disappeared. Then little Maui jumped on his feet,

and, as hard as he could go, ran out of the house, pulled up the clump of

rushes, and peeping down, discovered a beautiful open cave running quite

deep into the earth.

He covered up the hole again and returned to the house, and waking up his

brothers who were still sleeping, said: “Come, come, my brothers, rouse

up, you have slept long enough; come, get up; here we are again cajoled

by our mother.” Then his brothers made haste and got up; alas! alas! the

sun was quite high up in the heavens.

The little Maui now asked his brothers again, “Where do you think the

place is where our father and mother dwell?” and they answered: “How

should we know, we have never seen it; although we are Maui-taha, and

Maui-roto, and Maui-pae, and Maui-waho, we have never seen the place; and

do you think you can find that place which you are so anxious to see?

What does it signify to you? Cannot you stop quietly with us? What do we

care about our father, or about our mother? Did she feed us with food

till we grew up to be men? not a bit of it. Why, without doubt, Rangi,

or the Heaven, is our father, who kindly sent his offspring down to us:

Hau-whenna, or gentle breezes, to cool the earth and young plants; and

Hau-ma-ringiringi, or mists, to moisten them; and Hau-ma-roto-roto, or

fine weather, to make them grow; and Tonarangi, or rain, to water them;

and Tomairangi, or dews, to nourish them. He gave these his offspring to

cause our food to grow, and then Papa-tu-a-nuku, or the Earth, made her

seeds to spring, and grow forth, and provide sustenance for her children

in this long-continuing world.”

Little Maui then answered: “What you say is truly quite correct; but such

thoughts and sayings would better become me than you, for in the foaming

bubbles of the sea I was nursed and fed: it would please me better if

you would think over and remember the time when you were nursed at your

mother’s breast; it could not have been until after you had ceased to

be nourished by her milk that you could have eaten the kinds of food

you have mentioned; as for me, oh! my brothers, I have never partaken

either of her milk or of her food; yet I love her, for this single reason

alone—that she is my mother; and because I love her, I wish to know the

place where she and my father dwell.”

His brothers felt quite surprised and pleased with their little brother

when they heard him talk in this way, and when, after a little time,

they had recovered from their amazement, they told him to try and find

their father and mother. So he said he would go. It was a long time ago

that he had finished his first labor, for when he first appeared to his

relatives in their house of singing and dancing, he had on that occasion

transformed himself into the likeness of all manner of birds, of every

bird in the world, and yet no single form that he then assumed had

pleased his brothers; but now when he showed himself to them, transformed

into the semblance of a pigeon, his brothers said: “Ah! now indeed, oh,

brother, you do look very well indeed, very beautiful, very beautiful,

much more beautiful than you looked in any of the other forms you

assumed, when you first discovered yourself to us.” What made him look

so beautiful now were the belt and apron he had stolen from his mother.

The shining white upon his breast was her belt, the glossy black feathers

at his throat, the fastening to the belt. Then off he flew until he came

to the clump of rushes, closing the opening of the cave into which his

mother had disappeared. Then down he went into the cave, shutting up its

mouth with the rushes so as to hide the entrance. Away he flew, very

fast indeed, and twice he dipped his wing, because the cave was narrow;

soon he reached nearly to the bottom of the cave, and flew along it; and

again, because the cave was so narrow, he dipped first one wing and then

the other, but the cave now widened, and he dashed straight on.

At last he saw a party of people coming along under a grove of trees;

they were a special kind of tree, called manapan trees, that belonged

to the country. Maui flying on, perched upon the top of one of these

trees, under which the people had seated themselves; and when he saw his

mother lying down on the grass by the side of her husband, he guessed at

once who they were, and he thought, “Ah! there sit my father and mother

right under me”; and he soon heard their names, as they were called to by

their friends who were sitting with them; then the pigeon hopped down,

and perched on another spray a little lower, and it pecked off one of

the berries of the tree and dropped it gently down, and hit the father

with it on the forehead; and some of the party said, “Was it a bird which

threw that down?” but the father said, “Oh, no, it was only a berry that

fell by chance.”

