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Title: Folk-Lore and Legends: North American Indian

Author: Anonymous

Release date: July 14, 2007 [eBook #22072]
                Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Julie Barkley, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS: NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN ***




Produced by Julie Barkley, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









        FOLK-LORE

           AND

         LEGENDS


  NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN


      W. W. GIBBINGS
18 BURY ST., LONDON, W.C.
          1890




FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS

_NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN_


UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.

"_These dainty little books._"--STANDARD.

FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS.

_FIRST SERIES._

  1. GERMAN.
  2. ORIENTAL.
  3. SCOTLAND.
  4. IRELAND.


_SECOND SERIES._

  1. ENGLAND.
  2. SCANDINAVIAN.
  3. RUSSIAN.
  4. NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN.

"_They transport us into a romantic world._"--TIMES.




PREFATORY NOTE.


It might have been expected that the Indians of North America would
have many Folklore tales to tell, and in this volume I have
endeavoured to present such of them as seemed to me to best illustrate
the primitive character and beliefs of the people. The belief, and the
language in which it is clothed, are often very beautiful. Fantastic
imagination, magnanimity, moral sentiment, tender feeling, and humour
are discovered in a degree which may astonish many who have been apt
to imagine that advanced civilisation has much to do with the
possession of such qualities. I know of nothing that throws so much
light upon Indian character as their Folk-tales.




CONTENTS


                                           PAGE

  Moowis,                                     1

  The Girl who Married the Pine-tree,         9

  A Legend of Manabozho,                     11

  Pauppukkeewis,                             15

  The Discovery of the Upper World,          33

  The Boy who Snared the Sun,                37

  The Maid in the Box,                       41

  The Spirits and the Lovers,                45

  The Wonderful Rod,                         54

  The Funeral Fire,                          56

  The Legend of O-na-wut-a-qut-o,            63

  Manabozho in the Fish's Stomach,           69

  The Sun and the Moon,                      72

  The Snail and the Beaver,                  75

  The Strange Guests,                        79

  Manabozho and his Toe,                     88

  The Girl who Became a Bird,                90

  The Undying Head,                          92

  The Old Chippeway,                        113

  Mukumik! Mukumik! Mukumik!,               116

  The Swing by the Lake,                    119

  The Fire Plume,                           123

  The Journey to the Island of Souls,       129

  Machinitou, the Evil Spirit,              134

  The Woman of Stone,                       144

  The Maiden who Loved a Fish,              147

  The Lone Lightning,                       151

  Aggo-dah-gauda,                           154

  Piqua,                                    158

  The Evil Maker,                           177

  Manabozho the Wolf,                       179

  The Man-fish,                             186




MOOWIS.


In a large village there lived a noted belle, or Ma-mon-dá-go-Kwa,
who was the admiration of all the young hunters and warriors. She
was particularly admired by a young man who, from his good figure
and the care he took in his dress, was called the Beau-Man, or
Ma-mon-dá-gin-in-e. This young man had a friend and companion whom
he made his confidant.

"Come," said he one day, in a sportive mood, "let us go a-courting to
her who is so handsome, perhaps she may fancy one of us."

She would, however, listen to neither of them; and when the handsome
young man rallied her on the coldness of her air, and made an effort
to overcome her indifference, she repulsed him with the greatest
contempt, and the young man retired confused and abashed. His sense of
pride was deeply wounded, and he was the more piqued because he had
been thus treated in the presence of others, and this affair had been
noised about in the village, and became the talk of every lodge
circle. He was, besides, a very sensitive man, and the incident so
preyed upon him that he became moody and at last took to his bed. For
days he would lie without uttering a word, with his eyes fixed on
vacancy, and taking little or no food. From this state no efforts
could rouse him. He felt abashed and dishonoured even in the presence
of his own relatives, and no persuasions could induce him to rise, so
that when the family prepared to take down the lodge to remove he
still kept his bed, and they were compelled to lift it from above his
head and leave him upon his skin couch. It was a time of general
removal and breaking up of the camp, for it was only a winter
hunting-camp, and as the season of the hunt was now over, and spring
began to appear, his friends all moved off as by one impulse to the
place of their summer village, and in a short time all were gone, and
he was left alone. The last person to leave him was his boon companion
and cousin, who had been, like him, an admirer of the forest belle.
The hunter disregarded even his voice, and as soon as his steps died
away on the creaking snow the stillness and solitude of the wilderness
reigned around.

As soon as all were gone, and he could no longer, by listening, hear
the remotest sound of the departing camp, the Beau-Man arose.

Now this young man had for a friend a powerful guardian spirit or
personal manito, and he resolved, with this spirit's aid, to use his
utmost power to punish and humble the girl, for she was noted in her
tribe for her coquetry, and had treated many young men, who were
every way her equals, as she had treated this lover. He resolved on a
singular stratagem by way of revenge.

He walked over the deserted camp and gathered up all the cast-off bits
of soiled cloth, clippings of finery, and old clothing and ornaments,
which had either been left there as not worth carrying away, or
forgotten. These he carefully picked out of the snow, into which some
of them had been trodden, and collected in one place. These gaudy and
soiled stuffs he restored to their original beauty, and made of them a
coat and leggings, which he trimmed with beads, and finished and
decorated after the best fashion of his tribe. He then made a pair of
moccasins and garnished them with beads, a bow and arrows, and a
frontlet and feathers for the head. Having done this he searched about
for cast-out bones of animals, pieces of skin, clippings of dried
meat, and even dirt. Having cemented all this together he filled the
clothes with it, pressed the mass firmly in, and fashioned it,
externally, in all respects like a tall and well-shaped man. He put a
bow and arrows in its hands, and the frontlet on its head. Having
finished it he brought it to life, and the image stood forth in the
most favoured lineaments of his fellows. Such was the origin of
Moowis, or the Dirt-and-Rag Man.

"Follow me," said the Beau-Man, "and I will direct you how you shall
act."

Moowis was, indeed, a very sightly person, and as the Beau-Man led him
into the new encampment where the girl dwelt, the many colours of his
clothes, the profusion of his ornaments, his manly deportment, his
animated countenance, drew all eyes to him. He was hospitably
received, both old and young showing him great attention. The chief
invited him to his lodge, and he was there treated to the moose's hump
and the finest venison.

No one was better pleased with the handsome stranger than
Ma-mon-dá-go-Kwa. She fell in love with him at first sight, and he was
an invited guest at the lodge of her mother the very first evening of
his arrival. The Beau-Man went with him, for it was under his
patronage that he had been introduced, and, in truth, he had another
motive in accompanying him, for he had not yet wholly subdued his
feelings of admiration for the object against whom he had,
nevertheless, exerted all his necromantic power, and he held himself
ready to take advantage of any favourable turn which he secretly hoped
the visit might take in relation to himself. No such opportunity,
however, arose. Moowis attracted the chief attention, every eye and
heart was alert to entertain him. In this effort on the part of his
entertainers they had well-nigh brought about his destruction by
dissolving him into his original elements of rags, snow, and dirt, for
he was assigned the most prominent place near the fire, where he was
exposed to a heat that he could by no means endure. However, he warded
this calamity off by placing a boy between him and the fire; he
shifted his position frequently, and evaded, by dexterous manoeuvres
and timely remarks, the pressing invitation of his host to sit and
enjoy the warmth. He so managed these excuses as not only to conceal
his dread of immediate dissolution, but to secure the further
approbation of the fair forest girl, who was filled with admiration of
one who had so brave a spirit to endure the paralysing effects of
cold.

The visit proved that the rejected lover had well calculated the
effects of his plan. He withdrew from the lodge, and Moowis triumphed.
Before the Beau-Man left he saw him cross the lodge to the coveted
_abinos_, or bridegroom's seat. The dart which Ma-mon-dá-go-Kwa had so
often delighted in sending to the hearts of her admirers she was at
length fated to receive. She had married an image.

As the morning began to break the stranger arose, adjusted his
warrior's plumes, and took his forest weapons to depart.

"I must go," said he, "for I have important work to do, and there are
many hills and streams between me and the object of my journey."

"I will go with you," said Ma-mon-dá-go-Kwa.

"The journey is too long," replied her husband, "and you are ill able
to encounter the perils of the way."

"It is not so long but that I will go," answered his wife, "and there
are no dangers I will not share with you."

Moowis returned to the lodge of his master, and told him what had
occurred. For a moment pity took possession of the young man's heart.
He regretted that she whom he so loved should thus have thrown
herself away upon an image, a shadow, when she might have been the
mistress of the best lodge in the camp.

"It is her own folly," he said; "she has turned a deaf ear to the
counsels of prudence. She must submit to her fate."

The same morning Moowis set forth, and his wife followed him at a
distance. The way was rough and intricate, and she found that she
could not keep up with him, he walked so quickly. She struggled hard
and obstinately to overtake him, but Moowis had been for some time out
of sight when the sun rose and commenced upon his snow-formed body the
work of dissolution. He began to melt away and fall to pieces. As
Ma-mon-dá-go-Kwa followed in his track she found piece after piece of
his clothing in the path. She first found his mittens, then his
moccasins, then his leggings, then his coat, and after that other
parts of his garments. As the heat unbound them the clothes also
returned to their filthy condition. Over rocks, through wind-falls,
across marshes, Ma-mon-dá-go-Kwa pursued him she loved. The path
turned aside in all directions. Rags, bones, leather, beads, feathers,
and soiled ribbons she found, but caught no sight of Moowis. She spent
the day in wandering, and when evening came she was still alone. The
snow having now melted, she had completely lost her husband's track,
and she wandered about uncertain which way to go and in a state of
perfect despair. At length with bitter cries she lamented her fate.

"Moowis, Moowis," she cried, "nin ge won e win ig, ne won e win
ig!"--"Moowis, Moowis, you have led me astray, you are leading me
astray!"

With this cry she wandered in the woods.

The cry of the lost Ma-mon-dá-go-Kwa is sometimes repeated by the
village girls who have made of it a song--

    Moowis! Moowis!
    Forest rover,
      Where art thou?
    Ah! my bravest, gayest lover,
      Guide me now.

    Moowis! Moowis!
    Ah! believe me,
      List my moan:
    Do not, do not, brave heart, leave me
      All alone.

    Moowis! Moowis!
    Footprints vanished!
      Whither wend I?
    Fated, lost, detested, banished
      Must I die!

    Moowis! Moowis!
    Whither goest thou,
      Eye-bright lover?
    Ah! thou ravenous bird that knowest,
      I see thee hover,

    Circling, circling
    As I wander,
      And at last
    When I fall thou then wilt come
      And feed upon my breast.




THE GIRL WHO MARRIED THE PINE-TREE.


Upon the side of a certain mountain grew some pines, under the shade
of which the Puckwudjinies, or sprites, were accustomed to sport at
times. Now it happened that in the neighbourhood of these trees was a
lodge in which dwelt a beautiful girl and her father and mother. One
day a man came to the lodge of the father, and seeing the girl he
loved her, and said--

"Give me Leelinau for my wife," and the old man consented.

Now it happened that the girl did not like her lover, so she escaped
from the lodge and went and hid herself, and as the sun was setting
she came to the pine-trees, and leaning against one of them she
lamented her hard fate. On a sudden she heard a voice, which seemed to
come from the tree, saying--

"Be my wife, maiden, beautiful Leelinau, beautiful Leelinau."

The girl was astonished, not knowing whence the voice could have come.
She listened again, and the words were repeated, evidently by the tree
against which she leaned. Then the maid consented to be the wife of
the pine-tree.

Meanwhile her parents had missed her, and had sent out parties to see
if she could be found, but she was nowhere.

Time passed on, but Leelinau never returned to her home. Hunters who
have been crossing the mountain, and have come to the trees at sunset,
say that they have seen a beautiful girl there in company with a
handsome youth, who vanished as they approached.




A LEGEND OF MANABOZHO.


Manabozho made the land. The occasion of his doing so was this.

One day he went out hunting with two wolves. After the first day's
hunt one of the wolves left him and went to the left, but the other
continuing with Manabozho he adopted him for his son. The lakes were
in those days peopled by spirits with whom Manabozho and his son went
to war. They destroyed all the spirits in one lake, and then went on
hunting. They were not, however, very successful, for every deer the
wolf chased fled to another of the lakes and escaped from them. It
chanced that one day Manabozho started a deer, and the wolf gave
chase. The animal fled to the lake, which was covered with ice, and
the wolf pursued it. At the moment when the wolf had come up to the
prey the ice broke, and both fell in, when the spirits, catching them,
at once devoured them.

Manabozho went up and down the lake-shore weeping and lamenting. While
he was thus distressed he heard a voice proceeding from the depths of
the lake.

"Manabozho," cried the voice, "why do you weep?"

Manabozho answered--

"Have I not cause to do so? I have lost my son, who has sunk in the
waters of the lake."

"You will never see him more," replied the voice; "the spirits have
eaten him."

Then Manabozho wept the more when he heard this sad news.

"Would," said he, "I might meet those who have thus cruelly treated me
in eating my son. They should feel the power of Manabozho, who would
be revenged."

The voice informed him that he might meet the spirits by repairing to
a certain place, to which the spirits would come to sun themselves.
Manabozho went there accordingly, and, concealing himself, saw the
spirits, who appeared in all manner of forms, as snakes, bears, and
other things. Manabozho, however, did not escape the notice of one of
the two chiefs of the spirits, and one of the band who wore the shape
of a very large snake was sent by them to examine what the strange
object was.

Manabozho saw the spirit coming, and assumed the appearance of a
stump. The snake coming up wrapped itself around the trunk and
squeezed it with all its strength, so that Manabozho was on the point
of crying out when the snake uncoiled itself. The relief was, however,
only for a moment. Again the snake wound itself around him and gave
him this time even a more severe hug than before. Manabozho
restrained himself and did not suffer a cry to escape him, and the
snake, now satisfied that the stump was what it appeared to be, glided
off to its companions. The chiefs of the spirits were not, however,
satisfied, so they sent a bear to try what he could make of the stump.
The bear came up to Manabozho and hugged, and bit, and clawed him till
he could hardly forbear screaming with the pain it caused him. The
thought of his son and of the vengeance he wished to take on the
spirits, however, restrained him, and the bear at last retreated to
its fellows.

"It is nothing," it said; "it is really a stump."

Then the spirits were reassured, and, having sunned themselves, lay
down and went to sleep. Seeing this, Manabozho assumed his natural
shape, and stealing upon them with his bow and arrows, slew the chiefs
of the spirits. In doing this he awoke the others, who, seeing their
chiefs dead, turned upon Manabozho, who fled. Then the spirits pursued
him in the shape of a vast flood of water. Hearing it behind him the
fugitive ran as fast as he could to the hills, but each one became
gradually submerged, so that Manabozho was at last driven to the top
of the highest mountain. Here the waters still surrounding him and
gathering in height, Manabozho climbed the highest pine-tree he could
find. The waters still rose. Then Manabozho prayed that the tree would
grow, and it did so. Still the waters rose. Manabozho prayed again
that the tree would grow, and it did so, but not so much as before.
Still the waters rose, and Manabozho was up to his chin in the flood,
when he prayed again, and the tree grew, but less than on either of
the former occasions. Manabozho looked round on the waters, and saw
many animals swimming about seeking land. Amongst them he saw a
beaver, an otter, and a musk-rat. Then he cried to them, saying--

"My brothers, come to me. We must have some earth, or we shall all
die."

So they came to him and consulted as to what had best be done, and it
was agreed that they should dive down and see if they could not bring
up some of the earth from below.

The beaver dived first, but was drowned before he reached the bottom.
Then the otter went. He came within sight of the earth, but then his
senses failed him before he could get a bite of it. The musk-rat
followed. He sank to the bottom, and bit the earth. Then he lost his
senses and came floating up to the top of the water. Manabozho awaited
the reappearance of the three, and as they came up to the surface he
drew them to him. He examined their claws, but found nothing. Then he
looked in their mouths and found the beaver's and the otter's empty.
In the musk-rat's, however, he found a little earth. This Manabozho
took in his hands and rubbed till it was a fine dust. Then he dried it
in the sun, and, when it was quite light, he blew it all round him
over the water, and the dry land appeared.

Thus Manabozho made the land.




PAUPPUKKEEWIS.


A man of large stature and great activity of mind and body found
himself standing alone on a prairie. He thought to himself--

"How came I here? Are there no beings on this earth but myself? I must
travel and see. I must walk till I find the abodes of men."

So as soon as his mind was made up he set out, he knew not whither, in
search of habitations. No obstacles diverted him from his purpose.
Prairies, rivers, woods, and storms did not daunt his courage or turn
him back. After travelling a long time he came to a wood in which he
saw decayed stumps of trees, as if they had been cut in ancient times,
but he found no other traces of men. Pursuing his journey he found
more recent marks of the same kind, and later on he came to fresh
traces of human beings, first their footsteps, and then the wood they
had cut lying in heaps.

Continuing on he emerged towards dusk from the forest, and beheld at a
distance a large village of high lodges, standing on rising ground. He
said to himself--

"I will arrive there at a run."

Off he started with all his speed, and on coming to the first lodge he
jumped over it. Those within saw something pass over the top, and then
they heard a thump on the ground.

"What is that?" they all said.

One came out to see, and, finding a stranger, invited him in. He found
himself in the presence of an old chief and several men who were
seated in the lodge. Meat was set before him, after which the chief
asked him where he was going and what his name was. He answered he was
in search of adventures, and that his name was Pauppukkeewis
(grasshopper). The eyes of all were fixed upon him.

"Pauppukkeewis!" said one to another, and the laugh went round.

Pauppukkeewis made but a short stay in the village. He was not easy
there. The place gave him no opportunity to display his powers.

"I will be off," he said, and taking with him a young man who had
formed a strong attachment for him and who might serve him as a
mesh-in-au-wa (official who bears the pipe), he set out once more on
his travels. The two travelled together, and when the young man was
fatigued with walking Pauppukkeewis would show him a few tricks, such
as leaping over trees, and turning round on one leg till he made the
dust fly in a cloud around him. In this manner he very much amused his
companion, though at times his performance somewhat alarmed him.

One day they came to a large village, where they were well received.
The people told them that there were a number of manitoes who lived
some distance away and who killed all who came to their lodge.

The people had made many attempts to extirpate these manitoes, but the
war parties that went out for this purpose were always unsuccessful.

"I will go and see them," said Pauppukkeewis.

The chief of the village warned him of the danger he would run, but
finding him resolved, said--

"Well, if you will go, since you are my guest, I will send twenty
warriors with you."

Pauppukkeewis thanked him for this. Twenty young men offered
themselves for the expedition. They went forward, and in a short time
descried the lodge of the manitoes. Pauppukkeewis placed his friend
and the warriors near him so that they might see all that passed, and
then he went alone into the lodge. When he entered he found five
horrible-looking manitoes eating. These were the father and four sons.
Their appearance was hideous. Their eyes were set low in their heads
as if the manitoes were half starved. They offered Pauppukkeewis part
of their meat, but he refused it.

"What have you come for?" asked the old one.

"Nothing," answered Pauppukkeewis.

At this they all stared at him.

"Do you not wish to wrestle?" they all asked.

"Yes," replied he.

A hideous smile passed over their faces.

"You go," said the others to their eldest brother.

Pauppukkeewis and his antagonist were soon clinched in each other's
arms. He knew the manitoes' object,--they wanted his flesh,--but he
was prepared for them.

"Haw, haw!" they cried, and the dust and dry leaves flew about the
wrestlers as if driven by a strong wind.

The manito was strong, but Pauppukkeewis soon found he could master
him. He tripped him up, and threw him with a giant's force head
foremost on a stone, and he fell insensible.

The brothers stepped up in quick succession, but Pauppukkeewis put his
tricks in full play, and soon all the four lay bleeding on the ground.
The old manito got frightened, and ran for his life. Pauppukkeewis
pursued him for sport. Sometimes he was before him, sometimes over his
head. Now he would give him a kick, now a push, now a trip, till the
manito was quite exhausted. Meanwhile Pauppukkeewis's friend and the
warriors came up, crying--

"Ha, ha, a! Ha, ha, a! Pauppukkeewis is driving him before him."

At length Pauppukkeewis threw the manito to the ground with such force
that he lay senseless, and the warriors, carrying him off, laid him
with the bodies of his sons, and set fire to the whole, consuming them
to ashes.

Around the lodge Pauppukkeewis and his friends saw a large number of
bones, the remains of the warriors whom the manitoes had slain. Taking
three arrows, Pauppukkeewis called upon the Great Spirit, and then,
shooting an arrow in the air, he cried--

"You, who are lying down, rise up, or you will be hit."

The bones at these words all collected in one place. Again
Pauppukkeewis shot another arrow into the air, crying--

"You, who are lying down, rise up, or you will be hit," and each bone
drew towards its fellow.

Then he shot a third arrow, crying--

"You, who are lying down, rise up, or you will be hit," and the bones
immediately came together, flesh came over them, and the warriors,
whose remains they were, stood before Pauppukkeewis alive and well.

He led them to the chief of the village, who had been his friend, and
gave them up to him. Soon after, the chief with his counsellors came
to him, saying--

"Who is more worthy to rule than you? You alone can defend us."

Pauppukkeewis thanked the chief, but told him he must set out again in
search of further adventures. The chief and the counsellors pressed
him to remain, but he was resolved to leave them, and so he told the
chief to make his friend ruler while he himself went on his travels.

"I will come again," said he, "sometime and see you."

"Ho, ho, ho!" they all cried, "come back again and see us."

He promised that he would, and set out alone.

After travelling for some time, he came to a large lake, and on
looking about he saw an enormous otter on an island. He thought to
himself--

"His skin will make me a fine pouch," and, drawing near, he drove an
arrow into the otter's side. He waded into the lake, and with some
difficulty dragged the carcass ashore. He took out the entrails, but
even then the carcass was so heavy that it was as much as he could do
to drag it up a hill overlooking the lake. As soon as he got it into
the sunshine, where it was warm, he skinned the otter, and threw the
carcass away, for he said to himself--

"The war-eagle will come, and then I shall have a chance to get his
skin and his feathers to put on my head."

Very soon he heard a noise in the air, but he could see nothing. At
length a large eagle dropped, as if from the sky, on to the otter's
carcass. Pauppukkeewis drew his bow and sent an arrow through the
bird's body. The eagle made a dying effort and lifted the carcass up
several feet, but it could not disengage its claws, and the weight
soon brought the bird down again.

Then Pauppukkeewis skinned the bird, crowned his head with its
feathers, and set out again on his journey.

After walking a while he came to a lake, the water of which came right
up to the trees on its banks. He soon saw that the lake had been made
by beavers. He took his station at a certain spot to see whether any
of the beavers would show themselves. Soon he saw the head of one
peeping out of the water to see who the stranger was.

"My friend," said Pauppukkeewis, "could you not turn me into a beaver
like yourself?"

"I do not know," replied the beaver; "I will go and ask the others."

Soon all the beavers showed their heads above the water, and looked to
see if Pauppukkeewis was armed, but he had left his bow and arrows in
a hollow tree a short distance off. When they were satisfied they all
came near.

"Can you not, with all your united power," said he, "turn me into a
beaver? I wish to live among you."

"Yes," answered the chief, "lie down;" and Pauppukkeewis soon found
himself changed into one of them.

"You must make me large," said he, "larger than any of you."

"Yes, yes," said they; "by and by, when we get into the lodge, it
shall be done."

They all dived into the lake, and Pauppukkeewis, passing large heaps
of limbs of trees and logs at the bottom, asked the use of them. The
beavers answered--

"They are our winter provisions."

When they all got into the lodge their number was about one hundred.
The lodge was large and warm.

"Now we will make you large," said they, exerting all their power.
"Will that do?"

"Yes," he answered, for he found he was ten times the size of the
largest.

"You need not go out," said they. "We will bring your food into the
lodge, and you shall be our chief."

"Very well," answered Pauppukkeewis. He thought--

"I will stay here and grow fat at their expense," but very soon a
beaver came into the lodge out of breath, crying--

"We are attacked by Indians."

All huddled together in great fear. The water began to lower, for the
hunters had broken down the dam, and soon the beavers heard them on
the roof of the lodge, breaking it in. Out jumped all the beavers and
so escaped. Pauppukkeewis tried to follow them, but, alas! they had
made him so large that he could not creep out at the hole. He called
to them to come back, but none answered. He worried himself so much in
trying to escape that he looked like a bladder. He could not change
himself into a man again though he heard and understood all the
hunters said. One of them put his head in at the top of the lodge.

"Ty-au!" cried he. "Tut-ty-au! Me-shau-mik! King of the beavers is
in."

Then they all got at Pauppukkeewis and battered in his skull with
their clubs. After that seven or eight of them placed his body on
poles and carried him home. As he went he reflected--

"What will become of me? My ghost or shadow will not die after they
get me to their lodges."

