From the edge of the Darkening Land, where stand the mountains which
encircle the earth-plain, eastward toward the Sunland, lie the great
plains of America. Smooth and flat and green they stretch away,
hundreds of miles, rising from a dead level into a soft rolling of the
land, then into the long green waves of the prairies where rivers
flow, where the water ripples as it flows, and trees shade the banks
of the gleaming water.
Here, amidst the vast sweep of the plains which stretch away to the
horizon on every side, boundless, limitless, endless, lived the plains
Indians. Standing in the midst of this vast green plain on a soft May
morning, after the Thunder Gods have passed, when the sun is shining
in the soft blue above, and the sweet, rain-swept air is blown about
by the Four Winds which are always near to man, day and
night,--standing far out on the plains with no hint of the white man
or his work--one sees the earth somewhat as the Indian saw it and
wonders not at his reverence for the Mysterious One who dwelt
overhead, beyond the blue stone arch, and for the lesser powers which
came to him over the four paths guarded by the Four Winds. It was
Wakoda, the Mysterious One, who gave to man the sunshine, the clear
rippling water, the clear sky from which all storms, all clouds are
absent, the sky which is the symbol of peace. Through this sky sweeps
the eagle, the "Mother" of Indian songs, bearing upon her strong wings
the message of peace and calling to her nestlings as she flies. Little
wonder that to some tribes song was an integral part of their lives,
and that emotions too deep for words were expressed in song.
Other songs there were, with words, songs of the birds which fly
through that soft, tender blue:
All around the birds in flocks are flying;
Dipping, rising, circling, see them coming.
See, many birds are flocking here,
All about us now together coming.
[_Pawnee_]
The power to fly has always inspired Indians of all tribes and of all
degrees of civilization with wonder and reverence. The bird chiefs
have their own places in Indian myths. Owl is chief of the night;
Woodpecker, with his ceaseless tattoo on the trees, is chief of the
trees; Duck is chief of the water; but Eagle is chief of the day. It
is always Eagle who is chief of the birds, even though Wren may outwit
him in a tale told by the fire glimmering in the tepee, when the story
tellers of the tribe tell of the happenings in the days "way beyond."
It is Eagle who inspires admiration, and becomes the most sacred bird.
Round about a tree in ever widening circles an eagle flies, alert,
watching o'er his nest;
Loudly whistles he, a challenge sending far, o'er the country wide
it echoes, there defying foes.
[_Pawnee_]
In the breeze that rippled the long grass of the prairie and fluttered
the flaps of the graceful tepee, waved also the corn, sent by
Old-Woman-Who-Never-Dies, the ever returning life of the green thing
growing. In the ravines and on the lower slopes of the grassy waves of
the prairie bellowed the buffalo, or grazed in silence, having long
since come up from the underground world and become the source of the
Indian's food, clothing, home, utensils, and comfort. Endless were the
charms and enchantments to bring the buffalo herds near his camping
ground. Severe was the punishment meted out to the thoughtless warrior
whose unguarded eagerness frightened the herds and sent them away.
Over the plains and prairies, at other times, swept the Thunder Gods,
with their huge jointed wings, darkening all the land, and flashing
fire from angry eyes which struck down man and beast. Terrified were
the Indians when the Thunder Gods rolled. Vows made to them must be
kept, for relentless were they.
"Oh, grandfather," prayed the Indian when the sky was black and the
lightning flashed, as he filled a pipe with tobacco and offered it
skyward, "Oh, grandfather! I am very poor. Somewhere make those who
would injure me leave a clear space for me." Then he put the sacred
green cedar upon the fire--the cedar which stayed awake those seven
nights and therefore does not lose its hair every winter--and the
smoke from the sacred, burning wood, rolling upward, appeased the
rolling Thunders.
* * * * *
The authorities used in this compilation are those found in the annual
reports of the Bureau of American Ethnology and the Publications of
the United States Geographical and Geological Survey: contributions to
North American Ethnology. Of the various ethnologists whose work has
been used, those of especial importance are Alice C. Fletcher, whose
wonderful work among the Omaha and Pawnee Indians is deserving of the
most careful study, J. Owen Dorsey, James Mooney, and S. R. Riggs.
No claim whatever is made for original work. Indeed, original work of
any kind in a compilation such as this would impair the authenticity
of the myths, and therefore destroy the value of this work. Nor has
any effort been made towards "style." The only style worth having in
telling an Indian legend is that of the Indian himself.