Then the pigeon again pecked off some of the berries from the tree, and

threw them down with all its force, and struck both father and mother,

so that he really hurt them; then they cried out, and the whole party

jumped up and looked into the tree, and as the pigeon began to coo, they

soon found out from the noise where it was sitting amongst the leaves

and branches, and the whole of them, the chiefs and common people alike,

caught up stones to pelt the pigeon with, but they threw for a very long

time without hitting it; at last the father tried to throw a stone at it;

ah, he struck it, but Maui had himself contrived that he should be struck

by the stone which his father threw; for, but by his choice no one could

hit him; he was struck exactly upon his left leg, and down he fell, and

as he lay fluttering and struggling upon the ground, they all ran to

catch him, but lo! the pigeon had turned into a man.

Then all those who saw him were frightened at his fierce glaring eyes,

which were red as if painted with red ochre, and they said: “Oh, it is

now no wonder that he so long sat still up in the tree; had he been

a bird he would have flown off long before, but he is a man.” And

some of them said: “No, indeed, rather a god—just look at his form

and appearance; the like has never been seen before since Rangi and

Papa-tu-a-nuku were torn apart.” Then Taranga said: “I used to see one

who looked like this person every night when I went to visit my children,

but what I saw then excelled what I see now; just listen to me.” Then she

told the story of Maui as he had told it to her and his brothers himself.

Then Taranga asked Maui, who was sitting near her, “Where do you come

from? from the west?” and he answered, “No.” “From the north-east,

then?” “No.” “From the south-east then?” “No.” “From the south then?”

“No.” “Was it the wind which blows upon me—the wind that brought you

here to me?” When she asked this, he opened his mouth and answered,

“Yes.” And she cried out, “Oh, this then is indeed my child”; and she

said, “Are you Maui-taha?” He answered, “No.” Then said she, “Are you

Maui-tiki-tiki-o-Taranga?” and he answered, “Yes.” And she cried aloud:

“This is, indeed, my child. By the winds and storms and wave-uplifting

gales he was fashioned and became a human being; welcome, oh, my child,

welcome! By you shall hereafter be climbed the threshold of the house of

your great ancestor Hine-nui-te-po, and death shall thenceforth have no

power over man.” This prophecy, however, was not fulfilled, for when the

time came for him to encounter Hine-nui-te-po, he was himself killed.

Maui, after these things, returned to his brothers to tell them that he

had found his parents, and to explain where they dwelt.

The young hero, Maui, had not been long at home with his brothers when he

began to think that it was too soon after the rising of the sun that it

became night again, and that the sun again sank down below the horizon,

every day, every day; in the same manner the days appeared too short to

him. So at last one day he said to his brothers, “Let us now catch the

sun in a noose, so that we may compel him to move more slowly, in order

that mankind may have long days to labor in to procure subsistence for

themselves”; but they answered him, “Why, no man could approach it on

account of its warmth, and the fierceness of its heat”; but the young

hero said to them: “Have you not seen the multitude of things I have

already achieved? Did I not by degrees transform myself into every bird

in the world, small or great; and did I not after all this again assume

the form of a man? As for that feat, I accomplished it by enchantments,

and I will by the same means accomplish also this other thing which I

have in mind.” When his brothers heard this they consented to aid him in

his conquest of the sun.

Then they began to spin and twist ropes to form a noose to catch the

sun in, and in doing this they discovered the mode of plaiting flax

into stout, square-shaped ropes, and the manner of plaiting flat ropes,

and of spinning round ropes; at last they finished making all the ropes

they required. Then Maui took up his enchanted weapon, and he took his

brothers with him, and they carried their provisions, ropes, and other

things with them in their hands. They travelled all night, and as soon as

day broke, they halted in the desert, and hid themselves that they might

not be seen by the sun; and at night they renewed their journey, and

before dawn they halted and hid themselves again; at length they got very

far, very far to the eastward, and came to the very edge of the place out

of which the sun rises.