When the party arrived home, they sent out invitations to a grand
feast. The women took Pauppukkeewis and laid him in the snow to skin
him, but as soon as his flesh got cold, his jee-bi, or spirit, fled.

Pauppukkeewis found himself standing on a prairie, having assumed his
mortal shape. After walking a short distance, he saw a herd of elks
feeding. He admired the apparent ease and enjoyment of their life, and
thought there could be nothing more pleasant than to have the liberty
of running about, and feeding on the prairies. He asked them if they
could not change him into an elk.

"Yes," they answered, after a pause. "Get down on your hands and
feet." He did so, and soon found himself an elk.

"I want big horns and big feet," said he. "I wish to be very large."

"Yes, yes," they said. "There," exerting all their power, "are you big
enough?"

"Yes," he answered, for he saw he was very large.

They spent a good time in playing and running.

Being rather cold one day he went into a thick wood for shelter, and
was followed by most of the herd. They had not been there long before
some elks from behind passed them like a strong wind. All took the
alarm, and off they ran, Pauppukkeewis with the rest.

"Keep out on the plains," said they, but he found it was too late to
do so, for they had already got entangled in the thick woods. He soon
smelt the hunters, who were closely following his trail, for they had
left all the others to follow him. He jumped furiously, and broke down
young trees in his flight, but it only served to retard his progress.
He soon felt an arrow in his side. He jumped over trees in his agony,
but the arrows clattered thicker and thicker about him, and at last
one entered his heart. He fell to the ground and heard the whoop of
triumph given by the warriors. On coming up they looked at the carcass
with astonishment, and, with their hands up to their mouths,
exclaimed--

"Ty-au! ty-au!"

There were about sixty in the party, who had come out on a special
hunt, for one of their number had, the day before, observed
Pauppukkeewis's large tracks in the sand. They skinned him, and as his
flesh got cold his jee-bi took its flight, and once more he found
himself in human shape.

His passion for adventure was not yet cooled. On coming to a large
lake, the shore of which was sandy, he saw a large flock of brant,
and, speaking to them, he asked them to turn him into a brant.

"Very well," said they.

"But I want to be very large," said he.

"Very well," replied the brant, and he soon found himself one of them,
of prodigious size, all the others looking on at him in amazement.

"You must fly as leader," they said.

"No," replied Pauppukkeewis, "I will fly behind."

"Very well," said they. "One thing we have to say to you. You must be
careful in flying not to look down, for if you do something may happen
to you."

"Be it so," said he, and soon the flock rose up in the air, for they
were bound for the north. They flew very fast with Pauppukkeewis
behind. One day, while going with a strong wind, and as swift as their
wings would flap, while they passed over a large village, the Indians
below raised a great shout, for they were amazed at the enormous size
of Pauppukkeewis. They made such a noise that Pauppukkeewis forgot
what had been told him about not looking down. He was flying as swift
as an arrow, and as soon as he brought his neck in, and stretched it
down to look at the shouters, his tail was caught by the wind, and he
was blown over and over. He tried to right himself, but without
success. Down he went from an immense height, turning over and over.
He lost his senses, and when he recovered them he found himself jammed
in a cleft in a hollow tree. To get backward or forward was
impossible, and there he remained until his brant life was ended by
starvation. Then his jee-bi again left the carcass, and once more he
found himself in human shape.

Travelling was still his passion, and one day he came to a lodge, in
which were two old men whose heads were white from age. They treated
him well, and he told them he was going back to his village to see his
friends and people. The old men said they would aid him, and pointed
out the way they said he should go, but they were deceivers. After
walking all day he came to a lodge very like the first, and looking in
he found two old men with white heads. It was in fact the very same
lodge, and he had been walking in a circle. The old men did not
undeceive him, but pretended to be strangers, and said in a kind
voice--

"We will show you the way."

After walking the third day, and coming back to the same place, he
discovered their trickery, for he had cut a notch in the door-post.

"Who are you," said he to them, "to treat _me_ so?" and he gave one a
kick and the other a slap that killed them. Their blood flew against
the rocks near their lodge, and that is the reason there are red
streaks in them to this day. Then Pauppukkeewis burned their lodge.

He continued his journey, not knowing exactly which way to go. At last
he came to a big lake. He ascended the highest hill to try and see the
opposite shore, but he could not, so he made a canoe and took a sail
on the water. On looking down he saw that the bottom of the lake was
covered with dark fish, of which he caught some. This made him wish to
return to his village, and bring his people to live near this lake. He
sailed on, and towards evening came to an island, where he stopped and
ate the fish.

Next day he returned to the mainland, and, while wandering along the
shore, he encountered a more powerful manito than himself, named
Manabozho. Pauppukkeewis thought it best, after playing him a trick,
to keep out of his way. He again thought of returning to his village,
and, transforming himself into a partridge, took his flight towards
it. In a short time he reached it, and his return was welcomed with
feasting and songs. He told them of the lake and of the fish, and,
telling them that it would be easier for them to live there, persuaded
them all to remove. He immediately began to lead them by short
journeys, and all things turned out as he had said.

While the people lived there a messenger came to Pauppukkeewis in the
shape of a bear, and said that the bear-chief wished to see him at
once at his village. Pauppukkeewis was ready in an instant, and
getting on the messenger's back was carried away. Towards evening they
ascended a high mountain, and came to a cave, in which the bear-chief
lived. He was a very large creature, and he made Pauppukkeewis
welcome, inviting him into his lodge.

As soon as propriety allowed he spoke, and said that he had sent for
him because he had heard he was the chief who was leading a large
party towards his hunting-grounds.

"You must know," said he, "that you have no right there, and I wish
you to leave the country with your party, or else we must fight."

"Very well," replied Pauppukkeewis, "so be it."

He did not wish to do anything without consulting his people, and he
saw that the bear-chief was raising a war-party, so he said he would
go back that night. The bear-king told him he might do as he wished,
and that one of the bears was at his command; so Pauppukkeewis,
jumping on its back, rode home. Then he assembled the village, and
told the young men to kill the bear, make ready a feast, and hang the
head outside the village, for he knew the bear spies would soon see it
and carry the news to their chief.

Next morning Pauppukkeewis got all his young warriors ready for the
fight. After waiting one day, the bear war-party came in sight, making
a tremendous noise. The bear-chief advanced, and said that he did not
wish to shed the blood of the young warriors, but if Pauppukkeewis
would consent they two would run a race, and the winner should kill
the losing chief, and all the loser's followers should be the slaves
of the other. Pauppukkeewis agreed, and they ran before all the
warriors. He was victor; but not to terminate the race too quickly he
gave the bear-chief some specimens of his skill, forming eddies and
whirlwinds with the sand as he twisted and turned about. As the
bear-chief came to the post Pauppukkeewis drove an arrow through him.
Having done this he told his young men to take the bears and tie one
at the door of each lodge, that they might remain in future as slaves.

After seeing that all was quiet and prosperous in the village,
Pauppukkeewis felt his desire for adventure returning, so he took an
affectionate leave of his friends and people, and started off again.
After wandering a long time, he came to the lodge of Manabozho, who
was absent. Pauppukkeewis thought he would play him a trick, so he
turned everything in the lodge upside down and killed his chickens.
Now Manabozho calls all the fowl of the air his chickens, and among
the number was a raven, the meanest of birds, and him Pauppukkeewis
killed and hung up by the neck to insult Manabozho. He then went on
till he came to a very high point of rocks running out into the lake,
from the top of which he could see the country as far as eye could
reach. While he sat there, Manabozho's mountain chickens flew round
and past him in great numbers. So, out of spite, he shot many of them,
for his arrows were sure and the birds many, and he amused himself by
throwing the birds down the precipice. At length a wary bird called
out--

"Pauppukkeewis is killing us: go and tell our father."

Away flew some of them, and Manabozho soon made his appearance on the
plain below.

Pauppukkeewis slipped down the other side of the mountain. Manabozho
cried from the top--

"The earth is not so large but I can get up to you."

Off Pauppukkeewis ran and Manabozho after him. He ran over hills and
prairies with all his speed, but his pursuer was still hard after him.
Then he thought of a shift. He stopped, and climbed a large pine-tree,
stripped it of all its green foliage, and threw it to the winds. Then
he ran on. When Manabozho reached the tree, it called out to him--

"Great Manabozho, give me my life again. Pauppukkeewis has killed
me."

"I will do so," said Manabozho, and it took him some time to gather
the scattered foliage. Then he resumed the chase. Pauppukkeewis
repeated the same trick with the hemlock, and with other trees, for
Manabozho would always stop to restore anything that called upon him
to give it life again. By this means Pauppukkeewis kept ahead, but
still Manabozho was overtaking him when Pauppukkeewis saw an elk. He
asked it to take him on its back, and this the animal did, and for a
time he made great progress. Still Manabozho was in sight.
Pauppukkeewis dismounted, and, coming to a large sandstone rock, he
broke it in pieces, and scattered the grains. Manabozho was so close
upon him at this place that he had almost caught him, but the
foundation of the rock cried out--

"Haye! Ne-me-sho! Pauppukkeewis has spoiled me. Will you not restore
me to life?"

"Yes," replied Manabozho, and he restored the rock to its previous
shape. He then pushed on in pursuit of Pauppukkeewis, and had got so
near as to put out his arm to seize him, when Pauppukkeewis dodged
him, and raised such a dust and commotion by whirlwinds, as to make
the trees break, and the sand and leaves dance in the air. Again and
again Manabozho's hand was put out to catch him, but he dodged him at
every turn, and at last, making a great dust, he dashed into a hollow
tree, which had been blown down, and, changing himself into a snake,
crept out at its roots. Well that he did; for at the moment Manabozho,
who is Ogee-bau-ge-mon (a species of lightning) struck the tree with
all his power, and shivered it to fragments. Pauppukkeewis again took
human shape, and again Manabozho, pursuing him, pressed him hard.

At a distance Pauppukkeewis saw a very high rock jutting out into a
lake, and he ran for the foot of the precipice, which was abrupt and
elevated. As he came near, the manito of the rock opened his door and
told him to come in. No sooner was the door closed than Manabozho
knocked at it.

"Open," he cried in a loud voice.

The manito was afraid of him, but said to his guest--

"Since I have sheltered you, I would sooner die with you than open the
door."

"Open," Manabozho cried again.

The manito was silent. Manabozho made no attempt to force the door
open. He waited a few moments.

"Very well," said he, "I give you till night to live."

The manito trembled, for he knew that when the hour came he would be
shut up under the earth.

Night came, the clouds hung low and black, and every moment the forked
lightning flashed from them. The black clouds advanced slowly and
threw their dark shadows afar, and behind was heard the rumbling noise
of the coming thunder. When the clouds were gathered over the rock the
thunders roared, the lightning flashed, the ground shook, and the
solid rock split, tottered, and fell. Under the ruins lay crushed the
mortal bodies of Pauppukkeewis and the manito.

It was only then that Pauppukkeewis found that he was really dead. He
had been killed before in the shapes of different animals, but now his
body, in human shape, was crushed.

Manabozho came and took his jee-bi, or spirit. "You," said he to
Pauppukkeewis, "shall not be again permitted to live on the earth. I
will give you the shape of the war-eagle, and you shall be the chief
of all birds, and your duty shall be to watch over their destinies."




THE DISCOVERY OF THE UPPER WORLD.


The Minnatarees, and all the other Indians who are not of the stock of
the grandfather of nations, were once not of this upper air, but dwelt
in the bowels of the earth. The Good Spirit, when he made them, meant,
no doubt, at a proper time to put them in enjoyment of all the good
things which he had prepared for them upon earth, but he ordered that
their first stage of existence should be within it. They all dwelt
underground, like moles, in one great cavern. When they emerged it was
in different places, but generally near where they now inhabit. At
that time few of the Indian tribes wore the human form. Some had the
figures or semblances of beasts. The Paukunnawkuts were rabbits, some
of the Delawares were ground-hogs, others tortoises, and the
Tuscaroras, and a great many others, were rattlesnakes. The Sioux were
the hissing-snakes, but the Minnatarees were always men. Their part of
the great cavern was situated far towards the mountains of snow.

The great cavern in which the Indians dwelt was indeed a dark and
dismal region. In the country of the Minnatarees it was lighted up
only by the rays of the sun which strayed through the fissures of the
rock and the crevices in the roof of the cavern, while in that of the
Mengwe all was dark and sunless. The life of the Indians was a life of
misery compared with that they now enjoy, and it was endured only
because they were ignorant of a fairer or richer world, or a better or
happier state of being.

There were among the Minnatarees two boys, who, from the hour of their
birth, showed superior wisdom, sagacity, and cunning. Even while they
were children they were wiser than their fathers. They asked their
parents whence the light came which streamed through the fissures of
the rock and played along the sides of the cavern, and whence and from
what descended the roots of the great vine. Their father could not
tell them, and their mother only laughed at the question, which
appeared to her very foolish. They asked the priest, but he could not
tell them; but he said he supposed the light came from the eyes of
some great wolf. The boys asked the king tortoise, who sulkily drew
his head into his shell, and made no answer. When they asked the chief
rattlesnake, he answered that he knew, and would tell them all about
it if they would promise to make peace with his tribe, and on no
account kill one of his descendants. The boys promised, and the chief
rattlesnake then told them that there was a world above them, a
beautiful world, peopled by creatures in the shape of beasts, having
a pure atmosphere and a soft sky, sweet fruits and mellow water,
well-stocked hunting-grounds and well-filled lakes. He told them to
ascend by the roots, which were those of a great grape-vine. A while
after the boys were missing; nor did they come back till the
Minnatarees had celebrated their death, and the lying priest had, as
he falsely said, in a vision seen them inhabitants of the land of
spirits.

The Indians were surprised by the return of the boys. They came back
singing and dancing, and were grown so much, and looked so different
from what they did when they left the cavern, that their father and
mother scarcely knew them. They were sleek and fat, and when they
walked it was with so strong a step that the hollow space rang with
the sound of their feet. They were covered with the skins of animals,
and had blankets of the skins of racoons and beavers. They described
to the Indians the pleasures of the upper world, and the people were
delighted with their story. At length they resolved to leave their
dull residence underground for the upper regions. All agreed to this
except the ground-hog, the badger, and the mole, who said, as they had
been put where they were, they would live and die there. The rabbit
said he would live sometimes above and sometimes below.

When the Indians had determined to leave their habitations
underground, the Minnatarees began, men, women, and children, to
clamber up the vine, and one-half of them had already reached the
surface of the earth, when a dire mishap involved the remainder in a
still more desolate captivity within its bowels.

There was among them a very fat old woman, who was heavier than any
six of her nation. Nothing would do but she must go up before some of
her neighbours. Away she clambered, but her weight was so great that
the vine broke with it, and the opening, to which it afforded the sole
means of ascending, closed upon her and the rest of her nation.




THE BOY WHO SNARED THE SUN.


At the time when the animals reigned on the earth they had killed all
but a girl and her little brother, and these two were living in fear
and seclusion. The boy was a perfect pigmy, never growing beyond the
stature of a small infant, but the girl increased with her years, so
that the labour of providing food and lodging devolved wholly on her.
She went out daily to get wood for their lodge fire, and took her
brother with her so that no accident might happen to him, for he was
too little to leave alone--a big bird might have flown away with him.
She made him a bow and arrows, and said to him one winter day--

"I will leave you behind where I have been chopping; you must hide
yourself, and you will see the gitshee-gitshee-gaun ai see-ug, or
snow-birds, come and pick the worms out of the wood, where I have been
chopping. Shoot one of them and bring it home."

He obeyed her, and tried his best to kill one, but came home
unsuccessful. She told him he must not despair, but try again the next
day. She accordingly left him at the place where she got wood and
returned home. Towards nightfall she heard his footsteps on the snow,
and he came in exultingly, and threw down one of the birds he had
killed.

"My sister," said he, "I wish you to skin it and stretch the skin, and
when I have killed more I will have a coat made out of them."

"What shall we do with the body?" asked she, for as yet men had not
begun to eat animal food, but lived on vegetables alone.

"Cut it in two," he answered, "and season our pottage with one-half of
it at a time."

She did so. The boy continued his efforts, and succeeded in killing
ten birds, out of the skins of which his sister made him a little
coat.

"Sister," said he one day, "are we all alone in the world? Is there
nobody else living?"

His sister told him that they two alone remained; that the beings who
had killed all their relations lived in a certain quarter, and that he
must by no means go in that direction. This only served to inflame his
curiosity and raise his ambition, and he soon after took his bow and
arrows and went to seek the beings of whom his sister had told him.
After walking a long time and meeting nothing he became tired, and lay
down on a knoll where the sun had melted the snow. He fell fast
asleep, and while sleeping the sun beat so hot upon him that it singed
and drew up his birdskin coat, so that when he awoke and stretched
himself, he felt, as it were, bound in it. He looked down and saw the
damage done, and then he flew into a passion, upbraided the sun, and
vowed vengeance against it.

"Do not think you are too high," said he; "I shall revenge myself."

On coming home he related his disaster to his sister, and lamented
bitterly the spoiling of his coat. He would not eat. He lay down as
one that fasts, and did not stir or move his position for ten days,
though his sister did all she could to arouse him. At the end of ten
days he turned over, and then lay ten days on the other side. Then he
got up and told his sister to make him a snare, for he meant to catch
the sun. At first she said she had nothing, but finally she remembered
a little piece of dried deer's sinew that her father had left, and
this she soon made into a string suitable for a noose. The moment,
however, she showed it to her brother, he told her it would not do,
and bade her get something else. She said she had nothing--nothing at
all. At last she thought of her hair, and pulling some of it out made
a string. Her brother again said it would not answer, and bade her,
pettishly, and with authority, make him a noose. She replied that
there was nothing to make it of, and went out of the lodge. When she
was all alone she said--

"Neow obewy indapin."

Meanwhile her brother awaited her, and it was not long before she
reappeared with some tiny cord. The moment he saw it he was delighted.

"This will do," he cried, and he put the cord to his mouth and began
pulling it through his lips, and as fast as he drew it changed to a
red metal cord of prodigious length, which he wound around his body
and shoulders. He then prepared himself, and set out a little after
midnight that he might catch the sun before it rose. He fixed his
snare on a spot just where he thought the sun would appear; and sure
enough he caught it, so that it was held fast in the cord and could
not rise.

The animals who ruled the earth were immediately put into a great
commotion. They had no light. They called a council to debate the
matter, and to appoint some one to go and cut the cord--a very
hazardous enterprise, for who dare go so near to the sun as would be
necessary? The dormouse, however, undertook the task. At that time the
dormouse was the largest animal in the world; when it stood up it
looked like a mountain. It set out upon its mission, and, when it got
to the place where the sun lay snared, its back began to smoke and
burn, so intense was the heat, and the top of its carcass was reduced
to enormous heaps of ashes. It succeeded, however, in cutting the cord
with its teeth and freed the sun, but was reduced to a very small size,
and has remained so ever since. Men call it the Kug-e-been-gwa-kwa.




THE MAID IN THE BOX.


There once lived a woman called Monedo Kway (female spirit or
prophetess) on the sand mountains, called The Sleeping Bear of Lake
Michigan, who had a daughter as beautiful as she was modest and
discreet. Everybody spoke of her beauty, and she was so handsome that
her mother feared she would be carried off, so to prevent it she put
her in a box, which she pushed into the middle of the lake. The box
was tied by a long string to a stake on shore, and every morning the
mother pulled the box to land, and, taking her daughter out of it,
combed her hair, gave her food, and then putting her again in the box,
set her afloat on the lake.

One day it chanced that a handsome young man came to the spot at the
moment the girl was being thus attended to by her mother. He was
struck with her beauty, and immediately went home and told his love to
his uncle, who was a great chief and a powerful magician.

"My nephew," replied the old man, "go to the mother's lodge and sit
down in a modest manner without saying a word. You need not ask her a
question, for whatever you think she will understand, and what she
thinks in answer you will understand."

The young man did as he was bid. He entered the woman's lodge and sat
with his head bent down in a thoughtful manner, without uttering a
word. He then thought--

"I wish she would give me her daughter." Very soon he understood the
mother's thoughts in reply.

"Give you my daughter!" thought she. "You! no, indeed! my daughter
shall never marry you!"

The young man went away and reported the result to his uncle.

"Woman without good sense!" exclaimed the old man. "Who is she keeping
her daughter for? Does she think she will marry the Mudjikewis (a term
indicating the heir or successor to the first in power)? Proud heart!
We will try her magic skill, and see whether she can withstand our
power."

He forthwith set himself to work, and in a short time the pride and
haughtiness of the mother was made known to all the spirits on that
part of the lake, and they met together and resolved to exert their
power to humble her. To do this they determined to raise a great storm
on the lake. The water began to roar and toss, and the tempest became
so severe that the string holding the box broke, and it floated off
through the straits down Lake Huron, and struck against the sandy
shores at its outlet. The place where it struck was near the lodge of
a decayed old magician called Ishkwon Daimeka, or the keeper of the
gate of the lakes. He opened the box and let out the beautiful
daughter, whom he took into his lodge and made his wife.

When her mother found that her daughter had been carried off by the
storm, she raised loud cries and lamented exceedingly. This she
continued to do for a long time, and would not be comforted. At last
the spirits began to pity her, and determined to raise another storm
to bring the daughter back. This was even a greater storm than the
first. The water of the lake washed away the ground, and swept on to
the lodge of Ishkwon Daimeka, whose wife, when she saw the flood
approaching, leaped into the box, and the waves, carrying her off,
landed her at the very spot where was her mother's lodge.

Monedo Kway was overjoyed, but when she opened the box she found her
daughter, indeed, but her beauty had almost all departed. However, she
loved her still, because she was her daughter, and now thought of the
young man who had come to seek her in marriage. She sent a formal
message to him, but he had heard of all that had occurred, and his
love for the girl had died away.

"I marry your daughter!" replied he. "Your daughter! no, indeed! I
shall never marry her!"

The storm that brought the girl back was so strong that it tore away a
large part of the shore of the lake and swept off Ishkwon Daimeka's
lodge, the fragments of which, lodging in the straits, formed those
beautiful islands which are scattered in the St. Clair and Detroit
rivers. As to Ishkwon Daimeka himself, he was drowned, and his bones
lie buried under the islands. As he was carried away by the waves on a
fragment of his lodge, the old man was heard lamenting his fate in a
song.




THE SPIRITS AND THE LOVERS.


At the distance of a woman's walk of a day from the mouth of the
river, called by the pale-faces the Whitestone, in the country of the
Sioux, in the middle of a large plain, stands a lofty hill or mound.
Its wonderful roundness, together with the circumstance of its
standing apart from all other hills, like a fir-tree in the midst of a
wide prairie, or a man whose friends and kindred have all descended to
the dust, has made it known to all the tribes of the West. Whether it
was created by the Great Spirit or filled up by the sons of men,
whether it was done in the morning of the world, ask not me, for I
cannot tell you. Know it is called by all the tribes of the land the
Hill of Little People, or the Mountain of Little Spirits. No gifts can
induce an Indian to visit it; for why should he incur the anger of the
Little People who dwell in it, and, sacrificed upon the fire of their
wrath, behold his wife and children no more? In all the marches and
counter-marches of the Indians, in all their goings and returnings, in
all their wanderings by day or by night to and from lands which lie
beyond it, their paths are so ordered that none approaches near
enough to disturb the tiny inhabitants of the hill. The memory of the
red-man of the forest has preserved but one instance when their
privacy was violated, since it was known through the tribes that they
wished for no intercourse with mortals. Before that time many Indians
were missing each year. No one knew what became of them, but they were
gone, and left no trace nor story behind. Valiant warriors filled
their quivers with arrows, put new strings to their bows, new shod
their moccasins, and sallied out to acquire glory in combat; but there
was no wailing in the camp of our foes: their arrows were not felt,
their shouts were not heard. Yet they fell not by the hands of our
foes, but perished we know not how.

Many seasons ago there lived within the limits of the great
council-fire of the Mahas a chief who was renowned for his valour and
victories in the field, his wisdom in the council, his dexterity and
success in the chase. His name was Mahtoree, or the White Crane. He
was celebrated throughout the vast regions of the West, from the
Mississippi to the Hills of the Serpent, from the Missouri to the
Plains of Bitter Frost, for all those qualities which render an Indian
warrior famous and feared.

In one of the war expeditions of the Pawnee Mahas against the
Burntwood Tetons, it was the good fortune of the former to overcome
and to make many prisoners--men, women, and children. One of the
captives, Sakeajah, or the Bird-Girl, a beautiful creature in the
morning of life, after being adopted into one of the Mahas families,
became the wife of the chief warrior of the nation. Great was the love
which the White Crane had for his wife, and it grew yet stronger when
she had brought him four sons and a daughter, Tatokah, or the
Antelope. She was beautiful. Her skin was fair, her eyes were large
and bright as those of the bison-ox, and her hair black, and braided
with beads, brushed, as she walked, the dew from the flowers upon the
prairies. Her temper was gentle and her voice sweet.

