accordingly, taking along a cedar-sack, to pay a visit to Manabozho.
Manabozho received the old red-headed woodpecker with great ceremony. He
had stood at the door awaiting his arrival, and as soon as he came in
sight Manabozho commenced, while he was yet far off, bowing and opening
wide his arms, in token of welcome; all of which the woodpecker returned
in due form, by ducking his bill, and hopping to right and left, upon
the ground, extending his wings to their full length and fluttering them
back to his breast.
When the woodpecker at last reached the lodge, Manabozho made various
remarks upon the weather, the appearance of the country, and especially
on the scarcity of game.
"But we," he added, "we always have enough. Come in, and you shall not
go away hungry, my noble bird!"
Manabozho had always prided himself on being able to give as good as he
had received; and to be up with the woodpecker, he had shifted his
lodge so as to inclose a large dry tamarack-tree.
"What can I give you," said he to the woodpecker; "but as we eat so
shall you eat."
With this he hopped forward, and, jumping on the tamarack-tree, he
attempted to climb it just as he had seen the woodpecker do in his own
lodge. He turned his head first on one side, then on the other, in the
manner of the bird, meanwhile striving to go up, and as often slipping
down. Ever and anon he would strike the tree with his nose, as if it had
been a bill, and draw back, but he pulled out no raccoons; and he dashed
his nose so often against the trunk that at last the blood began to
flow, and he tumbled down senseless upon the ground.
The woodpecker started up with his drum and rattle to restore him, and
by beating them violently he succeeded in bringing him to.
As soon as he came to his senses, Manabozho began to lay the blame of
his failure upon his wife, saying to his guest:
"Nemesho, it is this woman-relation of yours--she is the cause of my not
succeeding. She has made me a worthless fellow. Before I took her I also
could get raccoons."
The woodpecker said nothing, but flying on the tree he drew out several
fine raccoons.
"Here," said he, "this is the way we do!" and left him in disdain,
carrying his bill high in the air, and stepping over the door-sill as if
it were not worthy to be touched by his toes.
After this visit, Manabozho was sitting in the lodge one day with his
head down. He heard the wind whistling around it, and thought that by
attentively listening he could hear the voice of some one speaking to
him. It seemed to say to him:
"Great chief, why are you sorrowful? Am not I your friend--your guardian
spirit?"
Manabozho immediately took up his rattle, and without rising from the
ground where he was sitting, began to sing the chant which has at every
close the refrain of, "Wha lay le aw."
When he had dwelt for a long time on this peculiar chant, which he had
been used to sing in all his times of trouble, he laid his rattle aside
and determined to fast. For this purpose he went to a cave which faced
the setting sun, and built a very small fire, near which he lay down,
first telling his wife that neither she nor the children must come near
him till he had finished his fast.
At the end of seven days he came back to the lodge, pale and thin,
looking like a spirit himself, and as if he had seen spirits. His wife
had in the meantime dug through the snow and got a few of the root
called truffles. These she boiled and set before him, and this was all
the food they had or seemed likely to obtain.
When he had finished his light repast, Manabozho took up his station in
the door to see what would happen. As he stood thus, holding in his hand
his large bow, with a quiver well filled with arrows, a deer glided past
along the far edge of the prairie, but it was miles away, and no shaft
that Manabozho could shoot would be able to touch it.
Presently a cry came down the air, and looking up he beheld a great
flight of birds, but they were so far up in the sky that he would have
lost his arrows in a vain attempt among the clouds.
Still he stood watchful, and confident that some turn of luck was about
to occur, when there came near to the lodge two hunters, who bore
between them on poles upon their shoulders, a bear, and it was so fine
and fat a bear that it was as much as the two hunters could do with all
their strength to carry it.
As they came to the lodge-door, one of the hunters asked if Manabozho
lived thereabout.
"He is here," answered Manabozho.
"I have often heard of you," said the first hunter, "and I was curious
to see you. But you have lost your magical power. Do you know whether
any of it is left?"
Manabozho answered that he was himself in the dark on the subject.
"Suppose you make a trial," said the hunter.
"What shall I do?" asked Manabozho.
"There is my friend," said the hunter, pointing to his companion, "who
with me owns this bear which we are carrying home. Suppose you see if
you can change him into a piece of rock."