Then they set to work and built on each side of this place a long high

wall of clay, with huts of boughs of trees at each end to hide themselves

in; when these were finished, they made the loops of the noose, and the

brothers of Maui then lay in wait on one side of the place out of which

the sun rises, and Maui himself lay in wait upon the other side. The

young hero held in his hand his enchanted weapon, the jaw-bone of his

ancestress, and said to his brothers: “Mind now, keep yourselves hid, and

do not go showing yourselves foolishly to the sun; if you do, you will

frighten him; but wait patiently until his head and fore-legs have got

well into the snare, then I will shout; you haul away as hard as you can

on the ropes on both sides, and then I’ll rush out and attack him, but do

you keep your ropes tight for a good long time, until he is nearly dead,

when we will let him go; but mind now, my brothers, do not let him move

you to pity with his shrieks and screams.”

At last the sun came rising up out of his place, like a fire spreading

far and wide over the mountains and forests; he rises up, his head passes

through the noose, and it takes in more and more of his body, until

his fore-paws pass through; then the ropes are pulled tight, and the

monster begins to struggle and roll himself about, whilst the snare jerks

backward and forward as he struggles. Ah! is he not held fast in the

ropes of his enemies!

Then forth rushes that bold hero, Maui-tiki-tiki-o-Taranga, with his

enchanted weapon. Alas! the sun screams aloud; he roars; Maui strikes him

fiercely with many blows; they hold him for a long time; at last they let

him go, and then weak from wounds the sun creeps slowly along its course.

Then men learned the second name of the sun, for in its agony the sun

screamed out: “Why am I thus smitten by you! oh, man! do you know what

you are doing? Why should you wish to kill Tama-nui-te-Ra?” At last they

let him go. Oh, then, Tama-nui-te-Ra went very slowly and feebly on his

course.

THE INFANT HERACLES

(_Greek_)

When Heracles (Roman, Hercules) was a very wee child, not more than ten

months old, he performed a marvellous feat which was a worthy sample

of the vast labors he was to accomplish during his life. His mother,

Alcmena, took him and his younger brother, Iphicles, gave them both

their bath and their evening feast of milk, and then tucked them safely

away in their cradle, which was not an ordinary one by any means, but

a magnificent bronze shield which their father, Amphitryon, had taken

from his fallen enemy, Pterelaus. Then the mother stroked her little

children’s heads, and said to them:

“Sleep, my little ones, a light delicious sleep; sleep, soul of mine, two

brothers, babes unharmed; blessed be your sleep, and blessed may ye come

to the dawn.”[10]

And as she spoke she rocked the huge shield back and forth, and soon they

both fell asleep.

But just at midnight, when the constellation of the Great Bear wheeled

round toward the constellation of Orion that shows his mighty shoulder,

Hera (Roman, Juno) sent forth two horrible monsters, two snakes with

bristling coils of azure—she urged them against the broad threshold

of the house door, intending that they should devour the young child

Heracles. Then the serpents crawled, writhing along the ground, and

ever from their eyes shone a baleful fire as they came, and they spat

out their deadly venom. But when with their flickering tongues they were

drawing near the children, then Alcmena’s dear babes wakened, by the

will of Zeus that knows all things, and there was a bright light in the

chamber.

Then one of the children, Iphicles, straightway screamed out, when he

beheld the hideous monsters above the hollow shield, and saw their

pitiless fangs, and eager to flee from them he kicked off the woollen

coverlet with his feet. But Heracles set his force against them, and

grasped them with his hands, holding them as in a bond, having got them

by the throat, wherein lies the evil venom, detested even by the gods, of

baleful snakes. Then the serpents, in their turn, wound their coils about

the young child, the child unweaned, who never wept in his nursling days;

but again they relaxed their spines on account of the pain, and strove to

find some issue from the grasp of iron. Alcmena awoke first, hearing the

cry.

“Arise, Amphitryon, for numbing fear lays hold of me: arise, nor stay

to put on thy shoes! Dost thou not hear how loud the younger child is

wailing? and though it is the depth of night, the walls are all plain to

see as in the clear dawn? I know there is some strange thing within the

house, my dearest lord!”

Thus she spoke, and at his wife’s bidding Amphitryon stepped down out of

his bed of cedar, making for his richly ornamented sword which he always

kept hanging on a pin above his bed. Just as he was reaching out for his

new woven belt, and lifting with his other hand the mighty sheath of

lotus wood, lo! the wide chamber was filled again with night. Then he

called aloud to his servants, who were sleeping soundly. “Lights! Bring

lights as quick as may be from the hearth, my servants, and thrust back

the strong bolts of the doors. Arise, serving-men, stout of heart. Your

master calls you.”

