Old Indian Legends, by Zitkala Sa
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Zitkala Sa >> Old Indian Legends, by Zitkala Sa
"Hin-hin, doe-skin! Hin-hin, Ermine, Ermine! Hin-hin, red
blanket, with white border!"
Not knowing that the syllables of a Dakota's cry are the names
of loved ones gone, the ugly toad mother sought to please the boy's
ear with the names of valuable articles. Having shrieked in a
torturing voice and mouthed extravagant names, the old toad rolled
her tearless eyes with great satisfaction. Hopping back into her
dwelling, she asked:
"My son, did my voice bring tears to your eyes? Did my words
bring gladness to your ears? Do you not like my wailing better?"
"No, no!" pouted the boy with some impatience. "I want to
hear the woman's voice! Tell me, mother, why the human voice stirs
all my feelings!"
The toad mother said within her breast, "The human child has
heard and seen his real mother. I cannot keep him longer, I fear.
Oh, no, I cannot give away the pretty creature I have taught to
call me 'mother' all these many winters."
"Mother," went on the child voice, "tell me one thing. Tell
me why my little brothers and sisters are all unlike me."
The big, ugly toad, looking at her pudgy children, said: "The
eldest is always best."
This reply quieted the boy for a while. Very closely watched
the old toad mother her stolen human son. When by chance he
started off alone, she shoved out one of her own children after
him, saying: "Do not come back without your big brother."
Thus the wild boy with the long, loose hair sits every day on
a marshy island hid among the tall reeds. But he is not alone.
Always at his feet hops a little toad brother. One day an Indian
hunter, wading in the deep waters, spied the boy. He had heard
of the baby stolen long ago.
"This is he!" murmured the hunter to himself as he ran to his
wigwam. "I saw among the tall reeds a black-haired boy at play!"
shouted he to the people.
At once the unhappy father and mother cried out, "'Tis he, our
boy!" Quickly he led them to the lake. Peeping through the wild
rice, he pointed with unsteady finger toward the boy playing all
unawares.
"'Tis he! 'tis he!" cried the mother, for she knew him.
In silence the hunter stood aside, while the happy father and
mother caressed their baby boy grown tall.
IYA, THE CAMP-EATER
IYA, THE CAMP-EATER
FROM the tall grass came the voice of a crying babe. The
huntsmen who were passing nigh heard and halted.
The tallest one among them hastened toward the high grass with
long, cautious strides. He waded through the growth of green with
just a head above it all. Suddenly exclaiming "Hunhe!" he dropped
out of sight. In another instant he held up in both his hands a
tiny little baby, wrapped in soft brown buckskins.
"Oh ho, a wood-child!" cried the men, for they were hunting
along the wooded river bottom where this babe was found.
While the hunters were questioning whether or no they should
carry it home, the wee Indian baby kept up his little howl.
"His voice is strong!" said one.
"At times it sounds like an old man's voice!" whispered a
superstitious fellow, who feared some bad spirit hid in the small
child to cheat them by and by.
"Let us take it to our wise chieftain," at length they said;
and the moment they started toward the camp ground the strange
wood-child ceased to cry.
Beside the chieftain's teepee waited the hunters while the
tall man entered with the child.
"How! how!" nodded the kind-faced chieftain, listening to the
queer story. Then rising, he took the infant in his strong arms;
gently he laid the black-eyed babe in his daughter's lap. "This is
to be your little son!" said he, smiling.
"Yes, father," she replied. Pleased with the child, she
smoothed the long black hair fringing his round brown face.
"Tell the people that I give a feast and dance this day for
the naming of my daughter's little son," bade the chieftain.
In the meanwhile among the men waiting by the entrance way,
one said in a low voice: "I have heard that bad spirits come as
little children into a camp which they mean to destroy."
"No! no! Let us not be overcautious. It would be cowardly to
leave a baby in the wild wood where prowl the hungry wolves!"
answered an elderly man.
The tall man now came out of the chieftain's teepee. With a
word he sent them to their dwellings half running with joy.
"A feast! a dance for the naming of the chieftain's
grandchild!" cried he in a loud voice to the village people.
"What? what?" asked they in great surprise, holding a hand to
the ear to catch the words of the crier.
