offerings made by the mortals on earth, which have been brought by our
relation," pointing to Wassamo. "Brothers, you see their wishes and
desires plainly set forth here," laying his hand upon the figured
moose-skins. "The offering is worthy of our consideration. Brothers, I
see nothing on my part to hinder our granting their requests; they do
not appear to be unreasonable. Brothers, the offer is gratifying. It is
tobacco--an article which we have lacked until we scarcely knew how to
use our pipes. Shall we grant their requests? One thing more I would
say. Brothers, it is this: There is my son-in law; he is mortal. I wish
to detain him with me, and it is with us jointly to make him one of us."
"Hoke! hoke!" ran through the whole company of Spirits, and "Hoke!
hoke!" they cried again. And it was understood that the petitioners were
to have all they asked, and that Wassamo was thenceforward fairly
accepted as a member of the great family of Spirits.
As a wedding-gift, the Old Spirit asked his son-in-law to make one
request, which should be promptly granted.
"Let there be no sand-squalls among my father's people for three months
to come," said Wassamo.
"So shall it be," answered the old Sand-Spirit.
The tobacco was now divided in equal shares among the company. They
filled their pipes--and huge pipes they were--and such clouds they blew,
that they rushed forth out of the lodge and brought on night, in all
the country round about, several hours before its time.
After a while passed in silence, the Spirits rose up, and bearing off
their tobacco-sacks, they went smoking through the country, and losing
themselves in their own fog, till a late hour in the morning, when all
of their pipes being burned out, each departed on his own business.
The very next day the old Sand-Spirit, who was very much pleased with
the turn affairs had taken at his entertainment, addressed Wassamo:
"Son-in-law, I have made up my mind to allow you another holiday as an
acknowledgment of the handsome manner in which you acquitted yourself of
your embassy. You may visit your parents and relatives once more, to
tell them that their wishes are granted, and to take your leave of them
forever. You can never, after, visit them again."
Wassamo at once set out, reached his people, and was heartily welcomed.
They asked for his wife, and Wassamo informed them that she had tarried
at home to look after a son, a fine little Sand-Spirit, who had been
born to them since his return.
Having delivered all of his messages and passed a happy time, Wassamo
said, "I must now bid you all farewell forever."
His parents and friends raised their voices in loud lamentation; they
clung to him, and as a special favor, which he could now grant, being
himself a spirit, he allowed them to accompany him to the sand-banks.
They all seated themselves to watch his last farewell. The day was mild;
the sky clear, not a cloud appearing to dim the heavens, nor a breath of
wind to ruffle the tranquil waters. A perfect silence fell upon the
company. They gazed with eager eyes fastened on Wassamo, as he waded out
into the water, waving his hands. They saw him descend, more and more,
into the depths. They beheld the waves close over his head, and a loud
and piercing wail went up which rent the sky.
They looked again; a red flame, as if the sun had glanced on a billow,
lighted the spot for an instant; but the Feather of Flames, Wassamo of
the Fire-Plume, had disappeared from home and kindred, and the familiar
paths of his youth, forever.
XXII.
WEENDIGOES AND THE BONE-DWARF.
In a lonely forest, there once lived a man and his wife, who had a son.
The father went forth every day, according to the custom of the Indians,
to hunt for food to supply his family.
One day, while he was absent, his wife, on going out of the lodge,
looked toward the lake that was near, and she saw a very large man
walking on the water, and coming fast toward the lodge. He was already
so near that she could not, if she had wished to, escape by flight. She
thought to herself, "What shall I say to the monster?"
As he advanced rapidly, she ran in, and taking the hand of her son, a
boy of three or four years old, she led him out. Speaking very loud,
"See, my son," she said, "your grandfather;" and then added, in a tone
of appeal and supplication, "he will have pity on us."
The giant approached and said, with a loud ha! ha! "Yes, my son;" and
added, addressing the woman, "Have you any thing to eat?"
By good luck the lodge was well supplied with meats of various kinds;
the woman thought to please him by handing him these, which were savory
and carefully prepared. But he pushed them away in disgust, saying, "I
smell fire;" and, not waiting to be invited, he seized upon the carcass
of a deer which lay by the door, and dispatched it almost without
stopping to take breath.