Then quickly came the serving-men with burning torches, filling the whole

house. When they saw the young child Heracles clutching the two snakes

in his tender grasp, they all cried out and smote their hands together.

But Heracles displayed the creeping things to his father, Amphitryon, and

leaped on high in his childish glee, and laughing, at his father’s feet

he laid them down, the dread monsters fallen on the sleep of death. Then

Alcmena took Iphicles, dry-eyed and wan with fear, and laid him in her

own bosom; but Amphitryon placed the other child beneath a lamb’s wool

coverlet, and betook himself again to his rest.

The cocks had barely sung their third welcome to the earliest dawn, when

Alcmena called forth the seer Tiresias, who cannot lie, and told him of

the new portent, and bade him declare what things should come to pass.

“Nay, even if the gods devise some mischief, do not in pity conceal it

from me; let me remind thee what thou well knowest, that mortals may not

escape the doom that Fate speeds from her spindle.”

Thus the Queen spoke, and he answered:

“Be of good cheer, daughter of Perseus, woman that hast borne the noblest

of children. For by the sweet light that long hath left mine eyes, I

swear that many Achæan women, as they card the soft wool about their

knees, shall sing at eventide of Alcmena’s name, and thou shalt be

honorable among the women of Argos. Such a man, even this thy son, shall

mount to the starry firmament, the hero, broad of breast, the master

of all wild beasts, and of all mankind. Twelve labors is he fated to

accomplish, and thereafter to dwell in the house of Zeus.”

[Illustration: The Infant Hercules. _Louvre._]

THE STORY OF THE CHILD HERMES

(_Greek_)

The little child-god Hermes was born at the first peep of day in a rocky

cavern overshadowed by a beautiful grove of ancient trees. He was so

remarkable a child that he began playing on the lyre at noon, and the

very same evening he stole away the herds of Phœbus Apollo. He sprang

from the arms of his mother, Maia, nor could she keep him in his sacred

cradle, nor from creeping forth to seek the herds of Apollo.

Wandering forth from the lofty cavern, he found a tortoise, and cried

out, “What a treasure!” Before the portal, the little beast was

depasturing the flowery herbage at his leisure, moving his feet in a

deliberate measure over the turf. Hermes, eyeing him and laughing,

exclaimed: “You are a useful godsend indeed to me, king of the dance,

companion of the feast, lovely in all your nature! Welcome, you excellent

plaything! Where, sweet mountain beast, did you get that speckled shell?

Thus much I know, you must come home with me and be my guest; you will

give joy to me, and I will do all that is in my power to honor you.

Better to be at home than out-of-doors; so come with me, and though it

has been said that when alive you defend from magic power, I know you

will sing sweetly when you are dead.” Having spoken, this quaint infant

lifted the tortoise up from the grass upon which it was feeding, and

grasping it tightly in his delighted hold, carried off his treasured

prize into the cavern. He then scooped out all the inside of the

tortoise, leaving only the shell. Then, through the shell he bored small

holes at proper distances, and fastened within, the cut stems of reeds,

and a bridge, over which he stretched the strings.

When he had made this lovely instrument, he tried the chords, and brought

forth beautiful music. He hit the strings with a little instrument called

the plectrum, and lo! up from beneath his hand there went a tumult sweet

of mighty sounds and from his lips he sent a strain of unpremeditated

wit, joyous and wild and wanton—such as you may hear among revellers

on a holiday. He sang a lovely song in honor of his mother Maia, but

while he was singing, he was suddenly seized with a new fancy. So he

deposited in his sacred crib the hollow lyre, and from the sweet cavern

rushed with great leaps up to the mountain’s head, revolving in his

mind some subtle feat of thievish craft, such as a swindler might devise

in the lone season of dim night. The great Sun had driven his steeds

and chariot under the ocean’s bed. Meanwhile the child strode over the

Pierian mountains clothed in shadows, where the immortal oxen of the

God are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows, and safely stalled

in a remote abode—elate and proud he drove fifty from the herd, lowing

aloud. He drove them wandering over the sandy way, but being of a crafty

disposition, he drove them backward and forward astray, so that the

tracks which seemed before were aft; then he threw his sandals into the

ocean spray, and for each foot he wrought a kind of raft of tamarisk,

and tamarisk-like sprigs, and bound them in a lump with withy twigs.