It may not be doubted that the beautiful Tatokah had many lovers; but
the heart of the maiden was touched by none of the noble youths who
sought her. She bade them all depart as they came; she rejected them
all. With the perverseness which is often seen among women, she had
placed her affections upon a youth who had distinguished himself by no
valiant deeds in war, nor by industry or dexterity in the chase. His
name had never reached the surrounding nations. His own nation knew
him not, unless as a weak and imbecile man. He was poor in everything
which constitutes the riches of Indian life. Who had heard the
twanging of Karkapaha's bow in the retreat of the bear, or who had
beheld the war-paint on his cheek or brow? Where were the scalps or
the prisoners that betokened his valour or daring? No song of valiant
exploits had been heard from his lips, for he had none to boast of--if
he had done aught becoming a man, he had done it when none was by. The
beautiful Tatokah, who knew and lamented the deficiencies of her
lover, strove long to conquer her passion without success. At length,
since her father would not agree to her union with her lover, the two
agreed to fly together. The night fixed came, and they left the
village of the Mahas and the lodge of Mahtoree for the wilderness.

Their flight was not unmarked, and when the father was made acquainted
with the disgrace which had befallen him, he called his young men
around him, and bade them pursue the fugitives, promising his daughter
to whomsoever should slay the Karkapaha. Immediately pursuit was made,
and soon a hundred eager youths were on the track of the hapless pair.
With that unerring skill and sagacity in discovering footprints which
mark their race, their steps were tracked, and themselves soon
discovered flying. What was the surprise of the pursuers when they
found that the path taken by the hapless pair would carry them to the
mountain of little spirits, and that they were sufficiently in advance
to reach it before they could be overtaken. None of them durst venture
within the supposed limits, and they halted till the White Crane
should be informed of his daughter and her lover having placed
themselves under the protection of the spirits.

In the meantime the lovers pursued their journey towards the fearful
residence of the little people. Despair lent them courage to perform
an act to which the stoutest Indian resolution had hitherto been
unequal. They determined to tell their tale to the spirits and ask
their protection. They were within a few feet of the hill when, on a
sudden, its brow, on which no object had till now been visible, became
covered with little people, the tallest of whom was not higher than
the knee of the maiden, while many of them--but these were
children--were of lower stature than the squirrel. Their voice was
sharp and quick, like the barking of the prairie dog. A little wing
came out at each shoulder; each had a single eye, which eye was to the
right in the men, and to the left in the women, and their feet stood
out at each side. They were armed like Indians, with tomahawks, spears,
bows, and arrows. He who appeared to be the head chief--for he wore an
air of command, and had the eagle feather--came up to the fugitives and
said--

"Why have you invaded the village of our race whose wrath has been so
fatal to your people? How dare you venture within the limits of our
residence? Know you not that your lives are forfeited?"

Tatokah, for her lover had less than the heart of a doe and was
speechless, related their story. She told them how they had loved, how
wroth her father had been, how they had stolen away and been pursued,
and concluded her tale of sorrow with a flood of tears. The little man
who wore the eagle feather appeared moved by what she said, and
calling around him a large number of men, who were doubtless the
chiefs and counsellors of the nation, a long consultation took place.
The result was a determination to favour and protect the lovers.

At this moment Shongotongo, or the Big Horse, one of the braves whom
Mahtoree had despatched in quest of his daughter, appeared in view in
pursuit of the fugitives. It was not till Mahtoree had taxed his
courage that Big Horse had ventured on the perilous quest. He
approached with the strength of heart and singleness of purpose which
accompany an Indian warrior who deems the eyes of his nation upon him.
When first the brave was discovered thus wantonly, and with no other
purpose but the shedding of blood, intruding on the dominions of the
spirits, no words can tell the rage which appeared to possess their
bosoms. Secure in the knowledge of their power to repel the attacks of
every living thing, the intrepid Maha was permitted to advance within
a few steps of Karkapaha. He had just raised his spear to strike the
unmanly lover, when, all at once, he found himself riveted to the
ground. His feet refused to move, his hands hung powerless at his
side, his tongue refused to utter a word. The bow and arrow fell from
his hand, and his spear lay powerless. A little child, not so high as
the fourth leaf of the thistle, came and spat on him, and a company of
the spirits danced around him singing a taunting song. When they had
thus finished their task of preparatory torture, a thousand little
spirits drew their bows, and a thousand arrows pierced his heart. In a
moment innumerable mattocks were employed in preparing him a grave,
and he was hidden from the eyes of the living ere Tatokah could have
thrice counted over the fingers of her hand.

When this was done, the chief of the little spirits called Karkapaha
before him, and said--

"Maha, you have the heart of a doe. You would fly from a roused wren.
We have not spared you because you deserve to be spared, but because
the maiden loves you. It is for this purpose that we will give you the
heart of a man, that you may return to the village of the Mahas, and
find favour in the eyes of Mahtoree and the braves of the nation. We
will take away your cowardly spirit, and will give you the spirit of
the warrior whom we slew, whose heart was firm as a rock. Sleep, man
of little soul, and wake to be better worthy the love of the beautiful
Antelope."

Then a deep sleep came over the Maha lover. How long he slept he knew
not, but when he woke he felt at once that a change had taken place in
his feelings and temper. The first thought that came to his mind was
of a bow and arrow, the second was of the beautiful maiden who lay
sleeping at his side. The little spirits had disappeared--not a
solitary being of the many thousands who, but a few minutes before,
had filled the air with their discordant cries was now to be seen or
heard. At the feet of Karkapaha lay a tremendous bow, larger than any
warrior ever yet used, a sheaf of arrows of proportionate size, and a
spear of a weight which no Maha could wield. Karkapaha drew the bow as
an Indian boy bends a willow twig, and the spear seemed in his hand
but a reed or a feather. The shrill war-whoop burst unconsciously from
his lips, and his nostrils seemed dilated with the fire and impatience
of a newly-awakened courage. The heart of the fond Indian girl
dissolved in tears when she saw these proofs of strength and these
evidences of spirit which, she knew, if they were coupled with
valour--and how could she doubt the completeness of the gift to effect
the purposes of the giver?--would thaw the iced feelings of her father
and tune his heart to the song of forgiveness. Yet it was not without
many fears, tears, and misgivings on the part of the maiden that they
began their journey to the Mahas village. The lover, now a stranger to
fear, used his endeavours to quiet the beautiful Tatokah, and in some
measure succeeded. Upon finding that his daughter and her lover had
gone to the Hill of the Spirits, and that Shongotongo did not return
from his perilous adventure, the chief of the Mahas had recalled his
braves from the pursuit, and was listening to the history of the pair,
as far as the returned warriors were acquainted with it, when his
daughter and her lover made their appearance. With a bold and fearless
step the once faint-hearted Karkapaha walked up to the offended
father, and, folding his arms upon his breast, stood erect as a pine,
and motionless as that tree when the winds of the earth are chained.
It was the first time that Karkapaha had ever looked on angry men
without trembling, and a demeanour so unusual in him excited universal
surprise.

"Karkapaha is a thief," said the White Crane.

"It is the father of Tatokah that says it," answered the lover, "else
would Karkapaha say it was the song of a bird that has flown over."

"My warriors say it."

"Your warriors are singing-birds; they are wrens. Karkapaha says they
do not speak the truth. Karkapaha has a brave heart and the strength
of a bear. Let the braves try him. He has thrown away the woman's
heart, and become a man."

"Karkapaha is changed," said the chief thoughtfully, "but how and
when?"

"The Little Spirits of the mountain have given him a new soul. Bid
your braves draw this bow. Bid them poise this spear. Their eyes say
they can do neither. Then is Karkapaha the strong man of his tribe?"
As he said this he flourished the ponderous spear over his head as a
man would poise a reed, and drew the bow as a child would bend a twig.

"Karkapaha is the husband of Tatokah," said Mahtoree, springing to his
feet, and he gave the maiden to her lover.

The traditionary lore of the Mahas is full of the exploits, both in
war and in the chase, of Karkapaha, who was made a man by the Spirits
of the Mountain.




THE WONDERFUL ROD.


The Choctaws had for many years found a home in regions beyond the
Mountains of Snow, far away to the west of the Mississippi. They,
however, decided, for some reason or other, to leave the place in
which they dwelt, and the question then arose in what direction they
should journey. Now, there was a jossakeed (priest) who had a
wonderful rod, and he said that he would lead them.

For many years, therefore, they travelled, being guided by him. He
walked before them bearing the rod, and when night was come he put it
upright in the earth, and the people encamped round it. In the morning
they looked to see in what direction the rod pointed, for each night
the rod left its upright position, and inclined one way or another.
Day after day the rod was found pointing to the east, and thither the
Choctaws accordingly bent their steps.

"You must travel," said the jossakeed, "as long as the rod directs you
pointing to the direction in which you must go, but when the rod
ceases to point, and stands upright, then you must live there."

So the people went on until they came to a hill, where they camped,
having first put up the rod so that it did not lean at all. In the
morning, when they went to see which direction the rod pointed out for
them to take, they found it upright, and from it there grew branches
bearing green leaves. Then they said--

"We will stop here."

So that became the centre of the land of the Choctaws.




THE FUNERAL FIRE.


For several nights after the interment of a Chippewa a fire is kept
burning upon the grave. This fire is lit in the evening, and carefully
supplied with small sticks of dry wood, to keep up a bright but small
fire. It is kept burning for several hours, generally until the usual
hour of retiring to rest, and then suffered to go out. The fire is
renewed for four nights, and sometimes for longer. The person who
performs this pious office is generally a near relative of the
deceased, or one who has been long intimate with him. The following
tale is related as showing the origin of the custom.

A small war party of Chippewas encountered their enemies upon an open
plain, where a severe battle was fought. Their leader was a brave and
distinguished warrior, but he never acted with greater bravery, or
more distinguished himself by personal prowess, than on this occasion.
After turning the tide of battle against his enemies, while shouting
for victory, he received an arrow in his breast, and fell upon the
plain. No warrior thus killed is ever buried, and according to
ancient custom, the chief was placed in a sitting posture upon the
field, his back supported by a tree, and his face turned towards the
direction in which his enemies had fled. His headdress and equipment
were accurately adjusted as if he were living, and his bow leaned
against his shoulder. In this posture his companions left him. That he
was dead appeared evident to all, but a strange thing had happened.
Although deprived of speech and motion, the chief heard distinctly all
that was said by his friends. He heard them lament his death without
having the power to contradict it, and he felt their touch as they
adjusted his posture, without having the power to reciprocate it. His
anguish, when he felt himself thus abandoned, was extreme, and his
wish to follow his friends on their return home so completely filled
his mind, as he saw them one after another take leave of him and
depart, that with a terrible effort he arose and followed them. His
form, however, was invisible to them, and this aroused in him
surprise, disappointment, and rage, which by turns took possession of
him. He followed their track, however, with great diligence. Wherever
they went he went, when they walked he walked, when they ran he ran,
when they encamped he stopped with them, when they slept he slept,
when they awoke he awoke. In short, he mingled in all their labours
and toils, but he was excluded from all their sources of refreshment,
except that of sleeping, and from the pleasures of participating in
their conversation, for all that he said received no notice.

"Is it possible," he cried, "that you do not see me, that you do not
hear me, that you do not understand me? Will you suffer me to bleed to
death without offering to stanch my wounds? Will you permit me to
starve while you eat around me? Have those whom I have so often led to
war so soon forgotten me? Is there no one who recollects me, or who
will offer me a morsel of food in my distress?"

Thus he continued to upbraid his friends at every stage of the
journey, but no one seemed to hear his words. If his voice was heard
at all, it was mistaken for the rustling of the leaves in the wind.

At length the returning party reached their village, and their women
and children came out, according to custom, to welcome their return
and proclaim their praises.

"Kumaudjeewug! Kumaudjeewug! Kumaudjeewug! they have met, fought, and
conquered!" was shouted by every mouth, and the words resounded
through the most distant parts of the village. Those who had lost
friends came eagerly to inquire their fate, and to know whether they
had died like men. The aged father consoled himself for the loss of
his son with the reflection that he had fallen manfully, and the widow
half forgot her sorrow amid the praises that were uttered of the
bravery of her husband. The hearts of the youths glowed with martial
ardour as they heard these flattering praises, and the children joined
in the shouts, of which they scarcely knew the meaning. Amidst all
this uproar and bustle no one seemed conscious of the presence of the
warrior-chief. He heard many inquiries made respecting his fate. He
heard his companions tell how he had fought, conquered, and fallen,
pierced by an arrow through his breast, and how he had been left
behind among the slain on the field of battle.

"It is not true," declared the angry chief, "that I was killed and
left upon the field! I am here. I live; I move; see me; touch me. I
shall again raise my spear in battle, and take my place in the feast."

Nobody, however, seemed conscious of his presence, and his voice was
mistaken for the whispering of the wind.

He now walked to his own lodge, and there he found his wife tearing
her hair and lamenting over his fate. He endeavoured to undeceive her,
but she, like the others, appeared to be insensible of his presence,
and not to hear his voice. She sat in a despairing manner, with her
head reclining on her hands. The chief asked her to bind up his
wounds, but she made no reply. He placed his mouth close to her ear
and shouted--

"I am hungry, give me some food!"

The wife thought she heard a buzzing in her ear, and remarked it to
one who sat by. The enraged husband now summoning all his strength,
struck her a blow on the forehead. His wife raised her hand to her
head, and said to her friend--

"I feel a slight shooting pain in my head."

Foiled thus in every attempt to make himself known, the warrior-chief
began to reflect upon what he had heard in his youth, to the effect
that the spirit was sometimes permitted to leave the body and wander
about. He concluded that possibly his body might have remained upon
the field of battle, while his spirit only accompanied his returning
friends. He determined to return to the field, although it was four
days' journey away. He accordingly set out upon his way. For three
days he pursued his way without meeting anything uncommon; but on the
fourth, towards evening, as he came to the skirts of the battlefield,
he saw a fire in the path before him. He walked to one side to avoid
stepping into it, but the fire also changed its position, and was
still before him. He then went in another direction, but the
mysterious fire still crossed his path, and seemed to bar his entrance
to the scene of the conflict. In short, whichever way he took, the
fire was still before him,--no expedient seemed to avail him.

"Thou demon!" he exclaimed at length, "why dost thou bar my approach
to the field of battle? Knowest thou not that I am a spirit also, and
that I seek again to enter my body? Dost thou presume that I shall
return without effecting my object? Know that I have never been
defeated by the enemies of my nation, and will not be defeated by
thee!"

So saying, he made a sudden effort and jumped through the flame. No
sooner had he done so than he found himself sitting on the ground,
with his back supported by a tree, his bow leaning against his
shoulder, all his warlike dress and arms upon his body, just as they
had been left by his friends on the day of battle. Looking up he
beheld a large canicu, or war eagle, sitting in the tree above his
head. He immediately recognised this bird to be the same as he had
once dreamt of in his youth--the one he had chosen as his guardian
spirit, or personal manito. This eagle had carefully watched his body
and prevented other ravenous birds from touching it.

The chief got up and stood upon his feet, but he felt himself weak and
much exhausted. The blood upon his wound had stanched itself, and he
now bound it up. He possessed a knowledge of such roots as have
healing properties, and these he carefully sought in the woods. Having
found some, he pounded some of them between stones and applied them
externally. Others he chewed and swallowed. In a short time he found
himself so much recovered as to be able to commence his journey, but
he suffered greatly from hunger, not seeing any large animals that he
might kill. However, he succeeded in killing some small birds with his
bow and arrow, and these he roasted before a fire at night.

In this way he sustained himself until he came to a river that
separated his wife and friends from him. He stood upon the bank and
gave that peculiar whoop which is a signal of the return of a friend.
The sound was immediately heard, and a canoe was despatched to bring
him over, and in a short time, amidst the shouts of his friends and
relations, who thronged from every side to see the arrival, the
warrior-chief was landed.

When the first wild bursts of wonder and joy had subsided, and some
degree of quiet had been restored to the village, he related to his
people the account of his adventures. He concluded his narrative by
telling them that it is pleasing to the spirit of a deceased person to
have a fire built upon the grave for four nights after his burial;
that it is four days' journey to the land appointed for the residence
of the spirits; that in its journey thither the spirit stands in need
of a fire every night at the place of its encampment; and that if the
friends kindle this fire upon the spot where the body is laid, the
spirit has the benefit of its light and warmth on its path, while if
the friends neglect to do this, the spirit is subjected to the irksome
task of making its own fire each night.




THE LEGEND OF O-NA-WUT-A-QUT-O.


A long time ago there lived an aged Odjibwa and his wife on the shores
of Lake Huron. They had an only son, a very beautiful boy, named
O-na-wut-a-qut-o, or He that catches the clouds. The family were of
the totem of the beaver. The parents were very proud of their son, and
wished to make him a celebrated man; but when he reached the proper
age he would not submit to the We-koon-de-win, or fast. When this time
arrived they gave him charcoal instead of his breakfast, but he would
not blacken his face. If they denied him food he sought bird's eggs
along the shore, or picked up the heads of fish that had been cast
away, and broiled them. One day they took away violently the food he
had prepared, and cast him some coals in place of it. This act decided
him. He took the coals and blackened his face and went out of the
lodge. He did not return, but lay down without to sleep. As he lay, a
very beautiful girl came down from the clouds and stood by his side.

"O-na-wut-a-qut-o," she said, "I am come for you. Follow in my
footsteps."

The young man rose and did as he was bid. Presently he found himself
ascending above the tops of the trees, and gradually he mounted up
step by step into the air, and through the clouds. At length his guide
led him through an opening, and he found himself standing with her on
a beautiful plain.

A path led to a splendid lodge, into which O-na-wut-a-qut-o followed
his guide. It was large, and divided into two parts. At one end he saw
bows and arrows, clubs and spears, and various warlike instruments
tipped with silver. At the other end were things exclusively belonging
to women. This was the house of his fair guide, and he saw that she
had on a frame a broad rich belt of many colours that she was weaving.

"My brother is coming," she said, "and I must hide you."

Putting him in one corner she spread the belt over him, and presently
the brother came in very richly dressed, and shining as if he had
points of silver all over him. He took down from the wall a splendid
pipe, and a bag in which was a-pa-ko-ze-gun, or smoking mixture. When
he had finished smoking, he laid his pipe aside, and said to his
sister--

"Nemissa," (elder sister) "when will you quit these practices? Do you
forget that the greatest of the spirits has commanded that you shall
not take away the children from below? Perhaps you think you have
concealed O-na-wut-a-qut-o, but do I not know of his coming? If you
would not offend me, send him back at once."

These words did not, however, alter his sister's purpose. She would
not send him back, and her brother, finding that she was determined,
called O-na-wut-a-qut-o from his hiding-place.

"Come out of your concealment," said he, "and walk about and amuse
yourself. You will grow hungry if you remain there."

At these words O-na-wut-a-qut-o came forth from under the belt, and
the brother presented a bow and arrows, with a pipe of red stone,
richly ornamented, to him. In this way he gave his consent to
O-na-wut-a-qut-o's marriage with his sister, and from that time the
youth and the girl became husband and wife.

O-na-wut-a-qut-o found everything exceedingly fair and beautiful
around him, but he found no other people besides his wife and her
brother. There were flowers on the plains, there were bright and
sparkling streams, there were green valleys and pleasant trees, there
were gay birds and beautiful animals, very different from those he had
been accustomed to. There was also day and night as on the earth, but
he observed that every morning the brother regularly left the lodge
and remained absent all day, and every evening his sister departed,
but generally for only a part of the night.

O-na-wut-a-qut-o was curious to solve this mystery, and obtained the
brother's consent to accompany him in one of his daily journeys. They
travelled over a smooth plain which seemed to stretch to illimitable
distances all around. At length O-na-wut-a-qut-o felt the gnawings of
hunger and asked his companion if there was no game about.

"Patience, my brother," replied he; "we shall soon reach the spot
where I eat my dinner, and you will then see how I am provided."

After walking on a long time they came to a place where several fine
mats were spread, and there they sat down to refresh themselves. At
this place there was a hole in the sky and O-na-wut-a-qut-o, at his
companion's request, looked through it down upon the earth. He saw
below the great lakes and the villages of the Indians. In one place he
saw a war-party stealing on the camp of their enemies. In another he
saw feasting and dancing. On a green plain some young men were playing
at ball, and along the banks of a stream were women employed in
gathering the a-puk-wa for mats.

"Do you see," asked the brother, "that group of children playing
beside a lodge? Observe that beautiful and active lad," said he, at
the same time darting something from his hand. The child immediately
fell on the ground, and was carried by his companions into the lodge.

O-na-wut-a-qut-o and his companion watched and saw the people below
gathering about the lodge. They listened to the she-she-gwau of the
meeta, to the song he sang asking that the child's life might be
spared. To this request O-na-wut-a-qut-o's companion made answer--

"Send me up the sacrifice of a white dog."

A feast was immediately ordered by the parents of the child. The
white dog was killed, his carcass was roasted, all the wise men and
medicine-men of the village assembling to witness the ceremony.

"There are many below," said O-na-wut-a-qut-o's companion, "whom you
call great in medical skill. They are so, because their ears are open;
and they are able to succeed, because when I call they hear my voice.
When I have struck one with sickness they direct the people to look to
me, and when they make me the offering I ask, I remove my hand from
off the sick person and he becomes well."

While he was saying this, the feast below had been served. Then the
master of the feast said--

"We send this to thee, Great Manito," and immediately the roasted
animal came up. Thus O-na-wut-a-qut-o and his companion got their
dinner, and after they had eaten they returned to the lodge by a
different path.

In this manner they lived for some time, but at last the youth got
weary of the life. He thought of his friends, and wished to go back to
them. He could not forget his native village and his father's lodge,
and he asked his wife's permission to return. After some persuasion
she consented.

"Since you are better pleased," she said, "with the cares and ills and
poverty of the world, than with the peaceful delights of the sky and
its boundless prairies, go. I give you my permission, and since I have
brought you hither I will conduct you back. Remember, however, that
you are still my husband. I hold a chain in my hand by which I can,
whenever I will, draw you back to me. My power over you will be in no
way diminished. Beware, therefore, how you venture to take a wife
among the people below. Should you ever do so, you will feel what a
grievous thing it is to arouse my anger."

As she uttered these words her eyes sparkled, and she drew herself up
with a majestic air. In the same moment O-na-wut-a-qut-o awoke. He
found himself on the ground near his father's lodge, on the very spot
where he had thrown himself down to sleep. Instead of the brighter
beings of a higher world, he found around him his parents and their
friends. His mother told him that he had been absent a year. For some
time O-na-wut-a-qut-o remained gloomy and silent, but by degrees he
recovered his spirits, and he began to doubt the reality of all he had
seen and heard above. At last he even ventured to marry a beautiful
girl of his own tribe. But within four days she died. Still he was
forgetful of his first wife's command, and he married again. Then one
night he left his lodge, to which he never returned. His wife, it is
believed, recalled him to the sky, where he still dwells, walking the
vast plains.




MANABOZHO IN THE FISH'S STOMACH.


One day Manabozho said to his grandmother--

"Noko, get cedar bark and make me a line whilst I make a canoe."

When all was ready he went out to the middle of the lake a-fishing.

"Me-she-nah-ma-gwai (king-fish)," said he, letting down his line,
"take hold of my bait."

He kept repeating these words some time; at last the king-fish said--

"What a trouble Manabozho is! Here, trout, take hold of his line."

The trout did as he was bid, and Manabozho drew up his line, the
trout's weight being so great that the canoe was nearly overturned.
Till he saw the trout Manabozho kept crying out--

"Wha-ee-he! wha-ee-he!"

As soon as he saw him he said--

"Why did you take hold of my hook? Esa, esa! shame, shame! you ugly
fish."

The trout, being thus rebuked, let go.

Manabozho let down his line again into the water, saying--

"King-fish, take hold of my line."

"What a trouble Manabozho is!" cried the king-fish. "Sun-fish, take
hold of his line."

The sun-fish did as he was bid, and Manabozho drew him up, crying as
he did so--

"Wha-ee-he! wha-ee-he!" while the canoe turned in swift circles.

When he saw the sun-fish, he cried--

"Esa, esa! you odious fish! why did you dirty my hook by taking it in
your mouth? Let go, I say, let go."

The sun-fish did as he was bid, and on his return to the bottom of the
lake told the king-fish what Manabozho had said. Just then the bait
was let down again near to the king, and Manabozho was heard crying
out--

"Me-she-nah-ma-gwai, take hold of my hook."