"Very well," said Manabozho; and he had scarcely spoken before the other
hunter became a rock.
"Now change him back again," said the first hunter.
"That I can't do," Manabozho answered; "there my power ends."
The hunter looked at the rock with a bewildered face.
"What shall I do?" he asked. "This bear I can never carry alone, and it
was agreed between my friend there and myself, that we should not divide
it till we reached home. Can't you change my friend back, Manabozho?"
"I would like to oblige you," answered Manabozho, "but it is utterly out
of my power."
With this, looking again at the rock with a sad and bewildered face, and
then casting a sorrowful glance at the bear, which lay by the door of
the lodge, the hunter took his leave, bewailing bitterly at heart the
loss of his friend and his bear.
He was scarcely out of sight when Manabozho sent the children to get red
willow sticks. Of these he cut off as many pieces, of equal length, as
would serve to invite his friends among the beasts and birds to a feast.
A red stick was sent to each one, not forgetting the woodpecker and his
family.
When they arrived they were astonished to see such an abundance of meat
prepared for them at such a time of scarcity. Manabozho understood their
glance, and was proud of a chance to make such a display.
"Akewazi," he said to the oldest of the party, "the weather is very
cold, and the snow lasts a long time; we can kill nothing now but small
squirrels, and they are all black; and I have sent for you to help me
eat some of them."
The woodpecker was the first to try a mouthful of the bear's meat, but
he had no sooner began to taste it than it changed into a dry powder,
and set him coughing. It appeared as bitter as ashes.
The moose was affected in the same way, and it brought on such a dry
cough as to shake every bone in his body.
One by one, each in turn joined the company of coughers, except
Manabozho and his family, to whom the bear's meat proved very savory.
But the visitors had too high a sense of what was due to decorum and
good manners to say any thing. The meat looked very fine, and being
keenly set and strongly tempted by its promising look, they thought
they would try more of it. The more they ate the faster they coughed,
and the louder became the uproar, until Manabozho, exerting the magical
gift which he found he retained, changed them all into squirrels; and to
this day the squirrel suffers from the same dry cough which was brought
on by attempting to sup off of Manabozho's ashen bear's meat.
And ever after this transformation, when Manabozho lacked provisions for
his family he would hunt the squirrel, a supply of which never failed
him, so that he was always sure to have a number of his friends present,
in this shape, at the banquet.
The rock into which he changed the hunter, and so became possessed of
the bear, and thus laid the foundations of his good fortune, ever after
remained by his lodge-door, and it was called the Game-Bag of Manabozho,
the Mischief-Maker.
XIX.
LEELINAU, THE LOST DAUGHTER.
Leelinau was the favorite daughter of a hunter, who lived on the lake
shore near the base of the lofty highlands, called Kaug Wudjoo.
From her earliest youth she was observed to be thoughtful and retiring.
She passed much of her time in solitude, and seemed ever to prefer the
companionship of her own shadow to the society of the lodge-circle.
Whenever she could leave her father's lodge she would fly to remote
haunts and recesses in the woods, or sit in lonely reverie upon some
high promontory of rock overlooking the lake. In such places she would
often, with her face turned upward, linger long in contemplation of the
air, as if she were invoking her guardian spirit, and beseeching him to
lighten her sadness.
But amid all the leafy haunts, none drew her steps toward it so often as
a forest of pines, on the open shore, called Manitowok, or the Sacred
Wood. It was one of those hallowed places which is the resort of the
little wild men of the woods, and of the turtle spirits or fairies which
delight in romantic scenes. Owing to this circumstance, its green
retirement was seldom visited by Indians, who feared to fall under the
influence of its mischievous inhabitants.
And whenever they were compelled by stress of weather to make a landing
on this part of the coast, they never failed to leave an offering of
tobacco, or some other token, to show that they desired to stand well
with the proprietors of the fairy ground.
To this sacred spot Leelinau had made her way at an early age, gathering
strange flowers and plants, which she would bring home to her parents,
and relate to them all the haps and mishaps that had occurred in her
rambles.
Although they discountenanced her frequent visits to the place, they
were not able to restrain them, for she was of so gentle and delicate a
temper that they feared to thwart her.