And on his feet he tied these sandals light, so that the trail of the

wide leaves might confuse his tracks; and then, a self-sufficing wight,

like a man hastening on some distant way, he from Piera’s mountain

bent his flight; but an old man perceived the infant pass down green

Onchestus heaped like beds with grass. The old man stood, dressing his

sunny vine: “Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder! You grub

those stumps? Before they will bear wine methinks even you must grow a

little older: attend, I pray, to this advice of mine if you would escape

something which might appall a bolder man. Seeing, see not—and hearing,

hear not—and—if you have understanding—understand.” So saying, Hermes

roused the oxen vast; over shadowy mountain and resounding dell, and

flower-paven plains, great Hermes passed; till the black night divine,

which favoring fell around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast wakened

the world to work, and from her sea-strewn cell, the sublime Morn had

just begun to climb into her watch-tower. Now to Alpheus he drove all the

broad foreheaded oxen of the Sun. They came unwearied to the lofty stall

and to the water-troughs which ever run through the fresh fields—and when

everyone had been pastured with rush-grass tall, lotus and all sweet

herbage, the great God drove them into the stall.

Hermes then heaped a mighty pile of wood, and then bethought him how to

produce fire. He took two smooth laurel branches, stripped off the bark

and rubbed them in his palms. Suddenly the burning vapor leaped forth

on high, which the divine child saw with delight. And fine dry logs

and numerous roots he gathered in a delve upon the ground and kindled

them, and instantaneously the strength of the fierce flames was breathed

around, and while the might of the glorious fire thus wrapped the great

pile with glare and roaring sound, Hermes dragged forth two heifers,

lowing loud, close to the fire—such might was in the God. He threw them

on their backs upon the earth and rolled them over and over and bored

their lives out. Then he cut up the fat and flesh and placed the two on

spits of wood before the fire, toasting their flesh and ribs, and while

this was being done he stretched their hides over a craggy stone. This

was a burnt offering to the gods, but the savor of the roasted meat

tempted him sorely though immortal, but he repressed the desire to taste

it and put not a single morsel into his mouth.

Then he removed every trace of the fresh butchery and cooking, so that

it seemed all to have vanished through the sky. He burned the hoofs and

horns and head and hair; the insatiate fire devoured them hungrily. And

when he saw that everything was clear, he quenched the coals and trampled

the black dust, and tossed into the stream his bloody sandals. All night

he worked in the serene moonshine, but when the light of day was spread

abroad, he sought his natal mountain-peaks. On his long wandering,

neither man nor god had met him, since he killed Apollo’s kine, nor had

a single house-dog barked at him on his road. Now he passed obliquely

through the keyhole, like a thin mist or an autumnal blast. Right through

the temple of the spacious cave he went with soft light feet, as if his

tread fell not on earth. Then he crept quickly to his cradle and spread

the swaddling clothes about him; and the knave lay playing with the

covering of the bed, with his left hand about his knees and the right

hand holding his beloved tortoise-lyre tight. There he lay, innocent as a

new-born child, as gossips say.

But though he was a god, the goddess, his fair mother, was not deceived,

and knew all that he had been doing while away. So she said to him:

“Whence come you and what wild adventures have you had, you cunning

rogue. Where have you been all night long, clothed in your impudence?

What have you done since you departed hence? Apollo will soon pass

within this gate and bind your tender body in a chain inextricably tight

and fast as fate, unless you can delude the god again. A pretty torment

are you for gods and men.” “Dear mother,” the sly Hermes replied, “why

scold and bother as if I were like other babes of my age, and understood

nothing. I have hatched a scheme in my subtle brain which, while the

sacred stars round heaven are rolled, will profit you and me, nor shall

our lot be as you counsel, without gifts or food, to spend our lives

in this obscure abode. We will leave this shadow-peopled cave and live

among the gods, and pass each day in high communion, sharing their great

wealth, and from the portion which Jove gave to Phœbus I will snatch my

share away, and if he should find me out I’ll countermine him by a deeper

plan. I’ll pierce the Pythian temple walls, though stout, and sack the

fane of everything I can—cauldrons and tripods, each golden cup and every

brazen pan, all the wrought tapestries and the gay garments.” So they

talked together.