When the hunter came home he was surprised to see the monster, he was so
very frightful. He had again brought a deer, which he had no sooner put
down than the cannibal seized it, tore it in pieces, and devoured it as
though he had been fasting for a week. The hunter looked on in fear and
astonishment, and in a whisper he told his wife that he was afraid for
their lives, as this monster was one whom Indians call Weendigoes. He
did not even dare to speak to him, nor did the cannibal say a word, but
as soon as he had finished his meal, he stretched himself down and fell
asleep.
In the evening the Weendigo told the people that he should go out a
hunting; and he strided away toward the North. Toward morning he
returned, all besmeared with blood, but he did not make known where he
had been nor of what kind of game he had been in quest; although the
hunter and his wife had dreadful suspicions of the sport in which he had
been engaged. Withal his hunger did not seem to be staid, for he took
up the deer which the hunter had brought in, and devoured it eagerly,
leaving the family to make their meal of the dried meats which had been
reserved in the lodge.
In this manner the Weendigo and the hunter's family lived for some time,
and it surprised them that the monster never attempted their lives;
although he never slept at night, but always went out and returned, by
the break of day, stained with blood, and looking very wild and
famished. When there was no deer to be had wherewith to finish his
repast, he said nothing. In truth he was always still and gloomy, and he
seldom spoke to any of them; when he did, his discourse was chiefly
addressed to the boy.
One evening, after he had thus sojourned with them for many weeks, he
informed the hunter that the time had now arrived for him to take his
leave, but that before doing so, he would give him a charm that would
bring good luck to his lodge. He presented to him two arrows, and
thanking the hunter and his wife for their kindness, the Weendigo
departed, saying, as he left them, that he had all the world to travel
over.
The hunter and his wife were happy when he was gone, for they had looked
every moment to have been devoured by him. He tried the arrows, and they
never failed to bring down whatever they were aimed at.
They had lived on, prosperous and contented, for a year, when, one day,
the hunter being absent, his wife on going out of the lodge, saw
something like a black cloud approaching.
She looked until it came near, when she perceived that it was another
Weendigo or Giant Cannibal. Remembering the good conduct of the other,
she had no fear of this one, and asked him to look into the lodge.
He did so; and finding after he had glared around, that there was no
food at hand, he grew very wroth, and, being sorely disappointed, he
took the lodge and threw it to the winds. He seemed hardly at first to
notice the woman in his anger; but presently he cast a fierce glance
upon her, and seizing her by the waist, in spite of her cries and
entreaties, he bore her off. To the little son, who ran to and fro
lamenting, he paid no heed.
At night-fall, when the hunter returned from the forest, he was amazed.
His lodge was gone, and he saw his son sitting near the spot where it
had stood, shedding tears. The son pointed in the direction the Weendigo
had taken, and as the father hurried along he found the remains of his
wife strewn upon the ground.
The hunter blackened his face, and vowed in his heart that he would have
revenge. He built another lodge, and gathering together the bones of
his wife, he placed them in the hollow part of a dry tree.
He left his boy to take care of the lodge while he was absent, hunting
and roaming about from place to place, striving to forget his
misfortune, and searching for the wicked Weendigo.
He had been gone but a little while one morning, when his son shot his
arrows out through the top of the lodge, and running out to look for
them, he could find them nowhere. The boy had been trying his luck, and
he was puzzled that he had shot his shafts entirely out of sight.
His father made him more arrows, and when he was again left alone, he
shot one of them out; but although he looked as sharply as he could
toward the spot where it fell, and ran thither at once, he could not
find it.
He shot another, which was lost in the same way; and returning to the
lodge to replenish his quiver, he happened to espy one of the lucky
arrows, which the first Weendigo had given to his father, hanging upon
the side of the lodge. He reached up, and having secured it, he shot it
out at the opening, and immediately running out to find where it fell,
he was surprised to see a beautiful boy just in the act of taking it up,
and hurrying away with it to a large tree, where he disappeared.
The hunter's son followed, and having come to the tree, he beheld the
face of the boy looking out through an opening in the hollow part.