Her attachment to the fairy wood, therefore, grew with her years. If she
wished to solicit her spirits to procure pleasant dreams, or any other
maiden favor, Leelinau repaired to the Manitowok. If her father remained
abroad in the hunt later than usual, and it was feared that he had been
overwhelmed by the tempest, or had met with some other mischance,
Leelinau offered up her prayers for safety at the Manitowok. It was
there that she fasted, mused, and strolled.
She at length became so engrossed by the fairy pines that her parents
began to suspect that some evil spirit had enticed her to its haunts,
and had cast upon her a charm which she had not the power to resist.
This belief was confirmed when, one day, her mother, who had secretly
followed her, overheard her murmuring to some unknown and invisible
companion, appeals like these:
"Spirit of the dancing leaves!" whispered Leelinau, "hear a throbbing
heart in its sadness. Spirit of the foaming stream! visit thou my
nightly pillow, shedding over it silver dreams of mountain brook and
pebbly rivulet. Spirit of the starry night! lead my foot-prints to the
blushing mis-kodeed, or where the burning passion-flower shines with
carmine hue. Spirit of the greenwood plume!" she concluded, turning with
passionate gaze to the beautiful young pines which stood waving their
green beauty over her head, "shed on me, on Leelinau the sad, thy leafy
fragrance, such as spring unfolds from sweetest flowers, or hearts that
to each other show their inmost grief. Spirits! hear, O hear a maiden's
prayer!"
Day by day, these strange communings with unseen beings drew away the
heart of Leelinau more and more from the simple duties of the lodge,
and she walked among her people, melancholy and silent, like a spirit
who had visited them from another land.
The pastimes which engaged the frolic moments of her young companions,
passed by her as little trivial pageants in which she had no concern.
When the girls of the neighboring lodges assembled to play at the
favorite female game of pappus-e-ko-waun, or the block and string,
before the lodge-door, Leelinau would sit vacantly by, or enter so
feebly into the spirit of the play as to show that it was irksome to
her.
Again, in the evening, when the young people formed a ring around the
lodge, and the piepeend-jigun, or leather and bone, passed rapidly from
one to the other, she either handed it along without attempting to play,
or if she took a part, it was with no effort to succeed.
The time of the corn-gathering had come, and the young people of the
tribe were assembled in the field, busy in plucking the ripened maize.
One of the girls, noted for her beauty, had found a red ear, and every
one congratulated her that a brave admirer was on his way to her
father's lodge. She blushed, and hiding the trophy in her bosom, she
thanked the Good Spirit that it was a red ear, and not a crooked, that
she had found.
Presently it chanced that one who was there among the young men, espied
in the hands of Leelinau, who had plucked it indifferently, one of the
crooked kind, and at once the word "Wa-ge-min!" was shouted aloud
through the field, and the whole circle was set in a roar.
"The thief is in the corn-field!" exclaimed the young man, Iagoo by
name, and famous in the tribe for his mirthful powers of story-telling;
"see you not the old man stooping as he enters the field? See you not
signs that he crouched as he crept in the dark? Is it not plain by this
mark on the stalk that he was heavily bent in his back? Old man! be
nimble, or some one will take thee while thou art taking the ear."
These questions Iagoo accompanied with the action of one bowed with age
stealthily entering the corn-field. He went on:
"See how he stoops as he breaks off the ear. Nushka! He seems for a
moment to tremble. Walker, be nimble! Hooh! It is plain the old man is
the thief."
He turned suddenly where she sat in the circle, pensively regarding the
crooked ear which she held in her hand, and exclaimed:
"Leelinau, the old man is thine!"
Laughter rung merrily through the corn-field, but Leelinau, casting down
upon the ground the crooked ear of maize, walked pensively away.
The next morning the eldest son of a neighboring chief called at her
father's lodge. He was quite advanced in years; but he enjoyed such
renown in battle, and his name was so famous in the hunt, that the
parents accepted him as a suitor for their daughter. They hoped that his
shining qualities would draw back the thoughts of Leelinau from that
spirit-land whither she seemed to have wholly directed her affections.
It was this chief's son whom Iagoo had pictured as the corn-taker, but,
without objecting to his age, or giving any other reason, Leelinau
firmly declined his proposals. The parents ascribed the young daughter's
hesitancy to maiden fear, and paying no further heed to her refusal, a
day was fixed for the marriage-visit to the lodge.