The king-fish did so, and allowed himself to be dragged to the
surface, which he had no sooner reached than he swallowed Manabozho
and his canoe at one gulp. When Manabozho came to himself he found he
was in his canoe in the fish's stomach. He now began to think how he
should escape. Looking about him, he saw his war-club in his canoe,
and with it he immediately struck the heart of the fish. Then he felt
as though the fish was moving with great velocity. The king-fish
observed to his friends--

"I feel very unwell for having swallowed that nasty fellow Manabozho."

At that moment he received another more severe blow on the heart.
Manabozho thought, "If I am thrown up in the middle of the lake I
shall be drowned, so I must prevent it." So he drew his canoe and
placed it across the fish's throat, and just as he had finished doing
this the king-fish tried to cast him out.

Manabozho now found that he had a companion with him. This was a
squirrel that had been in his canoe. The squirrel helped him to place
the canoe in the proper position, and Manabozho, being grateful to it,
said--

"For the future you shall be called Ajidanneo (animal tail)."

Then he recommenced his attack on the king-fish's heart, and by
repeated blows he at last succeeded in killing him. He could tell that
he had effected this by the stoppage of the fish's motion, and he
could also hear the body beating against the shore. Manabozho waited a
day to see what would happen. Then he heard birds scratching on the
body, and all at once the rays of light broke in. He could now see the
heads of the gulls, which were looking in at the opening they had
made.

"Oh!" cried Manabozho, "my younger brothers, make the opening larger,
so that I can get out." The gulls then told one another that Manabozho
was inside the fish, and, setting to work at once to enlarge the hole,
they, in a short time, set him free. After he got out Manabozho said
to the gulls--

"For the future you shall be called Kayoshk (noble scratchers), for
your kindness to me."




THE SUN AND THE MOON.


There were once ten brothers who hunted together, and at night they
occupied the same lodge. One day, after they had been hunting, coming
home they found sitting inside the lodge near the door a beautiful
woman. She appeared to be a stranger, and was so lovely that all the
hunters loved her, and as she could only be the wife of one, they
agreed that he should have her who was most successful in the next
day's hunt. Accordingly, the next day, they each took different ways,
and hunted till the sun went down, when they met at the lodge. Nine of
the hunters had found nothing, but the youngest brought home a deer,
so the woman was given to him for his wife.

The hunter had not been married more than a year when he was seized
with sickness and died. Then the next brother took the girl for his
wife. Shortly after he died also, and the woman married the next
brother. In a short time all the brothers died save the eldest, and he
married the girl. She did not, however, love him, for he was of a
churlish disposition, and one day it came into the woman's head that
she would leave him and see what fortune she would meet with in the
world. So she went, taking only a dog with her, and travelled all day.
She went on and on, but towards evening she heard some one coming
after her who, she imagined, must be her husband. In great fear she
knew not which way to turn, when she perceived a hole in the ground
before her. There she thought she might hide herself, and entering it
with her dog she suddenly found herself going lower and lower, until
she passed through the earth and came up on the other side. Near to
her there was a lake, and a man fishing in it.

"My grandfather," cried the woman, "I am pursued by a spirit."

"Leave me," cried Manabozho, for it was he, "leave me. Let me be
quiet."

The woman still begged him to protect her, and Manabozho at length
said--

"Go that way, and you shall be safe."

Hardly had she disappeared when the husband, who had discovered the
hole by which his wife had descended, came on the scene.

"Tell me," said he to Manabozho, "where has the woman gone?"

"Leave me," cried Manabozho, "don't trouble me."

"Tell me," said the man, "where is the woman?" Manabozho was silent,
and the husband, at last getting angry, abused him with all his might.

"The woman went that way," said Manabozho at last. "Run after her, but
you shall never catch her, and you shall be called Gizhigooke (day
sun), and the woman shall be called Tibikgizis (night sun)."

So the man went on running after his wife to the west, but he has
never caught her, and he pursues her to this day.




THE SNAIL AND THE BEAVER.


The father of the Osage nation was a snail. It was when the earth was
young and little. It was before the rivers had become wide or long, or
the mountains lifted their peaks above the clouds, that the snail
found himself passing a quiet existence on the banks of the River
Missouri. His wants and wishes were but few, and well supplied, and he
was happy.

At length the region of the Missouri was visited by one of those great
storms which so often scatter desolation over it, and the river,
swollen by the melted snow and ice from the mountains, swept away
everything from its banks, and among other things the drowsy snail.
Upon a log he drifted down many a day's journey, till the river,
subsiding, left him and his log upon the banks of the River of Fish.
He was left in the slime, and the hot sun beamed fiercely upon him
till he became baked to the earth and found himself incapable of
moving. Gradually he grew in size and stature, and his form
experienced a new change, till at length what was once a snail
creeping on the earth ripened into man, erect, tall, and stately. For
a long time after his change to a human being he remained stupefied,
not knowing what he was or by what means to sustain life. At length
recollection returned to him. He remembered that he was once a snail
and dwelt upon another river. He became animated with a wish to return
to his old haunts, and accordingly directed his steps towards those
parts from which he had been removed. Hunger now began to prey upon
him, and bade fair to close his eyes before he should again behold his
beloved haunts on the banks of the river. The beasts of the forest
were many, but their speed outstripped his. The birds of the air
fluttered upon sprays beyond his reach, and the fish gliding through
the waves at his feet were nimbler than he and eluded his grasp. Each
moment he grew weaker, the films gathered before his eyes, and in his
ears there rang sounds like the whistling of winds through the woods
in the month before the snows. At length, wearied and exhausted, he
laid himself down upon a grassy bank.

As he lay the Great Spirit appeared to him and asked--

"Why does he who is the kernel of the snail look terrified, and why is
he faint and weary?"

"That I tremble," answered he, "is because I fear thy power. That I
faint is because I lack food."

"As regards thy trembling," answered the Great Spirit, "be composed.
Art thou hungry?"

"I have eaten nothing," replied the man, "since I ceased to be a
snail."

Upon hearing this the Great Spirit drew from under his robe a bow and
arrow, and bade the man observe what he did with it. On the topmost
bough of a lofty tree sat a beautiful bird, singing and fluttering
among the red leaves. He placed an arrow on the bow, and, letting fly,
the bird fell down upon the earth. A deer was seen afar off browsing.
Again the archer bent his bow and the animal lay dead, food for the
son of the snail.

"There are victuals for you," said the Spirit, "enough to last you
till your strength enables you to beat up the haunts of the deer and
the moose, and here is the bow and arrow."

The Great Spirit also taught the man how to skin the deer, and clothed
him with the skin. Having done this, and having given the beasts,
fishes, and all feathered creatures to him for his food and raiment,
he bade the man farewell and took his departure.

Strengthened and invigorated, the man pursued his journey towards the
old spot. He soon stood upon the banks of his beloved river. A few
more suns and he would sit down upon the very spot where for so many
seasons he had crawled on the slimy leaf, so often dragged himself
lazily over the muddy pool. He had seated himself upon the bank of the
river, and was meditating deeply on these things, when up crept from
the water a beaver, who, addressing him, said in an angry tone--

"Who are you?"

"I am a snail," replied the Snail-Man. "Who are you?"

"I am head warrior of the nation of beavers," answered the other. "By
what authority have you come to disturb my possession of this river,
which is my dominion?"

"It is not your river," replied the Wasbasha. "The Great Being, who is
over man and beast, has given it to me."

The beaver was at first incredulous; but at length, convinced that
what the man said was true, he invited him to accompany him to his
home. The man agreed, and went with him till they came to a number of
small cabins, into the largest of which the beaver conducted him. He
invited the man to take food with him, and while the beaver's wife and
daughter were preparing the feast, he entertained his guest with an
account of his people's habits of life. Soon the wife and daughter
made their appearance with the food, and sitting down the Snail-Man
was soon at his ease amongst them. He was not, however, so occupied
with the banquet that he had not time to be enchanted with the beauty
of the beaver's daughter; and when the visit was drawing to a close,
so much was he in love, that he asked the beaver to give her to him
for his wife. The beaver-chief consented, and the marriage was
celebrated by a feast, to which all the beavers, and the animals with
whom they had friendly relations, were invited. From this union of the
Snail-Man and the Beaver-Maid sprang the tribe of the Osages,--at
least so it is related by the old men of the tribe.




THE STRANGE GUESTS.


Many years ago there lived, near the borders of Lake Superior, a noted
hunter, who had a wife and one child. His lodge stood in a remote part
of the forest, several days' journey from that of any other person. He
spent his days in hunting, and his evenings in relating to his wife
the incidents that had befallen him in the chase. As game was very
abundant, he seldom failed to bring home in the evening an ample store
of meat to last them until the succeeding evening; and while they were
seated by the fire in his lodge partaking the fruits of his day's
labour, he entertained his wife with conversation, or by occasionally
relating those tales, or enforcing those precepts, which every good
Indian esteems necessary for the instruction of his wife and children.
Thus, far removed from all sources of disquiet, surrounded by all they
deemed necessary to their comfort, and happy in one another's society,
their lives passed away in cheerful solitude and sweet contentment.
The breast of the hunter had never felt the compunctions of remorse,
for he was a just man in all his dealings. He had never violated the
laws of his tribe by encroaching upon the hunting-grounds of his
neighbours, by taking that which did not belong to him, or by any act
calculated to displease the village chiefs or offend the Great Spirit.
His chief ambition was to support his family with a sufficiency of
food and skins by his own unaided exertions, and to share their
happiness around his cheerful fire at night. The white man had not yet
taught them that blankets and clothes were necessary to their comfort,
or that guns could be used in the killing of game.

The life of the Chippewa hunter peacefully glided away.

One evening during the winter season, it chanced that he remained out
later than usual, and his wife sat lonely in the lodge, and began to
be agitated with fears lest some accident had befallen him. Darkness
had already fallen. She listened attentively to hear the sound of
coming footsteps; but nothing could be heard but the wind mournfully
whistling around the sides of the lodge. Time passed away while she
remained in this state of suspense, every moment augmenting her fears
and adding to her disappointment.

Suddenly she heard the sound of approaching footsteps upon the frozen
surface of the snow. Not doubting that it was her husband, she quickly
unfastened the loop which held, by an inner fastening, the skin door
of the lodge, and throwing it open she saw two strange women standing
before it. Courtesy left the hunter's wife no time for deliberation.
She invited the strangers to enter and warm themselves, thinking, from
the distance to the nearest neighbours, they must have walked a
considerable way. When they were entered she invited them to remain.
They seemed to be total strangers to that part of the country, and the
more closely she observed them the more curious the hunter's wife
became respecting her guests.

No efforts could induce them to come near the fire. They took their
seats in a remote part of the lodge, and drew their garments about
them in such a manner as to almost completely hide their faces. They
seemed shy and reserved, and when a glimpse could be had of their
faces they appeared pale, even of a deathly hue. Their eyes were
bright but sunken: their cheek-bones were prominent, and their persons
slender and emaciated.

Seeing that her guests avoided conversation as well as observation,
the woman forbore to question them, and sat in silence until her
husband entered. He had been led further than usual in the pursuit of
game, but had returned with the carcass of a large and fat deer. The
moment he entered the lodge, the mysterious women exclaimed--

"Behold! what a fine and fat animal!" and they immediately ran and
pulled off pieces of the whitest fat, which they ate with avidity.

Such conduct appeared very strange to the hunter, but supposing the
strangers had been a long time without food, he made no remark; and
his wife, taking example from her husband, likewise restrained
herself.

On the following evening the same scene was repeated. The hunter
brought home the best portions of the game he had killed, and while he
was laying it down before his wife, according to custom, the two
strange women came quickly up, tore off large pieces of fat, and ate
them with greediness. Such behaviour might well have aroused the
hunter's displeasure; but the deference due to strange guests induced
him to pass it over in silence.

Observing the parts to which the strangers were most partial, the
hunter resolved the next day to anticipate their wants by cutting off
and tying up a portion of the fat for each. This he did: and having
placed the two portions of fat upon the top of his burden, as soon as
he entered the lodge he gave to each stranger the part that was hers.
Still the guests appeared to be dissatisfied, and took more from the
carcass lying before the wife.

Except for this remarkable behaviour, the conduct of the guests was
unexceptionable, although marked by some peculiarities. They were
quiet, modest, and discreet. They maintained a cautious silence during
the day, neither uttering a word nor moving from the lodge. At night
they would get up, and, taking those implements which were then used
in breaking and preparing wood, repair to the forest. Here they would
busy themselves in seeking dry branches and pieces of trees blown down
by the wind. When a sufficient quantity had been gathered to last
until the succeeding night they carried it home upon their shoulders.
Then carefully putting everything in its place within the lodge, they
resumed their seats and their studied silence. They were always
careful to return from their labours before the dawn of day, and were
never known to stay out beyond that hour. In this manner they repaid,
in some measure, the kindness of the hunter, and relieved his wife
from one of her most laborious duties.

Thus nearly the whole year passed away, every day leading to some new
development of character which served to endear the parties to each
other. The visitors began to assume a more hale and healthy aspect;
their faces daily lost something of that deathly hue which had at
first marked them, and they visibly improved in strength, and threw
off some of that cold reserve and forbidding austerity which had kept
the hunter so long in ignorance of their true character.

One evening the hunter returned very late after having spent the day
in toilsome exertion, and having laid the produce of his hunt at his
wife's feet, the silent women seized it and began to tear off the fat
in such an unceremonious manner that the wife could no longer control
her feelings of disgust, and said to herself--

"This is really too bad. How can I bear it any longer!"

She did not, however, put her thought into words, but an immediate
change was observed in the two visitors. They became unusually
reserved, and showed evident signs of being uneasy in their situation.
The good hunter immediately perceived this change, and, fearful that
they had taken offence, as soon as they had retired demanded of his
wife whether any harsh expression had escaped her lips during the day.
She replied that she had uttered nothing to give the least offence.
The hunter tried to compose himself to sleep, but he felt restive and
uneasy, for he could hear the sighs and lamentations of the two
strangers. Every moment added to his conviction that his guests had
taken some deep offence; and, as he could not banish this idea from
his mind, he arose, and, going to the strangers, thus addressed them--

"Tell me, ye women, what is it that causes you pain of mind, and makes
you utter these unceasing sighs? Has my wife given you any cause of
offence during the day while I was absent in the chase? My fears
persuade me that, in some unguarded moment, she has forgotten what is
due to the rights of hospitality, and used expressions ill-befitting
the mysterious character you sustain. Tell me, ye strangers from a
strange country, ye women who appear not to be of this world, what it
is that causes you pain of mind, and makes you utter these unceasing
sighs."

They replied that no unkind expression had ever been used towards them
during their residence in the lodge, that they had received all the
affectionate attention they could reasonably expect.

"It is not for ourselves," they continued, "it is not for ourselves
that we weep. We are weeping for the fate of mankind; we are weeping
for the fate of mortals whom Death awaits at every stage of their
existence. Proud mortals, whom disease attacks in youth and in age.
Vain men, whom hunger pinches, cold benumbs, and poverty emaciates.
Weak beings, who are born in tears, who are nurtured in tears, and
whose whole course is marked upon the thirsty sands of life in a broad
line of tears. It is for these we weep.

"You have spoken truly, brother; we are not of this world. We are
spirits from the land of the dead, sent upon the earth to try the
sincerity of the living. It is not for the dead but for the living
that we mourn. It was by no means necessary that your wife should
express her thoughts to us. We knew them as soon as they were formed.
We saw that for once displeasure had arisen in her heart. It is
enough. Our mission is ended. We came but to try you, and we knew
before we came that you were a kind husband, an affectionate father,
and a good friend. Still, you have the weaknesses of a mortal, and
your wife is wanting in our eyes; but it is not alone for you we weep,
it is for the fate of mankind.

"Often, very often, has the widower exclaimed, 'O Death, how cruel,
how relentless thou art to take away my beloved friend in the spring
of her youth, in the pride of her strength, and in the bloom of her
beauty! If thou wilt permit her once more to return to my abode, my
gratitude shall never cease; I will raise up my voice continually to
thank the Master of Life for so excellent a boon. I will devote my
time to study how I can best promote her happiness while she is
permitted to remain; and our lives shall roll away like a pleasant
stream through a flowing valley!' Thus also has the father prayed for
his son, the mother for her daughter, the wife for her husband, the
sister for her brother, the lover for his mistress, the friend for his
bosom companion, until the sounds of mourning and the cries of the
living have pierced the very recesses of the dead.

"The Great Spirit has at length consented to make a trial of the
sincerity of these prayers by sending us upon the earth. He has done
this to see how we should be received,--coming as strangers, no one
knowing from where. Three moons were allotted to us to make the trial,
and if, during that time, no impatience had been evinced, no angry
passions excited at the place where we took up our abode, all those in
the land of spirits, whom their relatives had desired to return, would
have been restored. More than two moons have already passed, and as
soon as the leaves began to bud our mission would have been
successfully terminated. It is now too late. Our trial is finished,
and we are called to the pleasant fields whence we came.

"Brother, it is proper that one man should die to make room for
another. Otherwise, the world would be filled to overflowing. It is
just that the goods gathered by one should be left to be divided
among others; for in the land of spirits there is no want, there is
neither sorrow nor hunger, pain nor death. Pleasant fields, filled
with game spread before the eye, with birds of beautiful form. Every
stream has good fish in it, and every hill is crowned with groves of
fruit-trees, sweet and pleasant to the taste. It is not here, brother,
but there that men begin truly to live. It is not for those who
rejoice in those pleasant groves but for you that are left behind that
we weep.

"Brother, take our thanks for your hospitable treatment. Regret not
our departure. Fear not evil. Thy luck shall still be good in the
chase, and there shall ever be a bright sky over thy lodge. Mourn not
for us, for no corn will spring up from tears."

The spirits ceased, but the hunter had no power over his voice to
reply. As they had proceeded in their address he saw a light gradually
beaming from their faces, and a blue vapour filled the lodge with an
unnatural light. As soon as they ceased, darkness gradually closed
around. The hunter listened, but the sobs of the spirits had ceased.
He heard the door of his tent open and shut, but he never saw more of
his mysterious visitors.

The success promised him was his. He became a celebrated hunter, and
never wanted for anything necessary to his ease. He became the father
of many boys, all of whom grew up to manhood, and health, peace, and
long life were the rewards of his hospitality.




MANABOZHO AND HIS TOE.


Manabozho was so powerful that he began to think there was nothing he
could not do. Very wonderful were many of his feats, and he grew more
conceited day by day. Now it chanced that one day he was walking about
amusing himself by exercising his extraordinary powers, and at length
he came to an encampment where one of the first things he noticed was
a child lying in the sunshine, curled up with its toe in its mouth.

Manabozho looked at the child for some time, and wondered at its
extraordinary posture.

"I have never seen a child before lie like that," said he to himself,
"but I could lie like it."

So saying, he put himself down beside the child, and, taking his right
foot in his hand, drew it towards his mouth. When he had brought it as
near as he could it was yet a considerable distance away from his
lips.

"I will try the left foot," said Manabozho. He did so and found that
he was no better off, neither of his feet could he get to his mouth.
He curled and twisted, and bent his large limbs, and gnashed his
teeth in rage to find that he could not get his toe to his mouth. All,
however, was vain.

At length he rose, worn out with his exertions and passion, and walked
slowly away in a very ill humour, which was not lessened by the sound
of the child's laughter, for Manabozho's efforts had awakened it.

"Ah, ah!" said Manabozho, "shall I be mocked by a child?"

He did not, however, revenge himself on his victor, but on his way
homeward, meeting a boy who did not treat him with proper respect, he
transformed him into a cedar-tree.

"At least," said Manabozho, "I can do something."




THE GIRL WHO BECAME A BIRD.


The father of Ran-che-wai-me, the flying pigeon of the Wisconsin,
would not hear of her wedding Wai-o-naisa, the young chief who had
long sought her in marriage. The maiden, however, true to her plighted
faith, still continued to meet him every evening upon one of the
tufted islets which stud the river in great profusion. Nightly,
through the long months of summer, did the lovers keep their tryst,
parting only after each meeting more and more endeared to each other.

At length Wai-o-naisa was ordered off upon a secret expedition against
the Sioux, and so sudden was his departure that he had no opportunity
of bidding farewell to his betrothed. The band of warriors to which he
was attached was a long while absent, and one day there came the news
that Wai-o-naisa had fallen in a fight with the Menomones.

Ran-che-wai-me was inconsolable, but she dared not show her grief
before her parents, and the only relief she could find from her sorrow
was to swim over by starlight to the island where she had been
accustomed to meet her lover, and there, calling upon his name,
bewail the loss of him who was dearer to her than all else.

One night, while she was engaged in this lamentation, the sound of her
voice attracted some of her father's people to the spot. Startled by
their appearance the girl tried to climb a tree, in order to hide
herself in its branches, but her frame was bowed with sorrow and her
weak limbs refused to aid her.

"Wai-o-naisa!" she cried, "Wai-o-naisa!"

At each repetition of his name her voice became shriller, while, as
she endeavoured to screen herself in the underwood, a soft plumage
began to cover her delicate limbs, which were wounded by the briers.
She tossed her arms to the sky in her distress and they became clothed
with feathers. At length, when her pursuers were close upon her, a
bird arose from the bush they had surrounded, and flitting from tree
to tree, it fled before them, ever crying--

"Wai-o-naisa! Wai-o-naisa!"




THE UNDYING HEAD.


In a remote part of the north lived a man and his only sister who had
never seen human being. Seldom, if ever, had the man any cause to go
from home, for if he wanted food he had only to go a little distance
from the lodge, and there place his arrows with their barbs in the
ground. He would then return to the lodge and tell his sister where
the arrows had been placed, when she would go in search of them, and
never fail to find each struck through the heart of a deer. These she
dragged to the lodge and dressed for food. Thus she lived until she
attained womanhood. One day her brother, who was named Iamo, said to
her--

"Sister, the time is near when you will be ill. Listen to my advice,
for if you do not it will probably be the cause of my death. Take the
implements with which we kindle our fires, go some distance from our
lodge and build a separate fire. When you are in want of food I will
tell you where to find it. You must cook for yourself and I for
myself. When you are ill do not attempt to come near the lodge or
bring to it any of the utensils you use. Be sure to always have
fastened to your belt whatever you will need in your sickness, for
you do not know when the time of your indisposition will come. As for
myself, I must do the best I can." His sister promised to obey him in
all he said.

Shortly after her brother had cause to go from home. His sister was
alone in the lodge combing her hair, and she had just untied and laid
aside the belt to which the implements were fastened when suddenly she
felt unwell. She ran out of the lodge, but in her haste forgot the
belt. Afraid to return she stood some time thinking, and finally she
determined to return to the lodge and get it, for she said to
herself--

"My brother is not at home, and I will stay but a moment to catch hold
of it."

She went back, and, running in, suddenly seized the belt, and was
coming out, when her brother met her. He knew what had happened.

"Did I not tell you," said he, "to take care? Now you have killed me."

His sister would have gone away, but he spoke to her again.

"What can you do now? What I feared has happened. Go in, and stay
where you have always lived. You have killed me."

He then laid aside his hunting dress and accoutrements, and soon after
both his feet began to inflame and turn black, so that he could not
move. He directed his sister where to place his arrows, so that she
might always have food. The inflammation continued to increase, and
had now reached his first rib.

"Sister," said he, "my end is near. You must do as I tell you. You
see my medicine-sack and my war-club tied to it. It contains all my
medicines, my war-plumes, and my paints of all colours. As soon as the
inflammation reaches my chest, you will take my war-club, and with the
sharp point of it cut off my head. When it is free from my body, take
it, place its neck in the sack, which you must open at one end. Then
hang it up in its former place. Do not forget my bow and arrows. One
of the last you will take to procure food. Tie the others to my sack,
and then hang it up so that I can look towards the door. Now and then
I will speak to you, but not often."

His sister again promised to obey.

In a little time his chest became affected.

"Now," cried he, "take the club and strike off my head."

His sister was afraid, but he told her to muster up courage.

"Strike," said he, with a smile upon his face.

Calling up all her courage, his sister struck and cut off the head.

"Now," said the head, "place me where I told you."

Fearful, she obeyed it in all its commands.

Retaining its animation, it looked round the lodge as usual, and it
would command its sister to go to such places where it thought she
could best procure the flesh of the different animals she needed. One
day the head said--

"The time is not distant when I shall be freed from this situation,
but I shall have to undergo many sore evils. So the Superior Manito
decrees, and I must bear all patiently."