"Ha! ha!" he said, "my friend, come out and play with me;" and he urged
the boy till he consented. They played and shot their arrows by turns.
Suddenly the young boy said, "Your father is coming. We must stop.
Promise me that you will not tell him."
The hunter's son promised, and the other disappeared in the tree.
When the hunter returned from the chase, his son sat demurely by the
fire. In the course of the evening he asked his father to make him a new
bow; and when he was questioned as to the use he could find for two
bows, he answered that one might break or get lost.
The father pleased at his son's diligence in the practice of the bow,
made him the two weapons; and the next day, as soon as his father had
gone away, the boy ran to the hollow tree, and invited his little friend
to come out and play; at the same time presenting to him the new bow.
They went and played in the lodge together, and in their sport they
raised the ashes all over it.
Suddenly again the youngest said, "Your father is coming, I must leave."
He again exacted a promise of secresy, and went back to his tree. The
eldest took his seat near the fire.
When the hunter came in he was surprised to see the ashes scattered
about. "Why, my son," he said, "you must have played very hard to day to
raise such a dust all alone."
"Yes," the boy answered, "I was very lonesome, and I ran round and
round--that is the cause of it."
The next day the hunter made ready for the chase as usual. The boy said,
"Father, try and hunt all day, and see what you can kill."
He had no sooner set out than the boy called his friend, and they played
and chased each other round the lodge. They had great delight in each
other's company, and made merry by the hour. The hunter was again
returning, and came to a rising ground, which caught the winds as they
passed, and he heard his son laughing and making a noise, but the sounds
as they reached him on the hill-top, seemed as if they arose from two
persons playing.
At the same time the younger boy stopped, and after saying "Your father
is coming," he stole away, under cover of the high grass, to his hollow
tree, which was not far off.
The hunter, on entering, found his son sitting by the fire, very quiet
and unconcerned, although he saw that all the articles of the lodge were
lying thrown about in all directions.
"Why, my son," he said "you must play very hard every day; and what is
it that you do, all alone, to throw the lodge in such confusion?"
The boy again had his excuse. "Father," he answered, "I play in this
manner: I chase and drag my blanket around the lodge, and that is the
reason you see the ashes spread about."
The hunter was not satisfied until his son had shown him how he played
with the blanket, which he did so adroitly as to set his father
laughing, and at last drive him out of the lodge with the great clouds
of ashes that he raised.
The next morning the boy renewed his request that his father should be
absent all day, and see if he could not kill two deer. The hunter
thought this a strange desire on the part of his son, but as he had
always humored the boy, he went into the forest as usual, bent on
accomplishing his wish, if he could.
As soon as he was out of sight, his son hastened to his young companion
at the tree, and they continued their sports.
The father on nearing his home in the evening, as he reached the rising
ground, again heard the sounds of play and laughter; and as the wind
brought them straight to his ear, he was now certain that there were two
voices.
The boy from the tree had no more than time to escape, when the hunter
entered, and found his son, sitting as usual, near the fire. When he
cast his eyes around, he saw that the lodge was in greater confusion
than before. "My son," he said, "you must be very foolish when alone to
play so. But, tell me, my son; I heard two voices, I am sure;" and he
looked closely on the prints of the footsteps in the ashes. "True," he
continued, "here is the print of a foot which is smaller than my son's;"
and he was now satisfied that his suspicions were well founded, and that
some very young person had been the companion of his son.
The boy could not now refuse to tell his father what had happened.
"Father," he said, "I found a boy in the hollow of that tree, near the
lodge, where you placed my mother's bones."
Strange thoughts came over the mind of the hunter; did his wife live
again in this beautiful child?
Fearful of disturbing the dead, he did not dare to visit the place where
he had deposited her remains.
He, however, engaged his son to entice the boy to a dead tree, by the
edge of a wood, where they could kill many flying-squirrels by setting
it on fire. He said that he would conceal himself near by, and take the
boy.