There was a momentary silence among the people while they
listened to the ringing voice of the man walking in the center
ground. Then broke forth a rippling, laughing babble among the
cone-shaped teepees. All were glad to hear of the chieftain's
grandson. They were happy to attend the feast and dance for its
naming. With excited fingers they twisted their hair into glossy
braids and painted their cheeks with bright red paint. To and fro
hurried the women, handsome in their gala-day dress. Men in loose
deerskins, with long tinkling metal fringes, strode in small
numbers toward the center of the round camp ground.
Here underneath a temporary shade-house of green leaves they
were to dance and feast. The children in deerskins and paints,
just like their elders, were jolly little men and women. Beside
their eager parents they skipped along toward the green dance
house.
Here seated in a large circle, the people were assembled, the
proud chieftain rose with the little baby in his arms. The noisy
hum of voices was hushed. Not a tinkling of a metal fringe broke
the silence. The crier came forward to greet the chieftain, then
bent attentively over the small babe, listening to the words of the
chieftain. When he paused the crier spoke aloud to the people:
"This woodland child is adopted by the chieftain's eldest
daughter. His name is Chaske. He wears the title of the eldest
son. In honor of Chaske the chieftain gives this feast and dance!
These are the words of him you see holding a baby in his arms."
"Yes! Yes! Hinnu! How!" came from the circle. At once the
drummers beat softly and slowly their drum while the chosen singers
hummed together to find the common pitch. The beat of the drum
grew louder and faster. The singers burst forth in a lively tune.
Then the drumbeats subsided and faintly marked the rhythm of the
singing. Here and there bounced up men and women, both young
and old. They danced and sang with merry light hearts. Then came
the hour of feasting.
Late into the night the air of the camp ground was alive with
the laughing voices of women and the singing in unison of young
men. Within her father's teepee sat the chieftain's daughter.
Proud of her little one, she watched over him asleep in her lap.
Gradually a deep quiet stole over the camp ground, as one by
one the people fell into pleasant dreams. Now all the village was
still. Alone sat the beautiful young mother watching the babe in
her lap, asleep with a gaping little mouth. Amid the quiet of the
night, her ear heard the far-off hum of many voices. The faint
sound of murmuring people was in the air. Upward she glanced at
the smoke hole of the wigwam and saw a bright star peeping down
upon her. "Spirits in the air above?" she wondered. Yet there was
no sign to tell her of their nearness. The fine small sound of
voices grew larger and nearer.
"Father! rise! I hear the coming of some tribe. Hostile or
friendly--I cannot tell. Rise and see!" whispered the young woman.
"Yes, my daughter!" answered the chieftain, springing to his
feet.
Though asleep, his ear was ever alert. Thus rushing out into
the open, he listened for strange sounds. With an eagle eye he
scanned the camp ground for some sign.
Returning he said: "My daughter, I hear nothing and see no
sign of evil nigh."
"Oh! the sound of many voices comes up from the earth about
me!" exclaimed the young mother.
Bending low over her babe she gave ear to the ground.
Horrified was she to find the mysterious sound came out of the open
mouth of her sleeping child!
"Why so unlike other babes!" she cried within her heart as she
slipped him gently from her lap to the ground. "Mother, listen and
tell me if this child is an evil spirit come to destroy our camp!"
she whispered loud.
Placing an ear close to the open baby mouth, the chieftain and
his wife, each in turn heard the voices of a great camp. The
singing of men and women, the beating of the drum, the rattling of
deer-hoofs strung like bells on a string, these were the sounds
they heard.
"We must go away," said the chieftain, leading them into the
night. Out in the open he whispered to the frightened young woman:
"Iya, the camp-eater, has come in the guise of a babe. Had you
gone to sleep, he would have jumped out into his own shape and
would have devoured our camp. He is a giant with spindling legs.
He cannot fight, for he cannot run. He is powerful only in the
night with his tricks. We are safe as soon as day breaks." Then
moving closer to the woman, he whispered: "If he wakes now, he will
swallow the whole tribe with one hideous gulp! Come, we must flee
with our people."
Thus creeping from teepee to teepee a secret alarm signal was
given. At midnight the teepees were gone and there was left no
sign of the village save heaps of dead ashes. So quietly had the
people folded their wigwams and bundled their tent poles that they
slipped away unheard by the sleeping Iya babe.
When the morning sun arose, the babe awoke. Seeing himself
deserted, he threw off his baby form in a hot rage.