In a certain part of the country was a village inhabited by a numerous
and warlike band of Indians. In this village was a family of ten young
men, brothers. In the spring of the year the youngest of these
blackened his face and fasted. His dreams were propitious, and having
ended his fast, he sent secretly for his brothers at night, so that
the people in the village should not be aware of their meeting. He
told them how favourable his dreams had been, and that he had called
them together to ask them if they would accompany him in a war
excursion. They all answered they would. The third son, noted for his
oddities, swinging his war-club when his brother had ceased speaking,
jumped up: "Yes," said he, "I will go, and this will be the way I will
treat those we go to fight with." With those words he struck the post
in the centre of the lodge, and gave a yell. The other brothers spoke
to him, saying--

"Gently, gently, Mudjikewis, when you are in other people's lodges."
So he sat down. Then, in turn, they took the drum, sang their songs,
and closed the meeting with a feast. The youngest told them not to
whisper their intention to their wives, but to prepare secretly for
their journey. They all promised obedience, and Mudjikewis was the
first to do so.

The time for departure drew near. The youngest gave the word for them
to assemble on a certain night, when they would commence their
journey. Mudjikewis was loud in his demands for his moccasins, and his
wife several times demanded the reason of his impatience.

"Besides," said she, "you have a good pair on."

"Quick, quick," replied Mudjikewis; "since you must know, we are going
on a war excursion."

Thus he revealed the secret.

That night they met and started. The snow was on the ground, and they
travelled all night lest others should follow them. When it was
daylight, the leader took snow, made a ball of it, and tossing it up
in the air, said--

"It was in this way I saw snow fall in my dream, so that we could not
be tracked."

Immediately snow began to fall in large flakes, so that the leader
commanded the brothers to keep close together for fear of losing one
another. Close as they walked together it was with difficulty they
could see one another. The snow continued falling all that day and the
next night, so that it was impossible for any one to follow their
track.

They walked for several days, and Mudjikewis was always in the rear.
One day, running suddenly forward, he gave the Saw-saw-quan (war-cry),
and struck a tree with his war-club, breaking the tree in pieces as if
it had been struck by lightning.

"Brothers," said he, "this is the way I will serve those we are going
to fight."

The leader answered--

"Slowly, slowly, Mudjikewis. The one I lead you to is not to be
thought of so lightly."

Again Mudjikewis fell back and thought to himself--

"What, what! Who can this be he is leading us to?"

He felt fearful, and was silent. Day after day they travelled on till
they came to an extensive plain, on the borders of which human bones
were bleaching in the sun. The leader said--

"These are the bones of those who have gone before us. None has ever
yet returned to tell the sad tale of their fate."

Again Mudjikewis became restless, and, running forward, gave the
accustomed yell. Advancing to a large rock which stood above the
ground he struck it, and it fell to pieces.

"See, brothers," said he, "thus will I treat those we are going to
fight."

"Be quiet," said the leader. "He to whom I am leading you is not to be
compared to that rock."

Mudjikewis fell back quite thoughtful, saying to himself--

"I wonder who this can be that he is going to attack;" and he was
afraid.

They continued to see the remains of former warriors who had been to
the place to which they were now going, and had retreated thus far
back again. At last they came to a piece of rising ground, from which
they plainly saw on a distant mountain an enormous bear. The distance
between them was very great, but the size of the animal caused it to
be seen very clearly.

"There," said the leader; "it is to him I am leading you. Here our
troubles will only commence, for he is a mishemokwa" (a she-bear, or a
male-bear as ferocious as a she-bear) "and a manito. It is he who has
what we prize so dearly, to obtain which the warriors whose bones we
saw sacrificed their lives. You must not be fearful. Be manly; we
shall find him asleep."

The warriors advanced boldly till they came near to the bear, when
they stopped to look at it more closely. It was asleep, and there was
a belt around its neck.

"This," said the leader, touching the belt, "is what we must get. It
contains what we want."

The eldest brother then tried to slip the belt over the bear's head,
the animal appearing to be fast asleep, and not at all disturbed by
his efforts. He could not, however, remove the belt, nor was any of
the brothers more successful till the one next to the youngest tried
in his turn. He slipped the belt nearly over the beast's head, but
could not get it quite off. Then the youngest laid his hands on it,
and with a pull succeeded. Placing the belt on the eldest brother's
back, he said--

"Now we must run," and they started off at their best pace. When one
became tired with the weight of the belt another carried it. Thus they
ran till they had passed the bones of all the warriors, and when they
were some distance beyond, looking back, they saw the monster slowly
rising. For some time it stood still, not missing the belt. Then they
heard a tremendous howl, like distant thunder, slowly filling the
sky. At last they heard the bear cry--

"Who can it be that has dared to steal my belt? Earth is not so large
but I can find them," and it descended the hill in pursuit. With every
jump of the bear the earth shook as if it were convulsed. Very soon it
approached the party. They, however, kept the belt, exchanging it from
one to another, and encouraging each other. The bear, however, gained
on them fast.

"Brothers," said the leader, "have none of you, when fasting, ever
dreamed of some friendly spirit who would aid you as a guardian?"

A dead silence followed.

"Well," continued he, "once when I was fasting I dreamed of being in
danger of instant death, when I saw a small lodge, with smoke curling
up from its top. An old man lived in it, and I dreamed that he helped
me, and may my dream be verified soon."

Having said this, he ran forward and gave a yell and howl. They came
upon a piece of rising ground, and, behold! a lodge with smoke curling
from its top appeared before them. This gave them all new strength,
and they ran forward and entered the lodge. In it they found an old
man, to whom the leader said--

"Nemesho (my grandfather), help us. We ask your protection, for the
great bear would kill us."

"Sit down and eat, my grandchildren," said the old man. "Who is a
great manito? There is none but me; but let me look;" and he opened
the door of the lodge, and saw at a little distance the enraged bear
coming on with slow but great leaps. The old man closed the door.

"Yes," said he; "he is indeed a great manito. My grandchildren, you
will be the cause of my losing my life. You asked my protection, and I
granted it; so now, come what may, I will protect you. When the bear
arrives at the door you must run out at the other end of the lodge."

Putting his hand to the side of the lodge where he sat, he took down a
bag, and, opening it, took out of it two small black dogs, which he
placed before him.

"These are the ones I use when I fight," said he, and he commenced
patting with both hands the sides of one of the dogs, which at once
commenced to swell out until it filled the lodge, and it had great
strong teeth. When the dog had attained its full size it growled, and,
springing out at the door, met the bear, which, in another leap, would
have reached the lodge. A terrible combat ensued. The sky rang with
the howls of the monsters. In a little while the second dog took the
field. At the commencement of the battle the brothers, acting on the
advice of the old man, escaped through the opposite side of the lodge.
They had not proceeded far in their flight before they heard the
death-cry of one of the dogs, and soon after that of the other.

"Well," said the leader, "the old man will soon share their fate, so
run, run! the bear will soon be after us."

The brothers started with fresh vigour, for the old man had refreshed
them with food; but the bear very soon came in sight again, and was
evidently fast gaining upon them. Again the leader asked the warriors
if they knew of any way in which to save themselves. All were silent.
Running forward with a yell and a howl, the leader said--

"I dreamed once that, being in great trouble, an old man, who was a
manito, helped me. We shall soon see his lodge."

Taking courage, the brothers still went on, and, after going a short
distance, they saw a lodge. Entering it, they found an old man, whose
protection they claimed, saying that a manito was pursuing them.

"Eat," said the old man, putting meat before them. "Who is a manito?
There is no manito but me. There is none whom I fear."

Then he felt the earth tremble as the bear approached, and, opening
the door of the lodge, he saw it coming. The old man shut the door
slowly, and said--

"Yes, my grandchildren, you have brought trouble upon me."

Taking his medicine sack, he took out some small war-clubs of black
stone, and told the young men to run through the other side of the
lodge. As he handled the clubs they became an enormous size, and the
old man stepped out as the bear reached the door. He struck the beast
with one of his clubs, which broke in pieces, and the bear stumbled.
The old man struck it again with the other club, and that also broke,
but the bear fell insensible. Each blow the old man struck sounded
like a clap of thunder, and the howls of the bear ran along the skies.

The brothers had gone some distance before they looked back. They then
saw that the bear was recovering from the blows. First it moved its
paws, and then they saw it rise to its feet. The old man shared the
fate of the first, for the warriors heard his cries as he was torn in
pieces. Again the monster was in pursuit, and fast overtaking them.
Not yet discouraged, the young men kept on their way, but the bear was
so close to them that the leader once more applied to his brothers,
but they could do nothing.

"Well," said he, "my dreams will soon be exhausted. After this I have
but one more."

He advanced, invoking his guardian spirit to aid him.

"Once," said he, "I dreamed that, being sorely pressed, I came to a
large lake, on the shore of which was a canoe, partly out of water,
and having ten paddles all in readiness. Do not fear," he cried, "we
shall soon get to it."

It happened as he had said. Coming to the lake, the warriors found the
canoe with the ten paddles, and immediately took their places in it.
Putting off, they paddled to the centre of the lake, when they saw the
bear on the shore. Lifting itself on its hind-legs, it looked all
around. Then it waded into the water until, losing its footing, it
turned back, and commenced making the circuit of the lake. Meanwhile
the warriors remained stationary in the centre watching the animal's
movements. It travelled round till it came to the place whence it
started. Then it commenced drinking up the water, and the young men
saw a strong current fast setting in towards the bear's mouth. The
leader encouraged them to paddle hard for the opposite shore. This
they had nearly reached, when the current became too strong for them,
and they were drawn back by it, and the stream carried them onwards to
the bear.

Then the leader again spoke, telling his comrades to meet their fate
bravely.

"Now is the time, Mudjikewis," said he, "to show your prowess. Take
courage, and sit in the bow of the canoe, and, when it approaches the
bear's mouth, try what effect your club will have on the beast's
head."

Mudjikewis obeyed, and, taking his place, stood ready to give the
blow, while the leader, who steered, directed the canoe to the open
mouth of the monster.

Rapidly advancing, the canoe was just about to enter the bear's mouth,
when Mudjikewis struck the beast a tremendous blow on the head, and
gave the saw-saw-quan. The bear's limbs doubled under it, and it fell
stunned by the blow, but before Mudjikewis could strike again the
monster sent from its mouth all the water it had swallowed with such
force that the canoe was immediately carried by the stream to the
other side of the lake. Leaving the canoe, the brothers fled, and on
they went till they were completely exhausted. Again they felt the
earth shake, and, looking back, saw the monster hard after them. The
young men's spirits drooped, and they felt faint-hearted. With words
and actions the leader exerted himself to cheer them, and once more he
asked them if they could do nothing, or think of nothing, that might
save them. All were silent as before.

"Then," said he, "this is the last time I can apply to my guardian
spirit. If we do not now succeed, our fate is decided."

He ran forward, invoking his spirit with great earnestness, and gave
the yell.

"We shall soon arrive," said he to his brothers, "at the place where
my last guardian spirit dwells. In him I place great confidence. Do
not be afraid, or your limbs will be fear-bound. We shall soon reach
his lodge. Run, run!"

What had in the meantime passed in the lodge of Iamo? He had remained
in the same condition, his head in the sack, directing his sister
where to place the arrows to procure food, and speaking at long
intervals.

One day the girl saw the eyes of the head brighten as if with
pleasure. At last it spoke.

"O sister!" it said, "in what a pitiful situation you have been the
cause of placing me! Soon, very soon, a band of young men will arrive
and apply to me for aid; but alas! how can I give what I would with so
much pleasure have afforded them? Nevertheless, take two arrows, and
place them where you have been in the habit of placing the others, and
have meat cooked and prepared before they arrive. When you hear them
coming, and calling on my name, go out and say, 'Alas! it is long ago
since an accident befell him. I was the cause of it.' If they still
come near, ask them in, and set meat before them. Follow my directions
strictly. A bear will come. Go out and meet him, taking my medicine
sack, bow and arrows, and my head. You must then untie the sack, and
spread out before you my paints of all colours, my war eagle-feathers,
my tufts of dried hair, and whatsoever else the sack contains. As the
bear approaches take these articles, one by one, and say to him, 'This
is my dead brother's paint,' and so on with all the articles, throwing
each of them as far from you as you can. The virtue contained in the
things will cause him to totter. Then, to complete his destruction,
you must take my head and cast it as far off as you can, crying aloud,
'See, this is my dead brother's head!' He will then fall senseless.
While this is taking place the young men will have eaten, and you must
call them to your aid. You will, with their assistance, cut the
carcass of the bear into pieces--into small pieces--and scatter them
to the winds, for unless you do this he will again come to life."

The sister promised that all should be done as he commanded, and she
had only time to prepare the meal when the voice of the leader of the
band of warriors was heard calling on Iamo for aid. The girl went out
and did as she had been directed. She invited the brothers in and
placed meat before them, and while they were eating the bear was heard
approaching. Untying the medicine sack and taking the head the girl
made all ready for its approach. When it came up she did as her
brother directed, and before she had cast down all the paints the bear
began to totter, but, still advancing, came close to her. Then she
took the head and cast it from her as far as she could, and as it
rolled upon the ground the bear, tottering, fell with a tremendous
noise. The girl cried for help, and the young men rushed out.

Mudjikewis, stepping up, gave a yell, and struck the bear a blow on
the head. This he repeated till he had dashed out its brains. Then the
others, as quickly as possible, cut the monster up into very small
pieces and scattered them in all directions. As they were engaged in
this they were surprised to find that wherever the flesh was thrown
small black bears appeared, such as are seen at the present day,
which, starting up, ran away. Thus from this monster the present race
of bears derives its origin.

Having overcome their pursuer the brothers returned to the lodge, and
the girl gathered together the articles she had used, and placed the
head in the sack again. The head remained silent, probably from its
being fatigued with its exertion in overcoming the bear.

Having spent so much time, and having traversed so vast a country in
their flight, the young men gave up the idea of ever returning to
their own country, and game being plentiful about the lodge, they
determined to remain where they were. One day they moved off some
distance from the lodge for the purpose of hunting, and left the belt
with the girl. They were very successful, and amused themselves with
talking and jesting. One of them said--

"We have all this sport to ourselves. Let us go and ask our sister if
she will not let us bring the head to this place, for it is still
alive."

So they went and asked for the head. The girl told them to take it,
and they carried it to their hunting-grounds and tried to amuse it,
but only at times did they see its eyes beam with pleasure. One day,
while they were busy in their encampment, they were unexpectedly
attacked by unknown enemies. The fight was long and fierce. Many of
the foes were slain, but there were thirty of them to each warrior.
The young men fought desperately till they were all killed, and then
the attacking party retreated to a high place to muster their men and
count the missing and the slain. One of the men had strayed away, and
happened to come to where the head was hung up. Seeing that it was
alive he eyed it for some time with fear and surprise. Then he took it
down, and having opened the sack he was much pleased to see the
beautiful feathers, one of which he placed on his head.

It waved gracefully over him as he walked to his companions' camp,
and when he came there he threw down the head and sack and told his
friends how he had found them, and how the sack was full of paints and
feathers. The men all took the head and made sport of it. Many of the
young men took the paint and painted themselves with it; and one of
the band, taking the head by the hair, said--

"Look, you ugly thing, and see your paints on the faces of warriors."

The feathers were so beautiful that many of the young men placed them
on their heads, and they again subjected the head to all kinds of
indignity. They were, however, soon punished for their insulting
conduct, for all who had worn the feathers became sick and died. Then
the chief commanded the men to throw all the paints and feathers away.

"As for the head," he said, "we will keep that and take it home with
us; we will there see what we can do with it. We will try to make it
shut its eyes."

Meanwhile for several days the sister had been waiting for the
brothers to bring back the head; till at last, getting impatient, she
went in search of them. She found them lying within short distances of
one another, dead, and covered with wounds. Other bodies lay scattered
around. She searched for the head and sack, but they were nowhere to
be found, so she raised her voice and wept, and blackened her face.
Then she walked in different directions till she came to the place
whence the head had been taken, and there she found the bow and
arrows, which had been left behind. She searched further, hoping to
find her brother's head, and, when she came to a piece of rising
ground she found some of his paints and feathers. These she carefully
put by, hanging them to the branch of a tree.

At dusk she came to the first lodge of a large village. Here she used
a charm employed by Indians when they wish to meet with a kind
reception, and on applying to the old man and the woman who occupied
the lodge she was made welcome by them. She told them her errand, and
the old man, promising to help her, told her that the head was hung up
before the council fire, and that the chiefs and young men of the
village kept watch over it continually. The girl said she only desired
to see the head, and would be satisfied if she could only get to the
door of the lodge in which it was hung, for she knew she could not
take it by force.

"Come with me," said the old man, "I will take you there."

So they went and took their seats in the lodge near to the door. The
council lodge was filled with warriors amusing themselves with games,
and constantly keeping up the fire to smoke the head to dry it. As the
girl entered the lodge the men saw the features of the head move, and,
not knowing what to make of it, one spoke and said--

"Ha! ha! it is beginning to feel the effects of the smoke."

The sister looked up from the seat by the door; her eyes met those of
her brother, and tears began to roll down the cheeks of the head.

"Well," said the chief, "I thought we would make you do something at
last. Look! look at it shedding tears," said he to those around him,
and they all laughed and made jokes upon it. The chief, looking
around, observed the strange girl, and after some time said to the old
man who brought her in--

"Who have you got there? I have never seen that woman before in our
village."

"Yes," replied the old man, "you have seen her. She is a relation of
mine, and seldom goes out. She stays in my lodge, and she asked me to
bring her here."

In the centre of the lodge sat one of those young men who are always
forward, and fond of boasting and displaying themselves before others.

"Why," said he, "I have seen her often, and it is to his lodge I go
almost every night to court her."

All the others laughed and continued their games. The young man did
not know he was telling a lie to the girl's advantage, who by means of
it escaped.

She returned to the old man's lodge, and immediately set out for her
own country. Coming to the spot where the bodies of her adopted
brothers lay, she placed them together with their feet towards the
east. Then taking an axe she had she cast it up into the air, crying
out--

"Brothers, get up from under it or it will fall on you!"

This she repeated three times, and the third time all the brothers
rose and stood on their feet. Mudjikewis commenced rubbing his eyes
and stretching himself.

"Why," said he, "I have overslept myself."

"No, indeed," said one of the others. "Do you not know we were all
killed, and that it is our sister who has brought us to life?"

The brothers then took the bodies of their enemies and burned them.
Soon after the girl went to a far country, they knew not where, to
procure wives for them, and she returned with the women, whom she gave
to the young men, beginning with the eldest. Mudjikewis stepped to and
fro, uneasy lest he should not get the one he liked, but he was not
disappointed, for she fell to his lot; and the two were well matched,
for she was a female magician.

The young men and their wives all moved into a very large lodge, and
their sister told them that one of the women must go in turns every
night to try and recover the head of her brother, untying the knots by
which it was hung up in the council lodge. The women all said they
would go with pleasure. The eldest made the first attempt. With a
rushing noise she disappeared through the air.

Towards daylight she returned. She had failed, having only succeeded
in untying one of the knots. All the women save the youngest went in
turn, and each one succeeded in untying only one knot each time. At
length the youngest went. As soon as she arrived at the lodge she went
to work. The smoke from the fire in the lodge had not ascended for ten
nights. It now filled the place and drove all the men out. The girl
was alone, and she carried off the head.

The brothers and Iamo's sister heard the young woman coming high
through the air, and they heard her say--

"Prepare the body of our brother."

As soon as they heard that they went to where Iamo's body lay, and,
having got it ready, as soon as the young woman arrived with the head
they placed it to the body, and Iamo was restored in all his former
manliness and beauty. All rejoiced in the happy termination of their
troubles, and when they had spent some time joyfully together, Iamo
said--

"Now I will divide the treasure," and taking the bear's belt he
commenced dividing what it contained amongst the brothers, beginning
with the eldest. The youngest brother, however, got the most splendid
part of the spoil, for the bottom of the belt held what was richest
and rarest.

Then Iamo told them that, since they had all died and been restored to
life again, they were no longer mortals but spirits, and he assigned
to each of them a station in the invisible world. Only Mudjikewis'
place was, however, named. He was to direct the west wind. The
brothers were commanded, as they had it in their power, to do good to
the inhabitants of the earth, and to give all things with a liberal
hand.

The spirits then, amid songs and shouts, took their flight to their
respective places, while Iamo and his sister, Iamoqua, descended into
the depths below.




THE OLD CHIPPEWAY.


The old man Chippeway, the first of men, when he first landed on the
earth, near where the present Dogribs have their hunting-grounds,
found the world a beautiful world, well stocked with food, and
abounding with pleasant things. He found no man, woman, or child upon
it; but in time, being lonely, he created children, to whom he gave
two kinds of fruit, the black and the white, but he forbade them to
eat the black. Having given his commands for the government and
guidance of his family, he took leave of them for a time, to go into a
far country where the sun dwelt, for the purpose of bringing it to the
earth.

After a very long journey, and a long absence, he returned, bringing
with him the sun, and he was delighted to find that his children had
remained obedient, and had eaten only of the white food.

Again he left them to go on another expedition. The sun he had brought
lighted up the earth for only a short time, and in the land from which
he had brought it he had noticed another body, which served as a lamp
in the dark hours. He resolved therefore to journey and bring back
with him the moon; so, bidding adieu to his children and his dwelling,
he set forth once more.

While he had been absent on his first expedition, his children had
eaten up all the white food, and now, when he set out, he forgot to
provide them with a fresh supply. For a long time they resisted the
craving for food, but at last they could hold out no longer, and
satisfied their hunger with the black fruit.

The old Chippeway soon returned, bringing with him the moon. He soon
discovered that his children had transgressed his command, and had
eaten the food of disease and death. He told them what was the
consequence of their act--that in future the earth would produce bad
fruits, that sickness would come amongst men, that pain would rack
them, and their lives be lives of fatigue and danger.

Having brought the sun and moon to the earth, the old man Chippeway
rested, and made no more expeditions. He lived an immense number of
years, and saw all the troubles he declared would follow the eating of
the black food. At last he became tired of life, and his sole desire
was to be freed from it.

"Go," said he, to one of his sons, "to the river of the Bear Lake, and
fetch me a man of the little wise people (the beavers). Let it be one
with a brown ring round the end of the tail, and a white spot on the
tip of the nose. Let him be just two seasons old upon the first day
of the coming frog-moon, and see that his teeth be sharp."

The man did as he was directed. He went to the river of the Bear Lake,
and brought a man of the little wise people. He had a brown ring round
the end of his tail, and a white spot on the tip of his nose. He was
just two seasons old upon the first day of the frog-moon, and his
teeth were very sharp.

"Take the wise four-legged man," said the old Chippeway, "and pull
from his jaws seven of his teeth."

The man did as he was directed, and brought the teeth to the old man.
Then he bade him call all his people together, and when they were come
the old man thus addressed them--

"I am old, and am tired of life, and wish to sleep the sleep of death.
I will go hence. Take the seven teeth of the wise little four-legged
man and drive them into my body."

They did so, and as the last tooth entered him the old man died.




MUKUMIK! MUKUMIK! MUKUMIK!


Pauppukkeewis was a harum-scarum fellow who played many queer tricks,
but he took care, nevertheless, to supply his family and children with
food. Sometimes, however, he was hard-pressed, and once he and his
whole family were on the point of starving. Every resource seemed to
have failed. The snow was so deep, and the storm continued so long,
that he could not even find a partridge or a hare, and his usual
supply of fish had failed him. His lodge stood in some woods not far
away from the shores of the Gitchiguma, or great water, where the
autumnal storms had piled up the ice into high pinnacles, resembling
castles.

"I will go," said he to his family one morning, "to these castles, and
solicit the pity of the spirits who inhabit them, for I know that they
are the residence of some of the spirits of Rabiboonoka."

He did so, and his petition was not disregarded. The spirits told him
to fill his mushkemoots or sacks with the ice and snow, and pass on
towards his lodge, without looking back, until he came to a certain
hill. He was then to drop his sacks, and leave them till morning,
when he would find them full of fish.

The spirits cautioned him that he must by no means look back, although
he should hear a great many voices crying out to him abusing him; for
they told him such voices would be in reality only the wind playing
through the branches of the trees.

Pauppukkeewis faithfully obeyed the directions given him, although he
found it difficult to avoid looking round to see who was calling to
him. When he visited the sacks in the morning, he found them filled
with fish.

It happened that Manabozho visited him on the morning when he brought
the fish home, and the visitor was invited to partake of the feast.
While they were eating, Manabozho could not help asking where such an
abundance of food had been procured at a time when most were in a
state of starvation.

Pauppukkeewis frankly told him the secret, and and what precautions to
take to ensure success. Manabozho determined to profit by the
information, and, as soon as he could, set out to visit the icy
castles. All things happened as Pauppukkeewis had told him. The
spirits appeared to be kind, and told Manabozho to fill and carry. He
accordingly filled his sacks with ice and snow, and then walked off
quickly to the hill where he was to leave them. As he went, however,
he heard voices calling out behind him.

"Thief! thief! He has stolen fish from Rabiboonoka," cried one.

"Mukumik! Mukumik! take it away, take it away," cried another.