The next day the hunter accordingly went into the woods, and his son,
calling the boy from the tree, urged him to go with him to kill the
squirrels. The boy objected that his father was near, but he was at
length prevailed on to go, and after they had fired the tree, and while
they were busy killing or taking the squirrels, the hunter suddenly made
his appearance, and clasped the strange boy in his arms. He cried out,
"Kago, kago, don't, don't. You will tear my clothes!" for he was clad in
a fine apparel, which shone as if it had been made of a beautiful
transparent skin. The father reassured him by every means in his power.
By constant kindness and gentle words the boy was reconciled to remain
with them; but chiefly by the presence of his young friend, the hunter's
son, to whom he was fondly attached. The children were never parted from
each other; and when the hunter looked upon the strange boy, he seemed
to see living in him the better spirit of his lost wife. He was thankful
to the Great Spirit for this act of goodness, and in his heart he felt
assured that in time the boy would show great virtue, and in some way
avenge him on the wicked Weendigo who had destroyed the companion of his
lodge.
The hunter grew at ease in his spirit, and gave all of the time he could
spare from the chase to the society of the two children; but, what
affected him the most, both of his sons, although they were well-formed
and beautiful, grew no more in stature, but remained children still.
Every day they resembled each other more and more, and they never ceased
to sport and divert themselves in the innocent ways of childhood.
One day the hunter had gone abroad with his bow and arrows, leaving, at
the request of the strange boy, one of the two shafts which the friendly
Weendigo had given to him, behind in the lodge.
When he returned, what were his surprise and joy to see stretched dead
by his lodge-door, the black giant who had slain his wife. He had been
stricken down by the magic shaft in the hands of the little stranger
from the tree; and ever after the boy, or the Bone-Dwarf as he was
called, was the guardian and good genius of the lodge, and no evil
spirit, giant, or Weendigo, dared approach it to mar their peace.
XXIII.
THE BIRD LOVER.
In a region of country where the forest and the prairie strived which
should be the most beautiful--the open plain, with its free sunshine and
winds and flowers, or the close wood, with its delicious twilight-walks
and enamored haunts--there lived a wicked manito in the disguise of an
old Indian.
Although the country furnished an abundance of game, and whatever else a
good heart could wish for, it was the study of this wicked genius to
destroy such as fell into his hands. He made use of all his arts to
decoy men into his power, for the purpose of killing them. The country
had been once thickly peopled, but this Mudjee Monedo had so thinned it
by his cruel practices, that he now lived almost solitary in the
wilderness.
The secret of his success lay in his great speed. He had the power to
assume the shape of any four-footed creature, and it was his custom to
challenge such as he sought to destroy, to run with him. He had a
beaten path on which he ran, leading around a large lake, and he always
ran around this circle so that the starting and the winning-post was the
same. Whoever failed as every one had, yielded up his life at this post;
and although he ran every day, no man was ever known to beat this evil
genius; for whenever he was pressed hard, he changed himself into a fox,
wolf, deer, or other swift-footed animal, and was thus able to leave his
competitor behind.
The whole country was in dread of this same Mudjee Monedo, and yet the
young men were constantly running with him; for if they refused, he
called them cowards, which was a reproach they could not bear. They
would rather die than be called cowards.
To keep up his sport, the manito made light of these deadly
foot-matches, and instead of assuming a braggart air, and going about in
a boastful way, with the blood of such as he had overcome, upon his
hands, he adopted very pleasing manners, and visited the lodges around
the country as any other sweet-tempered and harmless old Indian might.
His secret object in these friendly visits was to learn whether the
young boys were getting old enough to run with him; he kept a very sharp
eye upon their growth, and the day he thought them ready, he did not
fail to challenge them to a trial on his racing-ground.
There was not a family in all that beautiful region which had not in
this way been visited and thinned out; and the manito had quite
naturally come to be held in abhorrence by all the Indian mothers in the
country.
It happened that there lived near him a poor widow woman, whose husband
and seven sons he had made way with; and she was now living with an only
daughter, and a son of ten or twelve years old.
This widow was very poor and feeble, and she suffered so much for lack
of food and other comforts of the lodge, that she would have been glad
to die, but for her daughter and her little son. The Mudjee Monedo had
already visited her lodge to observe whether the boy was sufficiently
grown to be challenged to the race; and so crafty in his approaches and
so soft in his manners was the monedo, that the mother feared that he
would yet decoy the son and make way with him as he had done with his
father and his seven brothers, in spite of all her struggles to save
him.