Wearing his own ugly shape, his huge body toppled to and fro,
from side to side, on a pair of thin legs far too small for their
burden. Though with every move he came dangerously nigh to
falling, he followed in the trail of the fleeing people.
"I shall eat you in the sight of a noon-day sun!" cried Iya in
his vain rage, when he spied them encamped beyond a river.
By some unknown cunning he swam the river and sought his way
toward the teepees.
"Hin! hin!" he grunted and growled. With perspiration beading
his brow he strove to wiggle his slender legs beneath his giant
form.
"Ha! ha!" laughed all the village people to see Iya made
foolish with anger. "Such spindle legs cannot stand to fight by
daylight!" shouted the brave ones who were terror-struck the night
before by the name "Iya."
Warriors with long knives rushed forth and slew the
camp-eater.
Lo! there rose out of the giant a whole Indian tribe: their
camp ground, their teepees in a large circle, and the people
laughing and dancing.
"We are glad to be free!" said these strange people.
Thus Iya was killed; and no more are the camp grounds in
danger of being swallowed up in a single night time.
MANSTIN, THE RABBIT
MANSTIN, THE RABBIT
MANSTIN was an adventurous brave, but very kind-hearted.
Stamping a moccasined foot as he drew on his buckskin leggins, he
said: "Grandmother, beware of Iktomi! Do not let him lure you into
some cunning trap. I am going to the North country on a long
hunt."
With these words of caution to the bent old rabbit grandmother
with whom he had lived since he was a tiny babe, Manstin started
off toward the north. He was scarce over the great high hills when
he heard the shrieking of a human child.
"Wan!" he ejaculated, pointing his long ears toward the
direction of the sound; "Wan! that is the work of cruel
Double-Face. Shameless coward! he delights in torturing helpless
creatures!"
Muttering indistinct words, Manstin ran up the last hill and
lo! in the ravine beyond stood the terrible monster with a face in
front and one in the back of his head!
This brown giant was without clothes save for a wild-cat-skin
about his loins. With a wicked gleaming eye, he watched the little
black-haired baby he held in his strong arm. In a laughing voice
he hummed an Indian mother's lullaby, "A-boo! Aboo!" and at the
same time he switched the naked baby with a thorny wild-rose bush.
Quickly Manstin jumped behind a large sage bush on the brow of
the hill. He bent his bow and the sinewy string twanged. Now an
arrow stuck above the ear of Double-Face. It was a poisoned arrow,
and the giant fell dead. Then Manstin took the little brown baby
and hurried away from the ravine. Soon he came to a teepee from
whence loud wailing voices broke. It was the teepee of the stolen
baby and the mourners were its heart-broken parents.
When gallant Manstin returned the child to the eager arms of
the mother there came a sudden terror into the eyes of both the
Dakotas. They feared lest it was Double-Face come in a new guise
to torture them. The rabbit understood their fear and said: "I am
Manstin, the kind-hearted,--Manstin, the noted huntsman. I am your
friend. Do not fear."
That night a strange thing happened. While the father and
mother slept, Manstin took the wee baby. With his feet placed
gently yet firmly upon the tiny toes of the little child, he drew
upward by each small hand the sleeping child till he was a full-
grown man. With a forefinger he traced a slit in the upper lip;
and when on the morrow the man and woman awoke they could not
distinguish their own son from Manstin, so much alike were the
braves.
"Henceforth we are friends, to help each other," said Manstin,
shaking a right hand in farewell. "The earth is our common ear, to
carry from its uttermost extremes one's slightest wish for the
other!"
"Ho! Be it so!" answered the newly made man.
Upon leaving his friend, Manstin hurried away toward the North
country whither he was bound for a long hunt. Suddenly he came
upon the edge of a wide brook. His alert eye caught sight of a
rawhide rope staked to the water's brink, which led away toward a
small round hut in the distance. The ground was trodden into a
deep groove beneath the loosely drawn rawhide rope.
"Hun-he!" exclaimed Manstin, bending over the freshly made
footprints in the moist bank of the brook. "A man's footprints!"
he said to himself. "A blind man lives in yonder hut! This rope
is his guide by which he comes for his daily water!" surmised
Manstin, who knew all the peculiar contrivances of the people. At
once his eyes became fixed upon the solitary dwelling and hither he
followed his curiosity,--a real blind man's rope.