Manabozho's ears were so assailed by all manner of insulting cries,
that at last he got angry, and, quite forgetting the directions given
him, he turned his head to see who it was that was abusing him. He saw
no one, and proceeded on his way to the hill, to which he was
accompanied by his invisible tormentors. He left his bags of ice and
snow there, to be changed into fish, and came back the next morning.
His disobedience had, however, dissolved the charm, and he found his
bags still full of rubbish.

In consequence of this he is condemned every year, during the month of
March, to run over the hills, with Pauppukkeewis following him,
crying--

"Mukumik! Mukumik!"




THE SWING BY THE LAKE.


There was an old hag of a woman who lived with her daughter-in-law and
her husband, with their son and a little orphan boy. When her
son-in-law came home from hunting, it was his custom to bring his wife
the moose's lip, the kidney of the bear, or some other choice bits of
different animals. These the girl would cook crisp, so that the sound
of their cracking could be heard when she ate them. This kind
attention of the hunter to his wife aroused the envy of the old woman.
She wished to have the same luxuries, and, in order to obtain them,
she at last resolved to kill the young wife. One day she asked her to
leave her infant son to the care of the orphan boy, and come out and
swing with her. The wife consented, and the mother-in-law took her to
the shore of a lake, where there was a high ridge of rocks overhanging
the water. Upon the top of these rocks the old woman put up a swing,
and, having fastened a piece of leather round her body, she commenced
to swing herself, going over the precipice each time. She continued
this for a short while, and then, stopping, told her daughter-in-law
to take her place. She did so, and, having tied the leather round her,
began to swing backwards and forwards. When she was well going,
sweeping at each turn clear beyond the precipice, the old woman slyly
cut the cords, and let her drop into the lake. She then put on some of
the girl's clothing, entered the lodge in the dusk of the evening, and
went about the work in which her daughter-in-law had been usually
occupied at such a time. She found the child crying, and, since the
mother was not there to give it the breast, it cried on. Then the
orphan boy asked her where the mother was.

"She is still swinging," replied the old woman.

"I will go," said he, "and look for her."

"No," said the old woman, "you must not. What would you go for?"

In the evening, when the husband came in, he gave the coveted morsels
to what he supposed was his wife. He missed the old woman, but asked
nothing about her. Meanwhile the woman ate the morsels, and tried to
quiet the child. The husband, seeing that she kept her face away from
him, was astonished, and asked why the child cried so. His pretended
wife answered that she did not know.

In the meantime the orphan boy went to the shores of the lake, where
he found no one. Then he suspected the old woman, and, having returned
to the lodge, told the hunter, while she was out getting wood, all he
had heard and seen. The man, when he had heard the story, painted his
face black, and placed his spear upside down in the earth, and
requested the Great Spirit to send lightning, thunder, and rain, in
the hope that the body of his wife might arise from the water. He then
began to fast, and told the boy to take the child and play upon the
lake shore.

Meanwhile this is what had happened to the wife. After she had plunged
into the lake, she found herself in the hold of a water-tiger, who
drew her to the bottom. There she found a lodge, and all things in it
as if arranged for her reception, and she became the water-tiger's
wife.

Whilst the orphan boy and the child were playing on the shore of the
lake one day, the boy began to throw pebbles into the water, when
suddenly a gull arose from the centre of the lake, and flew towards
the land. When it had arrived there, it took human shape, and the boy
recognised that it was the lost mother. She had a leather belt around
her, and another belt of white metal. She suckled the baby, and,
preparing to return to the water, said to the boy--

"Come here with the child whenever it cries, and I will nurse it."

The boy carried the child home, and told the father what had occurred.
When the child cried again, the man went with the boy to the shore,
and hid himself behind a clump of trees. Soon the gull made its
appearance, with a long shining chain attached to it. The bird came to
the shore, assumed the mother's shape, and began to suckle the child.
The husband stood with his spear in his hand, wondering what he had
best do to regain his wife. When he saw her preparing to return to the
lake he rushed forward, struck the shining chain with his spear, and
broke it. Then he took his wife and child home. As he entered the
lodge the old woman looked up, and, when she saw the wife, she dropped
her head in despair. A rustling was heard in the place; the next
moment the old woman leaped up, flew out of the lodge, and was never
heard of more.




THE FIRE PLUME.


Wassamo was living with his parents on the shores of a large bay on
the east coast of Lake Michigan. It was at a period when nature
spontaneously furnished everything that was wanted, when the Indians
used skins for clothing, and flints for arrow heads. It was long
before the time that the flag of the white man had first been seen in
these lakes, or the sound of an iron axe had been heard. The skill of
our people supplied them with weapons to kill game, with instruments
to procure bark for their canoes, and they knew to dress and cook
their victuals.

One day, when the season had commenced for fish to be plentiful near
the shore of the lake, Wassamo's mother said to him--

"My son, I wish you would go to yonder point, and see if you cannot
procure me some fish. You may ask your cousin to accompany you."

He did so. They set out, and, in the course of the afternoon, arrived
at the fishing-ground. His cousin attended to the nets, for he was
grown up to manhood, but Wassamo had not yet reached that age. They
put their nets in the water, and encamped near them, using only a few
pieces of birch-bark for a lodge to shelter them at night. They lit a
fire, and, while they were conversing together, the moon arose. Not a
breath of wind disturbed the smooth and bright surface of the lake.
Not a cloud was seen. Wassamo looked out on the water towards their
nets, and saw that almost all the floats had disappeared.

"Cousin," he said, "let us visit our nets. Perhaps we are fortunate."

They did so, and were rejoiced, as they drew them up, to see the
meshes white here and there with fish. They landed in good spirits,
and put away their canoe in safety from the winds.

"Wassamo," said his cousin, "you cook that we may eat."

Wassamo set about it immediately, and soon got his kettle on the
flames, while his cousin was lying at his ease on the opposite side of
the fire.

"Cousin," said Wassamo, "tell me stories, or sing me some love-songs."

The other obeyed, and sang his plaintive songs. He would frequently
break off, and tell parts of stories, and would then sing again, as
suited his feelings or fancy. While thus employed, he unconsciously
fell asleep. Wassamo had scarcely noticed it in his care to watch the
kettle, and, when the fish were done, he took the kettle off. He spoke
to his cousin, but received no answer. He took the wooden ladle to
skim off the oil, for the fish were very fat. He had a flambeau of
twisted bark in one hand to give light; but, when he came to take out
the fish, he did not know how to manage to hold the light, so he took
off his garters, and tied them tight round his head, and then placed
the lighted flambeau above his forehead, so that it was firmly held by
the bandage, and threw its light brilliantly about him. Having both
hands thus at liberty, he began to take out the fish. Suddenly he
heard a laugh.

"Cousin," said he, "some one is near us. Awake, and let us look out."

His cousin, however, continued asleep. Again Wassamo heard the
laughter, and, looking, he beheld two beautiful girls.

"Awake, awake," said he to his cousin. "Here are two young women;" but
he received no answer, for his cousin was locked in his deepest
slumbers.

Wassamo started up and advanced to the strange women. He was about to
speak to them, when he fell senseless to the earth.

A short while after his cousin awoke. He looked around and called
Wassamo, but could not find him.

"Netawis, Netawis (Cousin, cousin)!" he cried; but there was no
answer. He searched the woods and all the shores around, but could not
find him. He did not know what to do.

"Although," he reasoned, "his parents are my relations, and they know
he and I were great friends, they will not believe me if I go home and
say that he is lost. They will say that I killed him, and will require
blood for blood."

However, he resolved to return home, and, arriving there, he told
them what had occurred. Some said, "He has killed him treacherously,"
others said, "It is impossible. They were like brothers."

Search was made on every side, and when at length it became certain
that Wassamo was not to be found, his parents demanded the life of
Netawis.

Meanwhile, what had happened to Wassamo? When he recovered his senses,
he found himself stretched on a bed in a spacious lodge.

"Stranger," said some one, "awake, and take something to eat."

Looking around him he saw many people, and an old spirit man,
addressing him, said--

"My daughters saw you at the fishing-ground, and brought you here. I
am the guardian spirit of Nagow Wudjoo (the sand mountains). We will
make your visit here agreeable, and if you will remain I will give you
one of my daughters in marriage."

The young man consented to the match, and remained for some time with
the spirit of the sand-hills in his lodge at the bottom of the lake,
for there was it situated. At last, however, approached the season of
sleep, when the spirit and his relations lay down for their long rest.

"Son-in-law," said the old spirit, "you can now, in a few days, start
with your wife to visit your relations. You can be absent one year,
but after that you must return."

Wassamo promised to obey, and set out with his wife. When he was near
his village, he left her in a thicket and advanced alone. As he did
so, who should he meet but his cousin.

"Netawis, Netawis," cried his cousin, "you have come just in time to
save me!"

Then he ran off to the lodge of Wassamo's parents.

"I have seen him," said he, "whom you accuse me of having killed. He
will be here in a few minutes."

All the village was soon in a bustle, and Wassamo and his wife excited
universal attention, and the people strove who should entertain them
best. So the time passed happily till the season came that Wassamo and
his wife should return to the spirits. Netawis accompanied them to the
shores of the lake, and would have gone with them to their strange
abode, but Wassamo sent him back. With him Wassamo took offerings from
the Indians to his father-in-law.

The old spirit was delighted to see the two return, and he was also
much pleased with the presents Wassamo brought. He told his son-in-law
that he and his wife should go once more to visit his people.

"It is merely," said he, "to assure them of my friendship, and to bid
them farewell for ever."

Some time afterwards Wassamo and his wife made this visit. Having
delivered his message, he said--

"I must now bid you all farewell for ever."

His parents and friends raised their voices in loud lamentation, and
they accompanied him and his wife to the sand-banks to see them take
their departure.

The day was mild, the sky clear, not a cloud appeared, nor was there a
breath of wind to disturb the bright surface of the water. The most
perfect silence reigned throughout the company. They gazed intently
upon Wassamo and his wife as they waded out into the water, waving
their hands. They saw them go into deeper and deeper water. They saw
the wave close over their heads. All at once they raised a loud and
piercing wail. They looked again. A red flame, as if the sun had
glanced on a billow, marked the spot for an instant; but the
Feather-of-Flames and his wife had disappeared for ever.




THE JOURNEY TO THE ISLAND OF SOULS.


Once upon a time there lived in the nation of the Chippeways a most
beautiful maiden, the flower of the wilderness, the delight and wonder
of all who saw her. She was called the Rock-rose, and was beloved by a
youthful hunter, whose advances gained her affection. No one was like
the brave Outalissa in her eyes: his deeds were the greatest, his
skill was the most wonderful. It was not permitted them, however, to
become the inhabitants of one lodge. Death came to the flower of the
Chippeways. In the morning of her days she died, and her body was laid
in the dust with the customary rites of burial. All mourned for her,
but Outalissa was a changed man. No more did he find delight in the
chase or on the war-path. He grew sad, shunned the society of his
brethren. He stood motionless as a tree in the hour of calm, as the
wave that is frozen up by the breath of the cold wind.

Joy came no more to him. He told his discontent in the ears of his
people, and spoke of his determination to seek his beloved maiden. She
had but removed, he said, as the birds fly away at the approach of
winter, and it required but due diligence on his part to find her.
Having prepared himself, as a hunter makes ready for a long journey,
he armed himself with his war-spear and bow and arrow, and set out to
the Land of Souls.

Directed by the old tradition of his fathers, he travelled south to
reach that region, leaving behind him the great star. As he moved
onwards, he found a more pleasant region succeeding to that in which
he had lived. Daily, hourly, he remarked the change. The ice grew
thinner, the air warmer, the trees taller. Birds, such as he had never
seen before, sang in the bushes, and fowl of many kinds were pluming
themselves in the warm sun on the shores of the lake. The gay
woodpecker was tapping the hollow beech, the swallow and the martin
were skimming along the level of the green vales. He heard no more the
cracking of branches beneath the weight of icicles and snow, he saw no
more the spirits of departed men dancing wild dances on the skirts of
the northern clouds, and the farther he travelled the milder grew the
skies, the longer was the period of the sun's stay upon the earth, and
the softer, though less brilliant, the light of the moon.

Noting these changes as he went with a joyful heart, for they were
indications of his near approach to the land of joy and delight, he
came at length to a cabin situated on the brow of a steep hill in the
middle of a narrow road. At the door of this cabin stood a man of a
most ancient and venerable appearance. He was bent nearly double with
age. His locks were white as snow. His eyes were sunk very far into
his head, and the flesh was wasted from his bones, till they were like
trees from which the bark has been peeled. He was clothed in a robe of
white goat's skin, and a long staff supported his tottering limbs
whithersoever he walked.

The Chippeway began to tell him who he was, and why he had come
thither, but the aged man stopped him, telling him he knew upon what
errand he was bent.

"A short while before," said he, "there passed the soul of a tender
and lovely maiden, well-known to the son of the Red Elk, on her way to
the beautiful island. She was fatigued with her long journey, and
rested a while in this cabin. She told me the story of your love, and
was persuaded that you would attempt to follow her to the Lake of
Spirits."

The old man, further, told Outalissa that if he made speed he might
hope to overtake the maiden on the way. Before, however, he resumed
his journey he must leave behind him his body, his spear, bow, and
arrows, which the old man promised to keep for him should he return.
The Chippeway left his body and arms behind him, and under the
direction of the old man entered upon the road to the Blissful Island.
He had travelled but a couple of bowshots when it met his view, even
more beautiful than his fathers had painted it.

He stood upon the brow of a hill which sloped gently down to the water
of a lake which stretched as far as eye could see. Upon its banks
were groves of beautiful trees of all kinds, and many canoes were to
be seen gliding over its water. Afar, in the centre of the lake, lay
the beautiful island appointed for the residence of the good. He
walked down to the shore and entered a canoe which stood ready for
him, made of a shining white stone. Seizing the paddle, he pushed off
from the shore and commenced to make his way to the island. As he did
so, he came to a canoe like his own, in which he found her whom he was
in pursuit of. She recognised him, and the two canoes glided side by
side over the water. Then Outalissa knew that he was on the Water of
Judgment, the great water over which every soul must pass to reach the
beautiful island, or in which it must sink to meet the punishment of
the wicked. The two lovers glided on in fear, for the water seemed at
times ready to swallow them, and around them they could see many
canoes, which held those whose lives had been wicked, going down. The
Master of Life had, however, decreed that they should pass in safety,
and they reached the shores of the beautiful island, on which they
landed full of joy.

It is impossible to tell the delights with which they found it filled.
Mild and soft winds, clear and sweet waters, cool and refreshing
shades, perpetual verdure, inexhaustible fertility, met them on all
sides. Gladly would the son of the Red Elk have remained for ever with
his beloved in the happy island, but the words of the Master of Life
came to him in the pauses of the breeze, saying--

"Go back to thy own land, hunter. Your time has not yet come. You
have not yet performed the work I have for you to do, nor can you yet
enjoy those pleasures which belong to them who have performed their
allotted task on earth. Go back, then. In time thou shalt rejoin her,
the love of whom has brought thee hither."




MACHINITOU, THE EVIL SPIRIT.


Chemanitou, being the Master of Life, at one time became the origin of
a spirit that has ever since caused him and all others of his creation
a great deal of disquiet. His birth was owing to an accident. It was
in this wise:--

Metowac, or as the white people now call it, Long Island, was
originally a vast plain, so level and free from any kind of growth
that it looked like a portion of the great sea that had suddenly been
made to move back and let the sand below appear, which was, in fact,
the case.

Here it was that Chemanitou used to come and sit when he wished to
bring any new creation to life. The place being spacious and solitary,
the water upon every side, he had not only room enough, but was free
from interruption.

It is well known that some of these early creations were of very great
size, so that very few could live in the same place, and their
strength made it difficult for even Chemanitou to control them, for
when he has given them certain powers they have the use of the laws
that govern those powers, till it is his will to take them back to
himself. Accordingly it was the custom of Chemanitou, when he wished
to try the effect of these creatures, to set them in motion upon the
island of Metowac, and if they did not please him, he took the life
away from them again. He would set up a mammoth, or other large
animal, in the centre of the island, and build it up with great care,
somewhat in the manner that a cabin or a canoe is made.

Even to this day may be found traces of what had been done here in
former years, and the manner in which the earth sometimes sinks down
shows that this island is nothing more than a great cake of earth, a
sort of platter laid upon the sea for the convenience of Chemanitou,
who used it as a table upon which he might work, never having designed
it for anything else, the margin of the Chatiemac (the stately swan),
or Hudson river, being better adapted to the purposes of habitation.

When the Master of Life wished to build up an elephant or mammoth, he
placed four cakes of clay upon the ground, at proper distances, which
were moulded into shape, and became the feet of the animal.

Now sometimes these were left unfinished, and to this day the green
tussocks to be seen like little islands about the marshes show where
these cakes of clay were placed.

As Chemanitou went on with his work, the Neebanawbaigs (or
water-spirits), the Puck-wud-jinnies (little men who vanish), and,
indeed, all the lesser manitoes, used to come and look on, and wonder
what it would be, and how it would act.

When the animal was completed, and had dried a long time in the sun,
Chemanitou opened a place in the side, and, entering in, remained
there many days.

When he came forth the creature began to shiver and sway from side to
side, in such a manner as shook the whole island for leagues. If its
appearance pleased the Master of Life it was suffered to depart, and
it was generally found that these animals plunged into the open sea
upon the north side of the island, and disappeared in the great
forests beyond.

Now at one time Chemanitou was a very long time building an animal of
such great bulk that it looked like a mountain upon the centre of the
island, and all the manitoes from all parts came to see what it was.
The Puck-wud-jinnies especially made themselves very merry, capering
behind its great ears, sitting within its mouth, each perched upon a
tooth, and running in and out of the sockets of the eyes, thinking
Chemanitou, who was finishing off other parts of the animal, would not
see them.

But he can see right through everything he has made. He was glad to
see the Puck-wud-jinnies so lively, and he bethought him of many new
creations while he watched their motions.

When the Master of Life had completed this large animal, he was
fearful to give it life, and so it was left upon the island, or
work-table of Chemanitou, till its great weight caused it to break
through, and, sinking partly down, it stuck fast, the head and tail
holding it in such a manner as to prevent it slipping further down.

Chemanitou then lifted up a piece of the back, and found it made a
very good cavity, into which the old creations which failed to please
him might be thrown.

He sometimes amused himself by making creatures very small and active,
with which he disported awhile, and finding them of very little use in
the world, and not so attractive as the little vanishers, he would
take out the life, taking it to himself, and then cast them into the
cave made in the body of the unfinished animal.

In this way great quantities of very odd shapes were heaped together
in this Roncomcomon, or Place of Fragments.

He was always careful before casting a thing he had created aside to
take out the life.

One day the Master of Life took two pieces of clay and moulded them
into two large feet, like those of a panther. He did not make
four--there were two only.

He put his own feet into them, and found the tread very light and
springy, so that he might go with great speed and yet make no noise.

Next he built up a pair of very tall legs, in the shape of his own,
and made them walk about a while. He was pleased with the motion. Then
followed a round body covered with large scales, like those of the
alligator.

He now found the figure doubling forward, and he fastened a long
black snake, that was gliding by, to the back part of the body, and
wound the other end round a sapling which grew near, and this held the
body upright, and made a very good tail.

The shoulders were broad and strong, like those of the buffalo, and
covered with hair. The neck thick and short, and full at the back.

Thus far Chemanitou had worked with little thought, but when he came
to the head he thought a long while.

He took a round ball of clay into his lap, and worked it over with
great care. While he thought, he patted the ball of clay upon the top,
which made it very broad and low, for Chemanitou was thinking of the
panther feet and the buffalo neck. He remembered the Puck-wud-jinnies
playing in the eye sockets of the great unfinished animal, and he
bethought him to set the eyes out, like those of a lobster, so that
the animal might see on every side.

He made the forehead broad and full, but low, for here was to be the
wisdom of the forked tongue, like that of the serpent, which should be
in its mouth. It should see all things and know all things. Here
Chemanitou stopped, for he saw that he had never thought of such a
creation before, one with two feet--a creature that should stand
upright, and see upon every side.

The jaws were very strong, with ivory teeth and gills upon either
side, which rose and fell whenever breath passed through them. The
nose was like the beak of the vulture. A tuft of porcupine-quills made
the scalp lock.

Chemanitou held the head out the length of his arm, and turned it
first upon one side and then upon the other. He passed it rapidly
through the air, and saw the gills rise and fall, the lobster eyes
whirl round, and the vulture nose look keen.

Chemanitou became very sad, yet he put the head upon the shoulders. It
was the first time he had made an upright figure. It seemed to be the
first idea of a man.

It was now nearly right. The bats were flying through the air, and the
roar of wild beasts began to be heard. A gusty wind swept in from the
ocean and passed over the island of Metowac, casting the light sand to
and fro. A wavy scud was skimming along the horizon, while higher up
in the sky was a dark thick cloud, upon the verge of which the moon
hung for a moment and was then shut in.

A panther came by and stayed a moment, with one foot raised and bent
inward, while it looked up at the image and smelt the feet that were
like its own.

A vulture swooped down with a great noise of its wings, and made a
dash at the beak, but Chemanitou held it back.

Then came the porcupine, the lizard, and the snake, each drawn by its
kind in the image.

Chemanitou veiled his face for many hours, and the gusty wind swept
by, but he did not stir.

He saw that every beast of the earth seeks its kind, and that which
is like draws its likeness to itself.

The Master of Life thought and thought. The idea grew into his mind
that at some time he would create a creature who should be made, not
after the things of the earth, but after himself.

The being should link this world to the spirit world, being made in
the likeness of the Great Spirit, he should be drawn unto his
likeness.

Many days and nights--whole seasons--passed while Chemanitou thought
upon these things. He saw all things.

Then the Master of Life lifted up his head. The stars were looking
down upon the image, and a bat had alighted upon the forehead,
spreading its great wings upon each side. Chemanitou took the bat and
held out its whole leathery wings (and ever since the bat, when he
rests, lets his body hang down), so that he could try them over the
head of the image. He then took the life of the bat away, and twisted
off the body, by which means the whole thin part fell down over the
head of the image and upon each side, making the ears, and a covering
for the forehead like that of the hooded serpent.

Chemanitou did not cut off the face of the image below, but went on
and made a chin and lips that were firm and round, that they might
shut in the forked tongue and ivory teeth, and he knew that with the
lips the image would smile when life should be given to it.

The image was now complete save for the arms, and Chemanitou saw that
it was necessary it should have hands. He grew more grave.

He had never given hands to any creature. He made the arms and the
hands very beautiful, after the manner of his own.

Chemanitou now took no pleasure in the work he had done. It was not
good in his sight.

He wished he had not given it hands. Might it not, when trusted with
life, create? Might it not thwart the plans of the Master of Life
himself?

He looked long at the image. He saw what it would do when life should
be given it. He knew all things.

He now put fire in the image, but fire is not life.

He put fire within and a red glow passed through and through it. The
fire dried the clay of which the image was made, and gave the image an
exceedingly fierce aspect. It shone through the scales upon the
breast, through the gills, and the bat-winged ears. The lobster eyes
were like a living coal.

Chemanitou opened the side of the image, but he did not enter. He had
given it hands and a chin.

It could smile like the manitoes themselves.

He made it walk all about the island of Metowac, that he might see how
it would act. This he did by means of his will.

He now put a little life into it, but he did not take out the fire.
Chemanitou saw the aspect of the creature would be very terrible, and
yet that it could smile in such a manner that it ceased to be ugly.
He thought much upon these things. He felt that it would not be best
to let such a creature live--a creature made up mostly from the beasts
of the field, but with hands of power, a chin lifting the head upward,
and lips holding all things within themselves.

While he thought upon these things he took the image in his hands and
cast it into the cave. But Chemanitou forgot to take out the life.

The creature lay a long time in the cave and did not stir, for its
fall was very great. It lay amongst the old creations that had been
thrown in there without life.

Now when a long time had passed Chemanitou heard a great noise in the
cave. He looked in and saw the image sitting there, and it was trying
to put together the old broken things that had been cast in as of no
value.

Chemanitou gathered together a vast heap of stones and sand, for large
rocks are not to be had upon the island, and stopped the mouth of the
cave. Many days passed and the noise within the cave grew louder. The
earth shook, and hot smoke came from the ground. The manitoes crowded
to Metowac to see what was the matter.

Chemanitou came also, for he remembered the image he had cast in there
of which he had forgotten to take away the life.

Suddenly there was a great rising of the stones and sand, the sky grew
black with wind and dust. Fire played about on the ground, and water
gushed high into the air.

All the manitoes fled with fear, and the image came forth with a great
noise and most terrible to behold. Its life had grown strong within
it, for the fire had made it very fierce.