The young warrior came to the lodge-door, and Leelinau refused to see
him; informing her parents, at the same time, that she would never
consent to the match.
It had been her custom to pass many of her hours in her favorite place
of retirement, under a broad-topped young pine, whose leaves whispered
in every wind that blew; but most of all in that gentle murmur of the
air at the evening hour, dear to lovers, when the twilight steals on.
Thither she now repaired, and, while reclining pensively against the
young pine-tree, she fancied that she heard a voice addressing her. At
first it was scarcely more than a sigh; presently it grew more clear,
and she heard it distinctly whisper--
"Maiden! think me not a tree; but thine own dear lover; fond to be with
thee in my tall and blooming strength, with the bright green nodding
plume that waves above thee. Thou art leaning on my breast, Leelinau;
lean forever there and be at peace. Fly from men who are false and
cruel, and quit the tumult of their dusty strife, for this quiet, lonely
shade. Over thee I my arms will fling, fairer than the lodge's roof. I
will breathe a perfume like that of flowers over thy happy evening rest.
In my bark canoe I'll waft thee o'er the waters of the sky-blue lake. I
will deck the folds of thy mantle with the sun's last rays. Come, and on
the mountain free rove a fairy bright with me!"
Leelinau drunk in with eager ear these magical words. Her heart was
fixed. No warrior's son should clasp her hand. She listened in the hope
to hear the airy voice speak more; but it only repeated, "Again! again!"
and entirely ceased.
On the eve of the day fixed for her marriage, Leelinau decked herself in
her best garments. She arranged her hair according to the fashion of her
tribe, and put on all of her maiden ornaments in beautiful array. With a
smile, she presented herself before her parents.
"I am going," she said, "to meet my little lover, the chieftain of the
Green Plume, who is waiting for me at the Spirit Grove."
Her face was radiant with joy, and the parents, taking what she had said
as her own fanciful way of expressing acquiescence in their plans,
wished her good fortune in the happy meeting.
"I am going," she continued, addressing her mother as they left the
lodge, "I am going from one who has watched my infancy and guarded my
youth; who has given me medicine when I was sick, and prepared my food
when I was well. I am going from a father who has ranged the forest to
procure the choicest skins for my dress, and kept his lodge supplied
with the best spoil of the chase. I am going from a lodge which has been
my shelter from the storms of winter, and my shield from the heats of
summer. Farewell, my parents, farewell!"
So saying, she sped faster than any could follow her to the margin of
the fairy wood, and in a moment was lost to sight.
As she had often thus withdrawn herself from the lodge, the parents were
not in fear, but confidently awaited her return. Hour chased hour, as
the clouds of evening rolled up in the west; darkness came on, but no
daughter returned. With torches they hastened to the wood, and although
they lit up every dark recess and leafy gloom, their search was in vain.
Leelinau was nowhere to be seen. They called aloud, in lament, upon her
name, but she answered not.
Suns rose and set, but nevermore in their light did the bereaved parents
eyes behold the lost form of their beloved child. Their daughter was
lost indeed. Whither she had vanished no mortal tongue could tell;
although it chanced that a company of fishermen, who were spearing fish
near the Spirit Grove, descried something that seemed to resemble a
female figure standing on the shore. As the evening was mild and the
waters calm, they cautiously pulled their canoe toward land, but the
slight ripple of their oars excited alarm. The figure fled in haste, but
they could recognize in the shape and dress as she ascended the bank,
the lost daughter, and they saw the green plumes of her fairy-lover
waving over his forehead as he glided lightly through the forest of
young pines.
XX.
THE WINTER-SPIRIT AND HIS VISITOR.
An old man was sitting alone in his lodge by the side of a frozen
stream. It was the close of winter, and his fire was almost out. He
appeared very old and very desolate. His locks were white with age, and
he trembled in every joint. Day after day passed in solitude, and he
heard nothing but the sounds of the tempest, sweeping before it the
new-fallen snow.
One day as his fire was just dying, a handsome young man approached and
entered his dwelling. His cheeks were red with the blood of youth; his
eyes sparkled with life, and a smile played upon his lips. He walked
with a light and quick step. His forehead was bound with a wreath of
sweet grass, in place of the warrior's frontlet, and he carried a bunch
of flowers in his hand.