And yet she strove with all her might to strengthen her son in every
good course. She taught him, as best she could, what was becoming for
the wise hunter and the brave warrior. She remembered and set before him
all that she could recall of the skill and the craft of his father and
his brothers who were lost.
The widow woman also instructed her daughter in whatever could make her
useful as a wife; and in the leisure-time of the lodge, she gave her
lessons in the art of working with the quills of porcupine, and
bestowed on her such other accomplishments as should make her an
ornament and a blessing to her husband's household. The daughter, Minda
by name, was kind and obedient to her mother, and never failed in her
duty. Their lodge stood high up on the banks of a lake, which gave them
a wide prospect of country, embellished with groves and open fields,
which waved with the blue light of their long grass, and made, at all
hours of sun and moon, a cheerful scene to look upon.
Across this beautiful prairie, Minda had one morning made her way to
gather dry limbs for their fire; for she disdained no labor of the
lodge. And while enjoying the sweetness of the air and the green beauty
of the woods, she strolled far away.
She had come to a bank, painted with flowers of every hue, and was
reclining on its fragrant couch, when a bird, of red and deep-blue
plumage softly blended, alighted on a branch near by, and began to pour
forth its carol. It was a bird of strange character, such as she had
never before seen. Its first note was so delicious to the ear of Minda,
and it so pierced to her young heart, that she listened as she had never
before to any mortal or heavenly sound. It seemed like the human voice,
forbidden to speak, and uttering its language through this wild
wood-chant with a mournful melody, as if it bewailed the lack of the
power or the right to make itself more plainly intelligible.
The voice of the bird rose and fell, and circled round and round, but
whithersoever floated or spread out its notes, they seemed ever to have
their center where Minda sat; and she looked with sad eyes into the sad
eyes of the mournful bird, that sat in his red and deep-blue plumage
just opposite to the flowery bank.
The poor bird strove more and more with his voice, and seemed ever more
and more anxiously to address his notes of lament to Minda's ear, till
at last she could not refrain from saying, "What aileth thee, sad bird?"
As if he had but waited to be spoken to, the bird left his branch, and
alighting upon the bank, smiled on Minda, and, shaking his shining
plumage, answered:
"I am bound in this condition until a maiden shall accept me in
marriage. I have wandered these groves and sung to many and many of the
Indian girls, but none ever heeded my voice till you. Will you be mine?"
he added, and poured forth a flood of melody which sparkled and spread
itself with its sweet murmurs over all the scene, and fairly entranced
the young Minda, who sat silent, as if she feared to break the charm by
speech.
The bird, approaching nearer, asked her, if she loved him, to get her
mother's consent to their marriage. "I shall be free then," said the
bird, "and you shall know me as I am."
Minda lingered, and listened to the sweet voice of the bird in its own
forest notes, or filling each pause with gentle human discourse;
questioning her as to her home, her family, and the little incidents of
her daily life.
She returned to the lodge later than usual, but she was too timid to
speak to her mother of that which the bird had charged her. She returned
again and again to the fragrant haunt in the wood; and everyday she
listened to the song and the discourse of her bird admirer with more
pleasure, and he every day besought her to speak to her mother of the
marriage. This she could not, however, muster heart and courage to do.
At last the widow began herself to have a suspicion that her daughter's
heart was in the wood, from her long delays in returning, and the little
success she had in gathering the fire-branches for which she went in
search.
In answer to her mother's questions, Minda revealed the truth, and made
known her lover's request. The mother, considering the lonely and
destitute condition of her little household, gave her consent.
The daughter, with light steps, hastened with the news to the wood. The
bird lover of course heard it with delight, and fluttered through the
air in happy circles, and poured forth a song of joy which thrilled
Minda to the heart.
He said that he would come to the lodge at sunset, and immediately took
wing, while Minda hung fondly upon his flight, till he was lost far away
in the blue sky.
With the twilight the bird lover, whose name was Monedowa, appeared at
the door of the lodge, as a hunter, with a red plume and a mantle of
blue upon his shoulders.