Meanwhile the Day, ethereal-born, arose out of the flood of flowing

Ocean, bearing light to men. Apollo passed toward the sacred wood, which

from the inmost depths of its green glen echoes the voice of Neptune,

and there stood on the same spot in green Onchestus that same old man,

the vine-dresser, who was employed hedging his vineyard there. Latona’s

glorious son began: “Pray tell me, ancient hedger of Onchestus green,

whether a drove of kine has passed this way, all heifers with crooked

horns? For they have been stolen from the herd in high Pieria, where a

black bull was fed apart, between two woody mountains in a neighboring

glen, though four fierce dogs guarded them. And what is strange, the

author of this theft has stolen all the fatted heifers, but the four

dogs and the black bull are left. They were stolen last night at set

of sun, of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft. Now tell me,

old man, born before the world began, have you seen any one pass with

the cows?” The old man replied: “My friend, it would require no common

skill justly to speak of everything I see. On various purposes of good

or ill many pass by my vineyard, and for me it is difficult to know the

invisible thoughts which may be in all those many minds. Thus much alone

I can certainly say. I tilled these vines until the decline of day,

and then I thought I saw, but dare not speak with certainty of such a

wondrous thing, a child who could scarcely have been born a week, closely

following those fair-horned cattle. And in his hand he held a polished

stick, and, as on purpose, he walked wavering from one side to the other

of the road, and with his face turned in the opposite direction from his

steps.” Apollo, hearing this, passed quickly on. No winged omen could

have shown more clearly who it was. So Apollo wrapped a purple atmosphere

around his shoulders, and like fire went to famous Pylos, seeking his

kine there. He found their tracks, yet hardly cold, and cried: “What

wonder do mine eyes behold. Here are the footsteps of the horned herd

turned back toward their fields of asphodel; but these are not the

tracks of beast or bird, gray wolf or bear, or lion of the dell, or maned

Centaur. Sand was never stirred by man or woman thus! Inexplicable!

Who with unwearied feet ever could impress the sand with such enormous

vestiges?”

Having spoken thus, Phœbus impetuously sought high Cyllene’s

forest-cinctured hill, and the deep cavern where dark shadows lie,

the home of Hermes. A delightful odor from the dew was all about. And

Phœbus stooped under the craggy roof arched over the dark cavern. Maia’s

child perceived from afar that he came angry about the cows that had

been stolen. Then Hermes piled over him his fine and fragrant swaddling

clothes. There he lay like a burning spark covered, beneath the ashes

cold and dark, an infant who had sucked his fill and now was newly washed

and put to bed, awake but courting sleep with weary will. And gathered

in a lump, hands, feet and head, he lay, and his beloved tortoise still

he grasped and held under his shoulder blade. Phœbus knew the lovely

mountain goddess, not less her subtle, swindling baby, who lay swathed in

his sly wiles. He looked sharp round every crook of the ample cavern for

his kine, and when he saw them not he took the glittering key and opened

three great hollow recesses in the rock, where many a nook was filled

with sweet food immortals swallow, and mighty heaps of silver and of gold

were piled within—a wonder to behold, and white and silver robes, all

overwrought with cunning workmanship. Except among the gods there can

be naught in the wide world to be compared with it. Latona’s offspring,

after having sought his herds in every corner, thus greeted great Hermes:

“Little cradled rogue, tell me about my illustrious heifers, where are

they? Speak quickly, or a quarrel between us must rise, and the event

will be that I shall haul you into dismal Tartarus, in fiery gloom to

dwell eternally. Nor shall your father nor your mother loose the bars of

that black dungeon. Utterly you shall be cast out from the light of day,

unblest as they to rule the ghosts of men.” Hermes slyly answered: “Son

of great Latona, what a speech is this! Why come you here to ask me what

has been done with the wild oxen which it seems you miss? I have not seen

them, nor from any one have I heard a word of the whole business. If you

should promise an immense reward I could not tell you more. A stealer of

oxen should be both tall and strong, and I am but a little new-born thing

who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong. My business is to suck

and sleep and fling the cradle clothes about me all day long; or half

asleep, hear my sweet mother sing, and to be washed in water clean and

warm, and hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm. Oh, let not this

quarrel ever be heard of, for the astounded gods would laugh at you for

telling a story so absurd as that a new-born infant could fare forth out

of his home after a savage herd. I was born yesterday. My small feet are

too tender for the roads so hard and rough, and if you think that this is

not enough, I swear a great oath that I stole not your cows, and that

I know of no one else who might or could or did. Whatever things cows

are I do not know, for I have only heard the name.” This said, he winked

as fast as could be, and his brow was all wrinkled, and he gave a loud

whistle like one who hears some strange absurdity. Apollo gently smiled

and said: “Ay, ay, you cunning little rascal, you will bore many a rich

man’s house, and your array of thieves will lay their siege before his

door, silent as night, in night, and many a day in the wild glens rough

shepherds will deplore that you or yours, having an appetite, met with

their cattle. And this among the gods shall be your gift, to be the lord

of those who steal and swindle.”

Apollo seized him then. “What do you mean to do with me, you unkind God?”

said Hermes. “Is it about these cows you tease me so? I wish the race of

cows were perished. I did not steal your cows, I do not even know what

things cows are. Alas! I well may sigh that since I came into this world

of woe I should ever have heard of one.” Thus Phœbus and the vagrant

Hermes talked without coming to an explanation. Hermes continued to try

and cheat Apollo with lies and roguery, but when no evasion served, he

proposed to appeal to Jove to judge between them. Hermes paced first over

the sandy ground and he of the silver bow followed, and from Jove’s equal

balance they did require a judgment in the cause wherein they strove. As

they came over odorous Olympus and its snows a murmuring tumult arose.

And from the folded depths of the great hill, while Hermes and Apollo

reverent stood before Jove’s throne, the indestructible immortals rushed

in mighty multitude, and while their seats in order due they filled the

lofty Thunderer in a careless mood to Phœbus said: “Whence drive you

this sweet prey, this herald-baby, born but yesterday? A most important

subject, trifler, this to lay before the Gods!” “Nay, father, nay. When

you have understood the business, say not that I alone am fond of prey.

I found this little boy in a recess in Cyllene’s mountains far away—a

manifest and most apparent thief, a scandal-monger beyond all belief. I

never saw his like either in heaven or earth for knavery or craft. Out of

the field yester-even, by the low shore on which the loud sea laughed, he

had driven my cattle right down to the river ford. The cattle’s track on

the black dust is fully evident, as if they went toward the place from

which they came—that asphodel meadow in which I feed my many herds. The

child’s steps were most incomprehensible. I know not how I can describe

in words those tracks. He could not have gone either upon his feet or his

hands. He must have had some strange mode of moving on. Those immense

vestiges, as I traced them on the sandy road, seemed like the trail of

oak toppings, but thence the hard ground gave no mark or track denoting

where they trod; but, working at his fence an old man saw him as he

passed to Pylos with the cows in fiery haste. I found that in the dark he

had quietly sacrificed some cows, and before light had thrown the ashes

all dispersedly about the road; then, still as gloomy night, he crept

into his cradle, rubbing either eye and cogitating some new trick. No

eagle could have seen him as he lay hid in his cavern. I taxed him with

the fact, when he declared most solemnly that he had neither seen nor in

any manner heard of my lost cows, whatever things cows be; nor could he

tell, though offered a reward of any one who could tell me about them.”