Quietly he lifted the door-flap and entered in. An old
toothless grandfather, blind and shaky with age, sat upon the
ground. He was not deaf however. He heard the entrance and felt
the presence of some stranger.
"How, grandchild," he mumbled, for he was old enough to be
grandparent to every living thing, "how! I cannot see you. Pray,
speak your name!"
"Grandfather, I am Manstin," answered the rabbit, all the
while looking with curious eyes about the wigwam.
"Grandfather, what is it so tightly packed in all these
buckskin bags placed against the tent poles?" he asked.
"My grandchild, those are dried buffalo meat and venison.
These are magic bags which never grow empty. I am blind and cannot
go on a hunt. Hence a kind Maker has given me these magic bags of
choicest foods."
Then the old, bent man pulled at a rope which lay by his right
hand. "This leads me to the brook where I drink! and this," said
he, turning to the one on his left, "and this takes me into the
forest, where I feel about for dry sticks for my fire."
"Grandfather, I wish I lived in such sure luxury! I would
lean back against a tent pole, and with crossed feet I would smoke
sweet willow bark the rest of my days," sighed Manstin.
"My grandchild, your eyes are your luxury! you would be
unhappy without them!" the old man replied.
"Grandfather, I would give you my two eyes for your place!"
cried Manstin.
"How! you have said it. Arise. Take out your eyes and give
them to me. Henceforth you are at home here in my stead."
At once Manstin took out both his eyes and the old man put
them on! Rejoicing, the old grandfather started away with his
young eyes while the blind rabbit filled his dream pipe, leaning
lazily against the tent pole. For a short time it was a most
pleasant pastime to smoke willow bark and to eat from the magic
bags.
Manstin grew thirsty, but there was no water in the small
dwelling. Taking one of the rawhide ropes he started toward the
brook to quench his thirst. He was young and unwilling to trudge
slowly in the old man's footpath. He was full of glee, for it had
been many long moons since he had tasted such good food. Thus he
skipped confidently along jerking the old weather-eaten rawhide
spasmodically till all of a sudden it gave way and Manstin fell
headlong into the water.
"En! En!" he grunted kicking frantically amid stream. All
along the slippery bank he vainly tried to climb, till at last he
chanced upon the old stake and the deeply worn footpath. Exhausted
and inwardly disgusted with his mishaps, he crawled more cautiously
on all fours to his wigwam door. Dripping with his recent plunge
he sat with chattering teeth within his unfired wigwam.
The sun had set and the night air was chilly, but there was no
fire-wood in the dwelling. "Hin!" murmured Manstin and bravely
tried the other rope. "I go for some fire-wood!" he said,
following the rawhide rope which led into the forest. Soon he
stumbled upon thickly strewn dry willow sticks. Eagerly with both
hands he gathered the wood into his outspread blanket. Manstin was
naturally an energetic fellow.
When he had a large heap, he tied two opposite ends of blanket
together and lifted the bundle of wood upon his back, but alas! he
had unconsciously dropped the end of the rope and now he was lost
in the wood!
"Hin! hin!" he groaned. Then pausing a moment, he set his
fan-like ears to catch any sound of approaching footsteps. There
was none. Not even a night bird twittered to help him out of his
predicament.
With a bold face, he made a start at random.
He fell into some tangled wood where he was held fast.
Manstin let go his bundle and began to lament having given away
his two eyes.
"Friend, my friend, I have need of you! The old oak tree
grandfather has gone off with my eyes and I am lost in the woods!"
he cried with his lips close to the earth.
Scarcely had he spoken when the sound of voices was audible on
the outer edge of the forest. Nearer and louder grew the
voices--one was the clear flute tones of a young brave and the
other the tremulous squeaks of an old grandfather.
It was Manstin's friend with the Earth Ear and the old
grandfather. "Here Manstin, take back your eyes," said the old
man, "I knew you would not be content in my stead, but I wanted you
to learn your lesson. I have had pleasure seeing with your eyes
and trying your bow and arrows, but since I am old and feeble I
much prefer my own teepee and my magic bags!"
Thus talking the three returned to the hut. The old
grandfather crept into his wigwam, which is often mistaken for a
mere oak tree by little Indian girls and boys.
Manstin, with his own bright eyes fitted into his head again,
went on happily to hunt in the North country.