Everything fled before it and cried--

"Machinitou! machinitou," which means a god, but an evil god.




THE WOMAN OF STONE.


In one of the niches or recesses formed by a precipice in the cavern
of Kickapoo Creek, which is a tributary of the Wisconsin, there is a
gigantic mass of stone presenting the appearance of a human figure. It
is so sheltered by the overhanging rocks and by the sides of the
recess in which it stands as to assume a dark and gloomy character. Of
the figure the following legend is related:--

Once upon a time there lived a woman who was called Shenanska, or the
White Buffalo Robe. She was an inhabitant of the prairie, a dweller in
the cabins which stand upon the verge of the hills. She was the pride
of her people, not only for her beauty, which was very great, but for
her goodness. The breath of the summer wind was not milder than the
temper of Shenanska, the face of the sun was not fairer than her
countenance.

At length the tribe was surprised in its encampment on the banks of
the Kickapoo by a numerous band of the fierce Mengwe. Many of them
fell fighting bravely, the greater part of the women and children were
made prisoners, and the others fled to the wilds for safety. It was
the fortune of Shenanska to escape from death or captivity. When the
alarm of the war-whoop reached her ear as she was sleeping in her
lodge with her husband, she had rushed forth with him and gone with
the braves to meet their assailants. When she saw half of the men of
her nation lying dead around, then she fled. She had been wounded in
the battle, but she still succeeded in effecting her escape to the
hills. Weakened by loss of blood, she had not strength enough left to
hunt for a supply of food, and she was near perishing with hunger.

While she lay beneath the shade of a tree there came to her a being
not of this world.

"Shenanska," said he, in a gentle voice, "thou art wounded and hungry,
shall I heal thee and feed thee? Wilt thou return to the lands of thy
tribe and live to be old, a widow and alone, or go now to the land of
departed spirits and join the shade of thy husband? The choice is
thine. If thou wilt live, crippled, and bowed down by wounds and
disease, thou mayest. If it would please thee better to rejoin thy
friends in the country beyond the Great River, say so."

Shenanska replied that she wished to die. The spirit took her, and
placed her in one of the recesses of the cavern, overshadowed by
hanging rocks. He then spoke some words in a low voice, and, breathing
on her, she became stone. Determined that a woman so good and
beautiful should not be forgotten by the world, he made her into a
statue, to which he gave the power of killing suddenly any one who
irreverently approached it. For a long time the statue relentlessly
exercised this power. Many an unconscious Indian, venturing too near
to it, fell dead without any perceptible wound. At length, tired of
the havoc the statue made, the guardian spirit took away the power he
had given to it. At this day the statue may be approached with safety,
but the Indians hold it in fear, not intruding rashly upon it, and
when in its presence treating it with great respect.




THE MAIDEN WHO LOVED A FISH.


There was once among the Marshpees, a small tribe who have their
hunting-grounds on the shores of the Great Lake, near the Cape of
Storms, a woman whose name was Awashanks. She was rather silly, and
very idle. For days together she would sit doing nothing. Then she was
so ugly and ill-shaped that not one of the youths of the village would
have aught to say to her by way of courtship or marriage. She squinted
very much; her face was long and thin, her nose excessively large and
humped, her teeth crooked and projecting, her chin almost as sharp as
the bill of a loon, and her ears as large as those of a deer.
Altogether she was a very odd and strangely formed woman, and wherever
she went she never failed to excite much laughter and derision among
those who thought that ugliness and deformity were fit subjects for
ridicule.

Though so very ugly, there was one faculty she possessed in a more
remarkable degree than any woman of the tribe. It was that of singing.
Nothing, unless such could be found in the land of spirits, could
equal the sweetness of her voice or the beauty of her songs. Her
favourite place of resort was a small hill, a little removed from the
river of her people, and there, seated beneath the shady trees, she
would while away the hours of summer with her charming songs. So
beautiful and melodious were the things she uttered, that, by the time
she had sung a single sentence, the branches above her head would be
filled with the birds that came thither to listen, the thickets around
her would be crowded with beasts, and the waters rolling beside her
would be alive with fishes, all attracted by the sweet sounds. From
the minnow to the porpoise, from the wren to the eagle, from the snail
to the lobster, from the mouse to the mole,--all hastened to the spot
to listen to the charming songs of the hideous Marshpee maiden.

Among the fishes which repaired every night to the vicinity of the
Little Hillock, which was the chosen resting-place of the ugly
songstress, was the great chief of the trouts, a tribe of fish
inhabiting the river near by. The chief was of a far greater size than
the people of his nation usually are, being as long as a man, and
quite as thick.

Of all the creatures which came to listen to the singing of Awashanks
none appeared to enjoy it so highly as the chief of the trouts. As his
bulk prevented him from approaching so near as he wished, he, from
time to time, in his eagerness to enjoy the music to the best
advantage, ran his nose into the ground, and thus worked his way a
considerable distance into the land. Nightly he continued his
exertions to approach the source of the delightful sounds he heard,
till at length he had ploughed out a wide and handsome channel, and so
effected his passage from the river to the hill, a distance extending
an arrow's-flight. Thither he repaired every night at the commencement
of darkness, sure to meet the maiden who had become so necessary to
his happiness. Soon he began to speak of the pleasure he enjoyed, and
to fill the ears of Awashanks with fond protestations of his love and
affection. Instead of singing to him, she soon began to listen to his
voice. It was something so new and strange to her to hear the tones of
love and courtship, a thing so unusual to be told she was beautiful,
that it is not wonderful her head was turned by the new incident, and
that she began to think the voice of her lover the sweetest she had
ever heard. One thing marred their happiness. This was that the trout
could not live upon land, nor the maiden in the water. This state of
things gave them much sorrow.

They had met one evening at the usual place, and were discoursing
together, lamenting that two who loved one another so should be doomed
to always live apart, when a man appeared close to Awashanks. He asked
the lovers why they seemed to be so sad.

The chief of the trouts told the stranger the cause of their sorrow.

"Be not grieved nor hopeless," said the stranger, when the chief had
finished. "The impediments can be removed. I am the spirit who
presides over fishes, and though I cannot make a man or woman of a
fish, I can make them into fish. Under my power Awashanks shall become
a beautiful trout."

With that he bade the girl follow him into the river. When they had
waded in some little depth he took up some water in his hand and
poured it on her head, muttering some words, of which none but himself
knew the meaning. Immediately a change took place in her. Her body
took the form of a fish, and in a few moments she was a complete
trout. Having accomplished this transformation the spirit gave her to
the chief of the trouts, and the pair glided off into the deep and
quiet waters. She did not, however, forget the land of her birth.
Every season, on the same night as that upon which her disappearance
from her tribe had been wrought, there were to be seen two trouts of
enormous size playing in the water off the shore. They continued these
visits till the pale-faces came to the country, when, deeming
themselves to be in danger from a people who paid no reverence to the
spirits of the land, they bade it adieu for ever.




THE LONE LIGHTNING.


A little orphan boy, who had no one to care for him, once lived with
his uncle, who treated him very badly, making him do hard work, and
giving him very little to eat, so that the boy pined away and never
grew much, but became, through hard usage, very thin and light. At
last the uncle pretended to be ashamed of this treatment, and
determined to make amends for it by fattening the boy up. He really
wished, however, to kill him by overfeeding him. 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 nearly choked him to death by forcing the fat down
his throat. The boy escaped, and fled from the lodge. He knew not
where to go, and wandered about. When night came on he was afraid the
wild beasts would eat him, so he climbed up into the forks of a high
pine-tree, and there he fell asleep in the branches.

As he was asleep a person appeared to him from the high sky, and
said--

"My poor 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 in the air until he reached the lofty
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 a vain attempt 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 weapons, which had been given to him by a good
spirit, and had power to kill if aimed aright. At length the boy drew
up his last arrow, took aim, and let fly, as he thought, into the very
heart of the chief of the manitoes. Before the arrow reached him,
however, he changed himself into a rock, into which 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."

So saying, he transformed the boy into the Nazhik-a-wä wä sun, or Lone
Lightning, which may be observed in the northern sky to this day.




AGGO-DAH-GAUDA.


Aggo-dah-gauda had one leg hooped up to his thigh so that he was
obliged to get along by hopping. He had a beautiful daughter, and his
chief care was to secure her from being carried off by the king of the
buffaloes. He was peculiar in his habits, and lived in a loghouse, and
he advised his daughter to keep indoors, and never go out for fear she
should be stolen away.

One sunshiny morning Aggo-dah-gauda prepared to go out fishing, but
before he left the lodge he reminded his daughter of her strange
lover.

"My daughter," said he, "I am going out to fish, and as the day will
be a pleasant one, you must recollect that we have an enemy near who
is constantly going about, and so you must not leave the lodge."

When he reached his fishing-place, he heard a voice singing--

    "Man with the leg tied up,
    Man with the leg tied up,
        Broken hip--hip--
                  Hipped.

    Man with the leg tied up,
    Man with the leg tied up,
        Broken leg--leg--
                  Legged."

He looked round but saw no one, so he suspected the words were sung by
his enemies the buffaloes, and hastened home.

The girl's father had not been long absent from the lodge when she
began to think to herself--

"It is hard to be for ever kept indoors. The spring is coming on, and
the days are so sunny and warm, that it would be very pleasant to sit
out of doors. My father says it is dangerous. I know what I will do: I
will get on the top of the house, and there I can comb and dress my
hair."

She accordingly got up on the roof of the small house, and busied
herself in untying and combing her beautiful hair, which was not only
fine and shining, but so long that it reached down to the ground,
hanging over the eaves of the house as she combed it. She was so
intent upon this that she forgot all ideas of danger. All of a sudden
the king of the buffaloes came dashing by with his herd of followers,
and, taking her between his horns, away he cantered over the plains,
and then, plunging into a river that bounded his land, he carried her
safely to his lodge on the other side. Here he paid her every
attention in order to gain her affections, but all to no purpose, for
she sat pensive and disconsolate in the lodge among the other females,
and scarcely ever spoke. The buffalo king did all he could to please
her, and told the others in the lodge to give her everything she
wanted, and to study her in every way. They set before her the
choicest food, and gave her the seat of honour in the lodge. The king
himself went out hunting to obtain the most delicate bits of meat both
of animals and wild-fowl, and, not content with these proofs of his
love, he fasted himself and would often take his pib-be-gwun (Indian
flute) and sit near the lodge singing--

    "My sweetheart,
    My sweetheart,
            Ah me!

    When I think of you,
    When I think of you,
            Ah me!

    How I love you,
    How I love you,
            Ah me!

    Do not hate me,
    Do not hate me,
            Ah me!"

In the meantime Aggo-dah-gauda came home, and finding his daughter had
been stolen he determined to get her back. For this purpose he
immediately set out. He could easily trace the king till he came to
the banks of the river, and then he saw he had plunged in and swum
over. When Aggo-dah-gauda came to the river, however, he found it
covered with a thin coating of ice, so that he could not swim across
nor walk over. He therefore determined to wait on the bank a day or
two till the ice might melt or become strong enough to bear him. Very
soon the ice was strong enough, and Aggo-dah-gauda crossed over. On
the other side, as he went along, he found branches torn off and cast
down, and these had been strewn thus by his daughter to aid him in
following her. The way in which she managed it was this. Her hair was
all untied when she was captured, and as she was carried along it
caught in the branches as she passed, so she took the pieces out of
her hair and threw them down on the path.

When Aggo-dah-gauda came to the king's lodge it was evening. Carefully
approaching it, he peeped through the sides and saw his daughter
sitting there disconsolately. She saw him, and knowing that it was her
father come for her, she said to the king, giving him a tender
glance--

"I will go and get you a drink of water."

The king was delighted at what he thought was a mark of her affection,
and the girl left the lodge with a dipper in her hand. The king waited
a long time for her, and as she did not return he went out with his
followers, but nothing could be seen or heard of the girl. The
buffaloes sallied out into the plains, and had not gone far by the
light of the moon, when they were attacked by a party of hunters. Many
of them fell, but the buffalo-king, being stronger and swifter than
the others, escaped, and, flying to the west, was never seen more.




PIQUA.


A great while ago the Shawanos nation took up the war-talk against the
Walkullas, who lived on their own lands on the borders of the Great
Salt Lake, and near the Burning Water. Part of the nation were not
well pleased with the war. The head chief and the counsellors said the
Walkullas were very brave and cunning, and the priests said their god
was mightier than ours. The old and experienced warriors said the
counsellors were wise, and had spoken well; but the Head Buffalo, the
young warriors, and all who wished for war, would not listen to their
words. They said that our fathers had beaten their fathers in many
battles, that the Shawanos were as brave and strong as they ever were,
and the Walkullas much weaker and more cowardly. They said the old and
timid, the faint heart and the failing knee, might stay at home to
take care of the women and children, and sleep and dream of those who
had never dared bend a bow or look upon a painted cheek or listen to a
war-whoop, while the young warriors went to war and drank much blood.
When two moons were gone they said they would come back with many
prisoners and scalps, and have a great feast. The arguments of the
fiery young men prevailed with all the youthful warriors, but the
elder and wiser listened to the priests and counsellors, and remained
in their villages to see the leaf fall and the grass grow, and to
gather in the nut and follow the trail of the deer.

Two moons passed, then a third, then came the night enlivened by many
stars, but the warriors returned not. As the land of the Walkullas lay
but a woman's journey of six suns from the villages of our nation, our
people began to fear that our young men had been overcome in battle
and were all slain. The head chief, the counsellors, and all the
warriors who had remained behind, came together in the great wigwam,
and called the priests to tell them where their sons were. Chenos, who
was the wisest of them all (as well he might be, for he was older than
the oak-tree whose top dies by the hand of Time), answered that they
were killed by their enemies, the Walkullas, assisted by men of a
strange speech and colour, who lived beyond the Great Salt Lake,
fought with thunder and lightning, and came to our enemies on the back
of a great bird with many white wings. When he had thus made known to
our people the fate of the warriors there was a dreadful shout of
horror throughout the village. The women wept aloud, and the men
sprang up and seized their bows and arrows to go to war with the
Walkullas and the strange warriors who had helped to slay their sons,
but Chenos bade them sit down again.

"There is one yet living," said he. "He will soon be here. The sound
of his footsteps is in my ear as he crosses the hollow hills. He has
killed many of his enemies; he has glutted his vengeance fully; he has
drunk blood in plenteous draughts. Long he fought with the men of his
own race, and many fell before him, but he fled from the men who came
to the battle armed with the real lightning, and hurling unseen death.
Even now I see him coming; the shallow streams he has forded; the deep
rivers he has swum. He is tired and hungry, and his quiver has no
arrows, but he brings a prisoner in his arms. Lay the deer's flesh on
the fire, and bring hither the pounded corn. Taunt him not, for he is
valiant, and has fought like a hungry bear."

As the wise Chenos spoke these words to the grey-bearded counsellors
and warriors the Head Buffalo walked calm and cool into the midst of
them. There he stood, tall and straight as a young pine, but he spoke
no word, looking on the head chief and the counsellors. There was
blood upon his body, dried on by the sun, and the arm next his heart
was bound up with the skin of the deer. His eye was hollow and his
body gaunt, as though he had fasted long. His quiver held no arrows.

"Where are our sons?" inquired the head chief of the warrior.

"Ask the wolf and the panther," he answered.

"Brother! tell us where are our sons!" exclaimed the chief. "Our
women ask us for their sons. They want them. Where are they?"

"Where are the snows of last year?" replied the warrior. "Have they
not gone down the swelling river into the Great Lake? They have, and
even so have your sons descended the stream of Time into the great
Lake of Death. The great star sees them as they lie by the water of
the Walkulla, but they see him not. The panther and the wolf howl
unheeded at their feet, and the eagle screams, but they hear them not.
The vulture whets his beak on their bones, the wild-cat rends their
flesh, both are unfelt, for your sons are dead."

When the warrior told these things to our people, they set up their
loud death-howl. The women wept; but the men sprang up and seized
their weapons, to go to meet the Walkullas, the slayers of their sons.
The chief warrior rose again--

"Fathers and warriors," said he, "hear me and believe my words, for I
will tell you the truth. Who ever heard the Head Buffalo lie, and who
ever saw him afraid of his enemies? Never, since the time that he
chewed the bitter root and put on the new moccasins, has he lied or
fled from his foes. He has neither a forked tongue nor a faint heart.
Fathers, the Walkullas are weaker than us. Their arms are not so
strong, their hearts are not so big, as ours. As well might the timid
deer make war upon the hungry wolf, as the Walkullas upon the
Shawanos. We could slay them as easily as a hawk pounces into a dove's
nest and steals away her unfeathered little ones. The Head Buffalo
alone could have taken the scalps of half the nation. But a strange
tribe has come among them--men whose skin is white as the folds of the
cloud, and whose hair shines like the great star of day. They do not
fight as we fight, with bows and arrows and with war-axes, but with
spears which thunder and lighten, and send unseen death. The Shawanos
fall before it as the berries and acorns fall when the forest is
shaken by the wind in the beaver-moon. Look at the arm nearest my
heart. It was stricken by a bolt from the strangers' thunder; but he
fell by the hands of the Head Buffalo, who fears nothing but shame,
and his scalp lies at the feet of the head chief.

"Fathers, this was our battle. We came upon the Walkullas, I and my
brothers, when they were unprepared. They were just going to hold the
dance of the green corn. The whole nation had come to the dance; there
were none left behind save the sick and the very old. None were
painted; they were all for peace, and were as women. We crept close to
them, and hid in the thick bushes which grew upon the edge of their
camp, for the Shawanos are the cunning adder and not the foolish
rattlesnake. We saw them preparing to offer a sacrifice to the Great
Spirit. We saw them clean the deer, and hang his head, horns, and
entrails upon the great white pole with a forked top, which stood over
the roof of the council wigwam. They did not know that the Master of
Life had sent the Shawanos to mix blood with the sacrifices. We saw
them take the new corn and rub it upon their hands, breasts, and
faces. Then the head chief, having first thanked the Master of Life
for his goodness to the Walkullas, got up and gave his brethren a
talk. He told them that the Great Spirit loved them, and had made them
victorious over all their enemies; that he had sent a great many fat
bears, deer, and moose to their hunting-ground, and had given them
fish, whose heads were very small and bodies very big; that he had
made their corn grow tall and sweet, and had ordered his suns to ripen
it in the beginning of the harvest moon, that they might make a great
feast for the strangers who had come from a far country on the wings
of a great bird to warm themselves at the Walkullas' fire. He told
them they must love the Great Spirit, take care of the old men, tell
no lies, and never break the faith of the pipe of peace; that they
must not harm the strangers, for they were their brothers, but must
live in peace with them, and give them lands and wives from among
their women. If they did these things the Great Spirit, he said, would
make their corn grow taller than ever, and direct them to
hunting-grounds where the moose should be as thick as the stars.

"Fathers and warriors, we heard these words; but we knew not what to
do. We feared not the Walkullas; the God of War, we saw, had given
them into our hands. But who were the strange tribe? Were they armed
as we were, and was their Great Medicine (Great Spirit) like ours?
Warriors, you all knew the Young Eagle, the son of the Old Eagle, who
is here with us; but his wings are feeble, he flies no more to the
field of blood. The Young Eagle feared nothing but shame, and he
said--

"'I see many men sit round a fire, I will go and see who they are!'

"He went. The Old Eagle looks at me as if he would say, 'Why went not
the chief warrior himself?' I will tell you. The Head Buffalo is a
head taller than the tallest man of his tribe. Can the moose crawl
into the fox's hole? Can the swan hide himself under a little leaf?
The Young Eagle was little, save in his soul. He was not full-grown,
save in his heart. He could go and not be seen or heard. He was the
cunning black-snake which creeps silently in the grass, and none
thinks him near till he strikes.

"He came back and told us there were many strange men a little way
before us whose faces were white, and who wore no skins, whose cabins
were white as the snow upon the Backbone of the Great Spirit (the
Alleghany Mountains), flat at the top, and moving with the wind like
the reeds on the bank of a river; that they did not talk like the
Walkullas, but spoke a strange tongue, the like of which he had never
heard before. Many of our warriors would have turned back to our own
lands. The Flying Squirrel said it was not cowardice to do so; but the
Head Buffalo never turns till he has tasted the blood of his foes. The
Young Eagle said he had eaten the bitter root and put on the new
moccasins, and had been made a man, and his father and the warriors
would cry shame on him if he took no scalp. Both he and the Head
Buffalo said they would go and attack the Walkullas and their friends
alone. The young warriors then said they would also go to the battle,
and with a great heart, as their fathers had done. Then the Shawanos
rushed upon their foes.

"The Walkullas fell before us like rain in the summer months. We were
as a fire among rushes. We went upon them when they were unprepared,
when they were as children; and for a while the Great Spirit gave them
into our hands. But a power rose up against us that we could not
withstand. The strange men came upon us armed with thunder and
lightning. Why delays my tongue to tell its story? Fathers, your sons
have fallen like the leaves of a forest-tree in a high wind, like the
flowers of spring after a frost, like drops of rain in the sturgeon
moon! Warriors, the sprouts which sprang up from the withered oaks
have perished, the young braves of our nation lie food for the eagle
and the wild-cat by the arm of the Great Lake!

"Fathers, the bolt from the strangers' thunder entered my flesh, yet I
did not fly. These six scalps I tore from the Walkullas, but this has
yellow hair. Have I done well?"

The head chief and the counsellors answered he had done very well, but
Chenos answered--

"No. You went into the Walkullas' camp when the tribe were feasting
to the Great Spirit, and you disturbed the sacrifice, and mixed human
blood with it. Therefore has this evil come upon us, for the Great
Spirit is very angry."

Then the head chief and the counsellors asked Chenos what must be done
to appease the Master of Breath.

Chenos answered--

"The Head Buffalo, with the morning, will offer to him that which he
holds dearest."

The Head Buffalo looked upon the priests, and said--

"The Head Buffalo fears the Great Spirit. He will kill a deer, and, in
the morning, it shall be burned to the Great Spirit."

Chenos said to him--

"You have told the council how the battle was fought and who fell; you
have shown the spent quiver and the scalps, but you have not spoken of
your prisoner. The Great Spirit keeps nothing hid from his priests, of
whom Chenos is one. He has told me you have a prisoner, one with
tender feet and a trembling heart."

"Let any one say the Head Buffalo ever lied," replied the warrior. "He
never spoke but truth. He has a prisoner, a woman taken from the
strange camp, a daughter of the sun, a maiden from the happy islands
which no Shawano has ever seen, and she shall live with me, and become
the mother of my children."

"Where is she?" asked the head chief.

"She sits on the bank of the river at the bend where we dug up the
bones of the great beast, beneath the tree which the Master of Breath
shivered with his lightnings. I placed her there because the spot is
sacred, and none dare disturb her. I will go and fetch her to the
council fire, but let no one touch her or show anger, for she is
fearful as a young deer, and weeps like a child for its mother."

Soon he returned, and brought with him a woman. She shook like a reed
in the winter's wind, and many tears ran down her cheeks. The men sat
as though their tongues were frozen. Was she beautiful? Go forth to
the forest when it is clothed with the flowers of spring, look at the
tall maize when it waves in the wind, and ask if they are beautiful.
Her skin was white as the snow which falls upon the mountains beyond
our lands, save upon her cheeks, where it was red,--not such red as
the Indian paints when he goes to war, but such as the Master of Life
gives to the flower which grows among thorns. Her eyes shone like the
star which never moves. Her step was like that of the deer when it is
a little scared.

The Head Buffalo said to the council--

"This is my prisoner. I fought hard for her. Three warriors, tall,
strong, and painted, three pale men, armed with red lightning, stood
at her side. Where are they now? I bore her away in my arms, for fear
had overcome her. When night came on I wrapped skins around her, and
laid her under the leafy branches of the tree to keep off the cold,
and kindled a fire, and watched by her till the sun rose. Who will
say she shall not live with the Head Buffalo, and be the mother of his
children?"

Then the Old Eagle got up, but he could not walk strong, for he was
the oldest warrior of his tribe, and had seen the flowers bloom many
times, the infant trees of the forest die of old age, and the friends
of his boyhood laid in the dust. He went to the woman, laid his hands
on her head, and wept. The other warriors, who had lost their kindred
and sons in the war with the Walkullas, shouted and lamented. The
woman also wept.

"Where is the Young Eagle?" asked the Old Eagle of the Head Buffalo.
The other warriors, in like manner, asked for their kindred who had
been killed.

"Fathers, they are dead," answered the warrior. "The Head Buffalo has
said they are dead, and he never lies. But let my fathers take
comfort. Who can live for ever? The foot of the swift step and the
hand of the stout bow become feeble. The eye grows dim, and the heart
of many days quails at the fierce glance of warriors. 'Twas better
they should die like brave men in their youth than become old men and
faint."