Then Phœbus sat down and Hermes addressed the Supreme Lord of Gods and

Men. “Great Father, you know well beforehand that all I shall say is

truth, for I am totally unacquainted with untruth. At sunrise Phœbus

came, but with no band of gods to bear him witness, in great wrath to

my abode, seeking his heifers there and declaring that I must show him

where they are or he would hurl me down the dark abyss. I know that

every limb of Apollo is clothed with speed and might and manliness, as

a green bank with flowers, but unlike him I was born yesterday, and you

may guess he knew this well when he indulged the whim of bullying a poor

little new-born thing that slept and never thought of cow-driving. Am I

like a strong fellow who steals kine? This driving of herds is none of

mine. I have never wandered across my threshold! I reverence the divine

Sun and the gods and you, and care even for this hard accuser, who must

know I am as innocent as they or you. I swear by these most gloriously

wrought portals through which the multitude of the Immortals pass and

repass forever, day and night, devising schemes for the affairs of

mortals, that I am guiltless,” and Hermes winked as if now his adversary

was silenced, and Jove, according to his wont, laughed heartily to hear

the subtle-witted infant give such a plausible account. But he remitted

judgment for the time and sent them forth to seek the stolen cows. Hermes

was truthfully to lead the way and show where he had hidden the mighty

heifers.

Then they hastened to Pylos and the wide pastures and lofty stalls by the

Alphean ford, where wealth in the mute night is multiplied with silent

growth. While Hermes drove the herd out of the stony cavern, Phœbus spied

the hides of those the little babe had slain, stretched high upon the

precipice. “How was it possible,” then Phœbus asked, “that you, a little

child born yesterday, a thing on mother’s milk and kisses fed, could

have slain these two prodigious heifers? Ever I may well dread hereafter

your prowess, when you grow strong and tall.” He spoke, and bound stiff

withy bands around the infant’s wrists. He might as well have bound the

wild oxen. The withy bands, though starkly interknit, fell at the feet of

the immortal child, loosened by some device of his quick wit. Phœbus was

again deceived, and stared while Hermes sought some hole, looking askance

and winking fast, as though where he might hide himself. But suddenly he

changed his plans, and with strange skill subdued Apollo by the might of

winning music. His left hand held the lyre, and in his right the plectrum

struck the chords; unconquerable, up from beneath his hands in circling

flight the gathering music rose, and sweet as Love the penetrating notes

did live and move within the heart of great Apollo. He listened with

all his soul and laughed for pleasure. The unabashed boy stood close to

his side harping fearlessly, and to the measure of the sweet lyre there

followed loud and free his joyous voice, for he unlocked the treasure

of his deep song illustrating the birth of the bright gods and the dark

desert Earth, and how to the Immortals every one, a portion was assigned

of all that is; but chief did clothe Maia’s son Mnemosyne in the light

of his loud melodies, and as each god was born or had begun he in their

order due and fit degrees sang of his birth and being, and did move

Apollo to unutterable love. These words he spoke: “You heifer-stealing

schemer, well do you deserve that fifty oxen should requite such

minstrelsies as I have heard even now. Comrade of feasts, little

contriving wight, one of your secrets I would gladly know—whether the

glorious power you now show forth was folded up within you at your birth,

or whether mortal taught or God inspired your skill in song?” And Hermes

replied: “Wisely hast thou enquired of my skill. Jove has given to thee

also divinest gifts. By thee the depths of his far voice are understood,

by thee the mystery of all oracular fates. Even I, a child, perceive thy

might and majesty. Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit can find

or teach, yet if thou wilt, come take the lyre—be mine the glory giving

it. Strike the sweet chords and sing aloud, and wake thy joyous pleasure

out of many a fit of tranced sound.” The shell he proffered Apollo took,

and gave him in return the glittering lash, installing him as herdsman.

Hermes flashed a joyous look at him, and then Apollo with the plectrum

struck the chords, and from beneath his hands a crash of mighty sounds

rushed up whose music shook the soul with sweetness, and with the lyre

his sweeter voice a just accordance kept.

FOOTNOTES

[1] See Schoolcraft.

[2] Leland, “Algonquin Legends.”

[3] See Gubernatis “Zoological Mythology.”

[4] Andrew Lang’s translation.

[5] See Anderson’s “Norse Mythology.”

[6] See Gayley’s “Classic Myths in English Literature.”

[7] See Anderson’s “Norse Mythology.”

[8] Gayley’s “Classic Myths in English Literature.”

[9] See Canfield’s “Legends of the Iroquois.”

[10] Andrew Lang’s translation.

THE END

[Illustration: THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS

GARDEN CITY, N. Y.]