THE WARLIKE SEVEN
THE WARLIKE SEVEN
ONCE seven people went out to make war,--the Ashes, the Fire,
the Bladder, the Grasshopper, the Dragon Fly, the Fish, and the
Turtle. As they were talking excitedly, waving their fists in
violent gestures, a wind came and blew the Ashes away. "Ho!" cried
the others, "he could not fight, this one!"
The six went on running to make war more quickly. They
descended a deep valley, the Fire going foremost until they came to
a river. The Fire said "Hsss--tchu!" and was gone. "Ho!" hooted
the others, "he could not fight, this one!"
Therefore the five went on the more quickly to make war. They
came to a great wood. While they were going through it, the
Bladder was heard to sneer and to say, "He! you should rise above
these, brothers." With these words he went upward among the
tree-tops; and the thorn apple pricked him. He fell through the
branches and was nothing! "You see this!" said the four, "this one
could not fight."
Still the remaining warriors would not turn back. The four
went boldly on to make war. The Grasshopper with his cousin, the
Dragon Fly, went foremost. They reached a marshy place, and the
mire was very deep. As they waded through the mud, the
Grasshopper's legs stuck, and he pulled them off! He crawled upon
a log and wept, "You see me, brothers, I cannot go!"
The Dragon Fly went on, weeping for his cousin. He would not
be comforted, for he loved his cousin dearly. The more he grieved,
the louder he cried, till his body shook with great violence. He
blew his red swollen nose with a loud noise so that his head came
off his slender neck, and he was fallen upon the grass.
"You see how it is, said the Fish, lashing his tail
impatiently, "these people were not warriors!" "Come!" he said,
"let us go on to make war."
Thus the Fish and the Turtle came to a large camp ground.
"Ho!" exclaimed the people of this round village of teepees,
"Who are these little ones? What do they seek?"
Neither of the warriors carried weapons with them, and their
unimposing stature misled the curious people.
The Fish was spokesman. With a peculiar omission of
syllables, he said: "Shu . . . hi pi!"
"Wan! what? what?" clamored eager voices of men and women.
Again the Fish said: "Shu . . . hi pi!" Everywhere stood
young and old with a palm to an ear. Still no one guessed what
the Fish had mumbled!
From the bewildered crowd witty old Iktomi came forward. "He,
listen!" he shouted, rubbing his mischievous palms together, for
where there was any trouble brewing, he was always in the midst of
it.
"This little strange man says, 'Zuya unhipi! We come to make
war!'"
"Uun!" resented the people, suddenly stricken glum. "Let us
kill the silly pair! They can do nothing! They do not know the
meaning of the phrase. Let us build a fire and boil them both!"
"If you put us on to boil," said the Fish, "there will be
trouble."
"Ho ho!" laughed the village folk. "We shall see."
And so they made a fire.
"I have never been so angered!" said the Fish. The Turtle in
a whispered reply said: "We shall die!"
When a pair of strong hands lifted the Fish over the
sputtering water, he put his mouth downward. "Whssh!" he said. He
blew the water all over the people, so that many were burned and
could not see. Screaming with pain, they ran away.
"Oh, what shall we do with these dreadful ones?" they said.
Others exclaimed: "Let us carry them to the lake of muddy
water and drown them!"
Instantly they ran with them. They threw the Fish and the
Turtle into the lake. Toward the center of the large lake the
Turtle dived. There he peeped up out of the water and, waving a
hand at the crowd, sang out, "This is where I live!"
The Fish swam hither and thither with such frolicsome darts
that his back fin made the water fly. "E han!" whooped the Fish,
"this is where I live!"
"Oh, what have we done!" said the frightened people, "this
will be our undoing."
Then a wise chief said: "Iya, the Eater, shall come and
swallow the lake!"
So one went running. He brought Iya, the Eater; and Iya drank
all day at the lake till his belly was like the earth. Then the
Fish and the Turtle dived into the mud; and Iya said: "They are not
in me." Hearing this the people cried greatly.
Iktomi wading in the lake had been swallowed like a gnat in
the water. Within the great Iya he was looking skyward. So deep
was the water in the Eater's stomach that the surface of the
swallowed lake almost touched the sky.
"I will go that way," said Iktomi, looking at the concave
within arm's reach.
He struck his knife upward in the Eater's stomach, and the
water falling out drowned those people of the village.
Now when the great water fell into its own bed, the Fish and
the Turtle came to the shore. They went home painted victors and
loud-voiced singers.