"We must have revenge," they all cried. "We will not listen to the
young warrior who pines for the daughter of the sun."

Then they began to sing a mournful song. The strange woman wept. Tears
rolled down her cheeks, and she often looked up to the house of the
Great Spirit and spoke, but none could understand her. All the time
the Old Eagle and the other warriors begged that she should be burned
to revenge them.

"Brothers and warriors," said Chenos, "our sons did wrong when they
broke in upon the sacred dance the Walkullas made to their god, and he
lent his thunder to the strange warriors. Let us not draw down his
vengeance further by doing we know not what. Let the beautiful woman
remain this night in the wigwam of the council, covered with skins,
and let none disturb her. To-morrow we will offer a sacrifice of
deer's flesh to the Great Spirit, and if he will not give her to the
raging fire and the torments of the avengers, he will tell us so by
the words of his mouth. If he does not speak, it shall be done to her
as the Old Eagle and his brothers have said."

The head chief said--

"Chenos has spoken well; wisdom is in his words. Make for the strange
woman a soft bed of skins, and treat her kindly, for it may be she is
a daughter of the Great Spirit."

Then they all returned to their cabins and slept, save the Head
Buffalo, who, fearing for the woman's life, laid himself down at the
door of the lodge, and watched.

When the morning came the warrior went to the forest and killed a deer
which he brought to Chenos, who prepared it for a sacrifice, and sang
a song while the flesh lay on the fire.

"Let us listen," said Chenos, stopping the warriors in their dance.
"Let us see if the Great Spirit hears us."

They listened, but could hear nothing. Chenos asked him why he did not
speak, but he did not answer. Then they sang again.

"Hush!" said Chenos listening. "I hear the crowing of the Great
Turkey-cock. I hear him speaking."

They stopped, and Chenos went close to the fire and talked with his
master, but nobody saw with whom he talked.

"What does the Great Spirit tell his prophet?" asked the head chief.

"He says," answered Chenos, "the young woman must not be offered to
him. He wills her to live and become the mother of many children."

Many were pleased that she was to live, but those who had lost
brothers or sons were not appeased, and they said--

"We will have blood. We will go to the priest of the Evil Spirit, and
ask him if his master will not give us revenge."

Not far from where our nation had their council fire was a great hill,
covered with stunted trees and moss, and rugged rocks. There was a
great cave in it, in which dwelt Sketupah, the priest of the Evil One,
who there did worship to his master. Sketupah would have been tall had
he been straight, but he was more crooked than a bent bow. His hair
was like a bunch of grapes, and his eyes like two coals of fire. Many
were the gifts our nation made to him to gain his favour, and the
favour of his master. Who but he feasted on the fattest buffalo hump?
Who but he fed on the earliest ear of milky corn, on the best things
that grew on the land or in the water?

The Old Eagle went to the mouth of the cave and cried with a loud
voice--

"Sketupah!"

"Sketupah!" answered the hoarse voice of the Evil One from the hollow
cave. He soon came and asked the Old Eagle what he wanted.

"Revenge for our sons who have been killed by the Walkullas and their
friends. Will your master hear us?"

"My master must have a sacrifice; he must smell blood," answered
Sketupah. "Then we shall know if he will give revenge. Bring hither a
sacrifice in the morning."

So in the morning they brought a sacrifice, and the priest laid it on
the fire while he danced around. He ceased singing and listened, but
the Evil Spirit answered not. Just as he was going to commence another
song the warriors saw a large ball rolling very fast up the hill to
the spot where they stood. It was the height of a man. When it came up
to them it began to unwind itself slowly, until at last a little
strange-looking man crept out of the ball, which was made of his own
hair. He was no higher than one's shoulders. One of his feet made a
strange track, such as no warrior had ever seen before. His face was
as black as the shell of the butter-nut or the feathers of the raven,
and his eyes as green as grass. His hair was of the colour of moss,
and so long that, as the wind blew it out, it seemed the tail of a
fiery star.

"What do you want of me?" he asked.

The priest answered--

"The Shawanos want revenge. They want to sacrifice the beautiful
daughter of the sun, whom the Head Buffalo has brought from the camp
of the Walkullas."

"They shall have their wish," said the Evil Spirit. "Go and fetch
her."

Then Old Eagle and the warriors fetched her. Head Buffalo would have
fought for her, but Chenos commanded him to be still.

"My master," he said, "will see she does not suffer." Then they
fastened her to the stake. The head warrior had stood still, for he
hoped that the priest of the Great Spirit should snatch her away from
the Evil One. Now he shouted his war-cry and rushed upon Sketupah. It
was in vain. Sketupah's master did but breathe upon the face of the
warrior when he fell as though he had struck him a blow, and never
breathed more. Then the Evil One commanded them to seize Chenos.

"Come, my master," cried Chenos, "for the hands of the Evil One are
upon me."

As soon as he had said this, very far over the tall hills, which
Indians call the Backbone of the Great Spirit, the people saw two
great lights, brighter and larger than stars, moving very fast towards
the land of the Shawanos. One was just as high as another, and they
were both as high as the goat-sucker flies before a thunderstorm. At
first they were close together, but as they came nearer they grew
wider apart. Soon our people saw that they were two eyes, and in a
little while the body of a great man, whose head nearly reached the
sky, came after them. Brothers, the eyes of the Great Spirit always go
before him, and nothing is hid from his sight. Brothers, I cannot
describe the Master of Life as he stood before the warriors of our
nation. Can you look steadily on the star of the morning?

When the Evil Spirit saw the Spirit of Good coming, he began to grow
in stature, and continued swelling until he was as tall and big as he.
When the Spirit of Good came near and saw how the Evil Spirit had
grown, he stopped, and, looking angry, said, with a voice that shook
the hills--

"You lied; you promised to stay among the white people and the nations
towards the rising sun, and not trouble my people more."

"This woman," replied the Evil Spirit, "comes from my country; she is
mine."

"She is mine," said the Great Spirit. "I had given her for a wife to
the warrior whom you have killed. Tell me no more lies, bad manito,
lest I punish you. Away, and see you trouble my people no more."

The cowardly spirit made no answer, but shrank down to the size he was
when he first came. Then he began as before to roll himself up in his
hair, which he soon did, and then disappeared as he came. When he was
gone, the Great Spirit shrank till he was no larger than a Shawano,
and began talking to our people in a soft sweet voice--

"Men of the Shawanos nation, I love you and have always loved you. I
bade you conquer your enemies; I gave your foes into your hands. I
sent herds of deer and many bears and moose to your hunting-ground,
and made my suns shine upon your corn. Who lived so well, who fought
so bravely as the Shawanos? Whose women bore so many sons as yours?

"Why did you disturb the sacrifice which the Walkullas were offering
to me at the feast of green corn? I was angry, and gave your warriors
into the hands of their enemies.

"Shawanos, hear my words, and forget them not; do as I bid you, and
you shall see my power and my goodness. Offer no further violence to
the white maiden, but treat her kindly. Go now and rake up the ashes
of the sacrifice fire into a heap, gathering up the brands. When the
great star of evening rises, open the ashes, put in the body of the
Head Buffalo, lay on much wood, and kindle a fire on it. Let all the
nation be called together, for all must assist in laying wood on the
fire, but they must put on no pine, nor the tree which bears white
flowers, nor the grape-vine which yields no fruit, nor the shrub whose
dew blisters the flesh. The fire must be kept burning two whole moons.
It must not go out; it must burn night and day. On the first day of
the third moon put no wood on the fire, but let it die. On the morning
of the second day the Shawanos must all come to the heap of
ashes--every man, woman, and child must come, and the aged who cannot
walk must be helped to it. Then Chenos and the head chief must bring
out the beautiful woman, and place her near the ashes. This is the
will of the Great Spirit."

When he had finished these words he began to swell until he had
reached his former bulk and stature. Then at each of his shoulders
came out a wing of the colour of the gold-headed pigeon. Gently
shaking these, he took flight from the land of the Shawanos, and was
never seen in those beautiful regions again.

The Shawanos did as he bade them. They raked the ashes together, laid
the body of Head Buffalo in them, lighted the fire, and kept it
burning the appointed time. On the first day of the third moon they
let the fire out, assembled the nation around, and placed the
beautiful woman near the ashes. They waited, and looked to see what
would happen. At last the priests and warriors who were nearest began
to shout, crying out--

"Piqua!" which in the Shawanos tongue means a man coming out of the
ashes, or a man made of ashes.

They told no lie. There he stood, a man tall and straight as a young
pine, looking like a Shawanos, but handsomer than any man of our
nation. The first thing he did was to cry the war-whoop, and demand
paint, a club, a bow and arrows, and a hatchet,--all of which were
given him. Looking around he saw the white woman, and he walked up to
her, and gazed in her eyes. Then he came to the head chief and said--

"I must have that woman for my wife."

"What are you?" asked the chief.

"A man of ashes," he replied.

"Who made you?"

"The Great Spirit; and now let me go, that I may take my bow and
arrows, kill my deer, and come back and take the beautiful maiden for
my wife."

The chief asked Chenos--

"Shall he have her? Does the Great Spirit give her to him?"

"Yes," replied the priest. "The Great Spirit has willed that he shall
have her, and from them shall arise a tribe to be called Piqua."

Brothers, I am a Piqua, descended from the man made of ashes. If I
have told you a lie, blame not me, for I have but told the story as I
heard it. Brothers, I have done.




THE EVIL MAKER.


The Great Spirit made man, and all the good things in the world, while
the Evil Spirit was asleep. When the Evil Spirit awoke he saw an
Indian, and, wondering at his appearance, he went to him and asked--

"Who made you?"

"The Great Spirit," replied the man.

"Oh, oh," thought the Evil Spirit, "if he can make such a being so can
I."

So he went to work, and tried his best to make an Indian like the man
he saw, but he made some mistake, and only made a black man. When he
saw that he had failed he was very angry, and in that state was
walking about when he met a black bear.

"Who made you?" he asked.

"The Great Spirit," answered the bear.

"Then," thought the Evil Spirit, "I will make a bear too."

To work he went, but do what he would he could not make a black bear,
but only a grizzly one, unfit for food. More disgusted than before, he
was walking through the forest when he found a beautiful serpent.

"Who made you?" he asked.

"The Great Spirit," replied the serpent.

"Then I will make some like you," said the Evil Maker.

He tried his best, but the serpents he made were all noisome and
poisonous, and he saw that he had failed again.

Then it occurred to him that he might make some trees and flowers, but
all his efforts only resulted in his producing some poor deformed
trees and weeds.

Then he said--

"It is true, I have failed in making things like the Great Spirit, but
I can at least spoil what he has made."

And he went off to put murder and lies in the hearts of men.




MANABOZHO THE WOLF.


Manabozho set out to travel. He wished to outdo all others, and see
new countries, but after walking over America, and encountering many
adventures, he became satisfied as well as fatigued. He had heard of
great feats in hunting, and felt a desire to try his power in that
way.

One evening, as he was walking along the shores of a great lake, weary
and hungry, he encountered a great magician in the form of an old
wolf, with six young ones, coming towards him. The wolf, as soon as he
saw him, told his whelps to keep out of the way of Manabozho.

"For I know," said he, "that it is he we see yonder."

The young wolves were in the act of running off, when Manabozho cried
out--

"My grandchildren, where are you going? Stop, and I will go with you."

He appeared rejoiced to see the old wolf, and asked him whither he was
journeying. Being told that they were looking out for a place where
they could find the most game, and best pass the winter, he said he
should like to go with them, and addressed the old wolf in these
words--

"Brother, I have a passion for the chase. Are you willing to change me
into a wolf?"

The old wolf was agreeable, and Manabozho's transformation was
effected.

He was fond of novelty. He found himself a wolf corresponding in size
with the others, but he was not quite satisfied with the change,
crying out--

"Oh! make me a little larger."

They did so.

"A little larger still," he cried.

They said--

"Let us humour him," and granted his request.

"Well," said he, "that will do." Then looking at his tail--

"Oh!" cried he, "make my tail a little longer and more bushy."

They made it so, and shortly after they all started off in company,
dashing up a ravine. After getting into the woods some distance, they
fell in with the tracks of moose. The young wolves went after them,
Manabozho and the old wolf following at their leisure.

"Well," said the wolf, "who do you think is the fastest of my sons?
Can you tell by the jumps they take?"

"Why," replied he, "that one that takes such long jumps; he is the
fastest, to be sure."

"Ha, ha! You are mistaken," said the old wolf. "He makes a good start,
but he will be the first to tire out. This one who appears to be
behind will be the first to kill the game."

Soon after they came to the place where the young ones had killed the
game. One of them had dropped his bundle there.

"Take that, Manabozho," said the old wolf.

"Esa," he replied, "what will I do with a dirty dog-skin?"

The wolf took it up; it was a beautiful robe.

"Oh! I will carry it now," said Manabozho.

"Oh no," replied the wolf, who at the moment exerted his magic power.
"It is a robe of pearls."

From that moment he lost no opportunity of displaying his superiority,
both in the hunter's and magician's art, over his conceited companion.

Coming to a place where the moose had lain down, they saw that the
young wolves had made a fresh start after their prey.

"Why," said the wolf, "this moose is poor. I know by the tracks, for I
can always tell whether they are fat or not."

They next came to a place where one of the wolves had tried to bite
the moose, and, failing, had broken one of his teeth on a tree.

"Manabozho," said the wolf, "one of your grandchildren has shot at the
game. Take his arrow. There it is."

"No," replied he, "what will I do with a dirty tooth?"

The old wolf took it up, and, behold! it was a beautiful silver arrow.

When they overtook the young ones, they found they had killed a very
fat moose. Manabozho was very hungry, but, such is the power of
enchantment, he saw nothing but bones, picked quite clean. He thought
to himself--

"Just as I expected. Dirty, greedy fellows!"

However, he sat down without saying a word, and the old wolf said to
one of the young ones--

"Give some meat to your grandfather."

The wolf, coming near to Manabozho, opened his mouth wide as if he had
eaten too much, whereupon Manabozho jumped up, saying--

"You filthy dog, you have eaten so much that you are ill. Get away to
some other place."

The old wolf, hearing these words, came to Manabozho, and, behold!
before him was a heap of fresh ruddy meat with the fat lying all ready
prepared. Then Manabozho put on a smiling-face.

"Amazement!" cried he, "how fine the meat is!"

"Yes," replied the wolf; "it is always so with us. We know our work,
and always get the best. It is not a long tail that makes a hunter."

Manabozho bit his lip.

They then commenced fixing their winter quarters, while the young ones
went out in search of game, of which they soon brought in a large
supply. One day, during the absence of the young wolves, the old one
amused himself by cracking the large bones of a moose.

"Manabozho," said he, "cover your head with the robe, and do not look
at me while I am at these bones, for a piece may fly in your eye."

Manabozho covered his head, but, looking through a rent in the robe,
he saw all the other was about. At that moment a piece of bone flew
off and hit him in the eye. He cried out--

"Tyau! Why do you strike me, you old dog!"

The wolf said--

"You must have been looking at me."

"No, no," replied Manabozho; "why should I want to look at you?"

"Manabozho," said the wolf, "you must have been looking, or you would
not have got hurt."

"No, no," said Manabozho; and he thought to himself, "I will repay the
saucy wolf for this."

Next day, taking up a bone to obtain the marrow, he said to the old
wolf--

"Cover your head, and don't look at me, for I fear a piece may fly in
your eye."

The wolf did so. Then Manabozho took the leg-bone of the moose, and,
looking first to see if the old wolf was well covered, he hit him a
blow with all his might. The wolf jumped up, and cried out--

"Why do you strike me so?"

"Strike you?" exclaimed Manabozho. "I did not strike you!"

"You did," said the wolf.

"How can you say I did, when you did not see me. Were you looking?"
said Manabozho.

He was an expert hunter when he undertook the work in earnest, and one
day he went out and killed a fat moose. He was very hungry, and sat
down to eat, but fell into great doubts as to the proper point in the
carcass to begin at.

"Well," said he, "I don't know where to commence. At the head? No.
People would laugh, and say, 'He ate him backward!'"

Then he went to the side.

"No," said he, "they will say I ate him sideways."

He then went to the hind-quarter.

"No," said he, "they will say I ate him forward."

At last, however, seeing that he must begin the attack somewhere, he
commenced upon the hind-quarter. He had just got a delicate piece in
his mouth when the tree just by began to make a creaking noise,
rubbing one large branch against another. This annoyed him.

"Why!" he exclaimed, "I cannot eat when I hear such a noise. Stop,
stop!" cried he to the tree.

He was again going on with his meal when the noise was repeated.

"I cannot eat with such a noise," said he; and, leaving the meal,
although he was very hungry, he went to put a stop to the noise. He
climbed the tree, and having found the branches which caused the
disturbance, tried to push them apart, when they suddenly caught him
between them, so that he was held fast. While he was in this position
a pack of wolves came near.

"Go that way," cried Manabozho, anxious to send them away from the
neighbourhood of his meat. "Go that way; what would you come to get
here?"

The wolves talked among themselves, and said, "Manabozho wants to get
us out of the way. He must have something good here."

"I begin to know him and all his tricks," said an old wolf. "Let us
see if there is anything."

They accordingly began to search, and very soon finding the moose made
away with the whole carcass. Manabozho looked on wistfully, and saw
them eat till they were satisfied, when they left him nothing but bare
bones. Soon after a blast of wind opened the branches and set him
free. He went home, thinking to himself--

"See the effect of meddling with frivolous things when certain good is
in one's possession!"




THE MAN-FISH.


A very great while ago the ancestors of the Shawanos nation lived on
the other side of the Great Lake, half-way between the rising sun and
the evening star. It was a land of deep snows and much frost, of winds
which whistled in the clear, cold nights, and storms which travelled
from seas no eyes could reach. Sometimes the sun ceased to shine for
moons together, and then he was continually before their eyes for as
many more. In the season of cold the waters were all locked up, and
the snows overtopped the ridge of the cabins. Then he shone out so
fiercely that men fell stricken by his fierce rays, and were numbered
with the snow that had melted and run to the embrace of the rivers. It
was not like the beautiful lands--the lands blessed with soft suns and
ever-green vales--in which the Shawanos now dwell, yet it was well
stocked with deer, and the waters with fat seals and great fish, which
were caught just when the people pleased to go after them. Still, the
nation were discontented, and wished to leave their barren and
inhospitable shores. The priests had told them of a beautiful world
beyond the Great Salt Lake, from which the glorious sun never
disappeared for a longer time than the duration of a child's sleep,
where snow-shoes were never wanted--a land clothed with perpetual
verdure, and bright with never-failing gladness. The Shawanos listened
to these tales till they came to loathe their own simple comforts; all
they talked of, all they appeared to think of, was the land of the
happy hunting-grounds.

Once upon a time the people were much terrified at seeing a strange
creature, much resembling a man, riding along the waves of the lake on
the borders of which they dwelt. He had on his head long green hair;
his face was shaped like that of a porpoise, and he had a beard of the
colour of ooze.

If the people were frightened at seeing a man who could live in the
water like a fish or a duck, how much more were they frightened when
they saw that from his breast down he was actually fish, or rather two
fishes, for each of his legs was a whole and distinct fish. When they
heard him speak distinctly in their own language, and when he sang
songs sweeter than the music of birds in spring, or the whispers of
love from the lips of a beautiful maiden, they thought it a being from
the Land of Shades--a spirit from the happy fishing-grounds beyond the
lake of storms.

He would sit for a long time, his fish-legs coiled up under him,
singing to the wondering ears of the Indians upon the shore the
pleasures he experienced, and the beautiful and strange things he saw
in the depths of the ocean, always closing his strange stories with
these words, shouted at the top of his voice--

"Follow me, and see what I will show you."

Every day, when the waves were still and the winds had gone to their
resting-place in the depths of the earth, the monster was sure to be
seen near the shore where the Shawanos dwelt. For a great many suns
they dared not venture upon the water in quest of food, doing nothing
but wander along the beach, watching the strange creature as he played
his antics upon the surface of the waves, listening to his songs and
to his invitation--

"Follow me, and see what I will show you."

The longer he stayed the less they feared him. They became used to
him, and in time looked upon him as a spirit who was not made for
harm, nor wished to injure the poor Indian. Then they grew hungry, and
their wives and little ones cried for food, and, as hunger banishes
all fear, in a few days three canoes with many men and warriors
ventured off to the rocks in quest of fish.

When they reached the fishing-place, they heard as before the voice
shouting--

"Follow me, and see what I will show you."

Presently the man-fish appeared, sitting on the water, with his legs
folded under him, and his arms crossed on his breast, as they had
usually seen him. There he sat, eying them attentively. When they
failed to draw in the fish they had hooked, he would make the water
shake and the deep echo with shouts of laughter, and would clap his
hands with great noise, and cry--

"Ha, ha! there he fooled you."

When a fish was caught he was very angry. When the fishers had tried
long and patiently, and taken little, and the sun was just hiding
itself behind the dark clouds which skirted the region of warm winds,
the strange creature cried out still stronger than before--

"Follow me, and see what I will show you."

Kiskapocoke, who was the head man of the tribe, asked him what he
wanted, but he would make no other answer than--

"Follow me."

"Do you think," said Kiskapocoke, "I would be such a fool as to go I
don't know with whom, and I don't know where?"

"See what I will show you," cried the man-fish.

"Can you show us anything better than we have yonder?" asked the
warrior.

"I will show you," replied the monster, "a land where there is a herd
of deer for every one that skips over your hills, where there are vast
droves of creatures larger than your sea-elephants, where there is no
cold to freeze you, where the sun is always soft and smiling, where
the trees are always in bloom."

The people began to be terrified, and wished themselves on land, but
the moment they tried to paddle towards the shore, some invisible hand
would seize their canoes and draw them back, so that an hour's labour
did not enable them to gain the length of their boat in the direction
of their homes. At last Kiskapocoke said to his companions--

"What shall we do?"

"Follow me," said the fish.

Then Kiskapocoke said to his companions--

"Let us follow him, and see what will come of it."

So they followed him,--he swimming and they paddling, until night
came. Then a great wind and deep darkness prevailed, and the Great
Serpent commenced hissing in the depths of the ocean. The people were
terribly frightened, and did not think to live till another sun, but
the man-fish kept close to the boats, and bade them not be afraid, for
nothing should hurt them.

When morning came, nothing could be seen of the shore they had left.
The winds still raged, the seas were very high, and the waters ran
into their canoes like melted snows over the brows of the mountains,
but the man-fish handed them large shells, with which they baled the
water out. As they had brought neither food nor water with them, they
had become both hungry and thirsty. Kiskapocoke told the strange
creature they wanted to eat and drink, and that he must supply them
with what they required.

"Very well," said the man-fish, and, disappearing in the depths of the
water, he soon reappeared, bringing with him a bag of parched corn and
a shell full of sweet water.

For two moons and a half the fishermen followed the man-fish, till at
last one morning their guide exclaimed--

"Look there!"

Upon that they looked in the direction he pointed out to them and saw
land, high land, covered with great trees, and glittering as the sand
of the Spirit's Island. Behind the shore rose tall mountains, from the
tops of which issued great flames, which shot up into the sky, as the
forks of the lightning cleave the clouds in the hot moon. The waters
of the Great Salt Lake broke in small waves upon its shores, which
were covered with sporting seals and wild ducks pluming themselves in
the beams of the warm and gentle sun. Upon the shore stood a great
many strange people, but when they saw the strangers step upon the
land and the man-fish, they fled to the woods like startled deer, and
were no more seen.

When the warriors were safely landed, the man-fish told them to let
the canoe go; "for," said he, "you will never need it more." They had
travelled but a little way into the woods when he bade them stay where
they were, while he told the spirit of the land that the strangers he
had promised were come, and with that he descended into a deep cave
near at hand. He soon returned, accompanied by a creature as strange
in appearance as himself. His legs and feet were those of a man. He
had leggings and moccasins like an Indian's, tightly laced and
beautifully decorated with wampum, but his head was like a goat's. He
talked like a man, and his language was one well understood by the
strangers.

"I will lead you," he said, "to a beautiful land, to a most beautiful
land, men from the clime of snows. There you will find all the joys an
Indian covets."

For many moons the Shawanos travelled under the guidance of the
man-goat, into whose hands the man-fish had put them, when he retraced
his steps to the Great Lake. They came at length to the land which the
Shawanos now occupy. They found it as the strange spirits had
described it. They married the daughters of the land, and their
numbers increased till they were so many that no one could count them.
They grew strong, swift, and valiant in war, keen and patient in the
chase. They overcame all the tribes eastward of the River of Rivers,
and south to the shore of the Great Lake.


Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty,
at the Edinburgh University Press.




Transcriber's Note.

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.

All Native American words have been kept as originally printed,
including those with variation in hyphenation or spelling.

The advertisement has been moved to follow the title page.







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS: NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN ***


    

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