"Ah! my son," said the old man, "I am happy to see you. Come in. Come,
tell me of your adventures, and what strange lands you have been to
see. Let us pass the night together. I will tell you of my prowess and
exploits, and what I can perform. You shall do the same, and we will
amuse ourselves."
He then drew from his sack a curiously-wrought antique pipe, and having
filled it with tobacco, rendered mild by an admixture of certain dried
leaves, he handed it to his guest. When this ceremony was attended to,
they began to speak.
"I blow my breath," said the old man, "and the streams stand still. The
water becomes stiff and hard as clear stone."
"I breathe," said the young man, "and flowers spring up all over the
plains."
"I shake my locks," retorted the old man, "and snow covers the land. The
leaves fall from the trees at my command, and my breath blows them away.
The birds rise from the water and fly to a distant land. The animals
hide themselves from the glance of my eye, and the very ground where I
walk becomes as hard as flint."
"I shake my ringlets," rejoined the young man, "and warm showers of soft
rain fall upon the earth. The plants lift up their heads out of the
ground like the eyes of children glistening with delight. My voice
recalls the birds. The warmth of my breath unlocks the streams. Music
fills the groves wherever I walk, and all nature welcomes my approach."
At length the sun begun to rise. A gentle warmth came over the place.
The tongue of the old man became silent. The robin and the blue-bird
began to sing on the top of the lodge. The stream began to murmur by the
door, and the fragrance of growing herbs and flowers came softly on the
vernal breeze.
Daylight fully revealed to the young man the character of his
entertainer. When he looked upon him he had the visage of Peboan, the
icy old Winter-Spirit. Streams began to flow from his eyes. As the sun
increased he grew less and less in stature, and presently he had melted
completely away. Nothing remained on the place of his lodge-fire but the
mis-kodeed, a small white flower with a pink border, which the young
visitor, Seegwun, the Spirit of Spring, placed in the wreath upon his
brow, as his first trophy in the North.
XXI.
THE FIRE-PLUME.
Wassamo was living with his parents on the shore of a large bay, far out
in the north-east.
One day, when the season had commenced for fish to be plenty, the mother
of Wassamo said to him, "My son, I wish you would go to yonder point and
see if you can not procure me some fish; and ask your cousin to
accompany you."
He did so. They set out, and in the course of the afternoon they arrived
at the fishing-ground.
The cousin, being the elder, attended to the nets, and they encamped
near by, using the bark of the birch for a lodge to shelter them through
the night.
They lit a fire, and while they sat conversing with each other, the moon
arose. Not a breath of wind disturbed the smooth surface of the lake.
Not a cloud was seen. Wassamo looked out on the water toward their nets,
and he saw that the little black spots, which were no other than the
floats, dotting the lake, had disappeared.
"Cousin," he said, "let us visit our nets; perhaps we are fortunate."
When they drew up the nets they were rejoiced to see the meshes shining
white, all over, with the glittering prey. They landed in fine spirits,
and put away their canoe in safety from the winds.
"Wassamo," said the cousin, "you cook that we may eat."
Wassamo set about the work at once, and soon had his great kettle swung
upon its branch, while the cousin lay at his ease upon the other side of
the fire.
"Cousin," said Wassamo, "tell me stories or sing me some love-songs."
The cousin obeyed, and sung his plaintive songs; or he would frequently
break off in the midst of a mournful chant, and begin to recite a
mirthful story, and then in the midst of Wassamo's laughter he would
return to the plaintive ditty--just as it suited his fancy; for the
cousin was gay of spirit, and shifted his humor faster than the fleecy
clouds that appeared and disappeared in the night-sky over their heads.
In this changeful pastime the cousin ran his length, and then he fell
away, murmuring parts of his song or story, into a silvery sleep; with
the moon gliding through the branches and gilding his face.
Wassamo in the mean while had lost the sound of his cousin's voice in
the rich simmer of the kettle; and when its music pleased his ear the
most, as announcing that the fish were handsomely cooked, he lifted the
kettle from the fire. He spoke to his cousin, but he received no answer.
He went on with his housekeeping alone, and took the wooden ladle and
skimmed the kettle neatly, for the fish were very plump and fat. Wassamo
had a torch of twisted bark in one hand to give light, and when he came
to take out the fish, there was no one to have charge of the torch.