American Indian Stories, Legends, and Other Writings Page 9

  Near the entrance way she stooped low, at once shifting the bundle to the right and with both hands lifting the noose from over her head. Having thus dropped the wood to the ground, she disappeared into her teepee. In a moment she came running out again, crying, “My son! My little son is gone!” Her keen eyes swept east and west and all around her. There was nowhere any sign of the child.

  Running with clinched fists to the nearest teepees, she called: “Has any one seen my baby? He is gone! My little son is gone!”

  “Hinnú! Hinnú!” exclaimed the women, rising to their feet and rushing out of their wigwams.

  “We have not seen your child! What has happened?” queried the women.

  With great tears in her eyes the mother told her story.

  “We will search with you,” they said to her as she started off.

  They met the returning husbands, who turned about and joined in the hunt for the missing child. Along the shore of the lakes, among the high-grown reeds, they looked in vain. He was nowhere to be found. After many days and nights the search was given up. It was sad, indeed, to hear the mother wailing aloud for her little son.

  It was growing late in the autumn. The birds were flying high toward the south. The teepees around the lakes were gone, save one lonely dwelling.

  Till the winter snow covered the ground and ice covered the lakes, the wailing woman’s voice was heard from that solitary wigwam. From some far distance was also the sound of the father’s voice singing a sad song.

  Thus ten summers and as many winters have come and gone since the strange disappearance of the little child. Every autumn with the hunters came the unhappy parents of the lost baby to search again for him.

  Toward the latter part of the tenth season when, one by one, the teepees were folded and the families went away from the lake region, the mother walked again along the lake shore weeping. One evening, across the lake from where the crying woman stood, a pair of bright black eyes peered at her through the tall reeds and wild rice. A little wild boy stopped his play among the tall grasses. His long, loose hair hanging down his brown back and shoulders was carelessly tossed from his round face. He wore a loin cloth of woven sweet grass. Crouching low to the marshly ground, he listened to the wailing voice. As the voice grew hoarse and only sobs shook the slender figure of the woman, the eyes of the wild boy grew dim and wet.

  At length, when the moaning ceased, he sprang to his feet and ran like a nymph with swift outstretched toes. He rushed into a small hut of reeds and grasses.

  “Mother! Mother! Tell me what voice it was I heard which pleased my ears, but made my eyes grow wet!” said he, breathless.

  “Han, my son,” grunted a big, ugly toad. “It was the voice of a weeping woman you heard. My son, do not say you like it. Do not tell me it brought tears to your eyes. You have never heard me weep. I can please your ear and break your heart. Listen!” replied the great old toad.

  Stepping outside, she stood by the entrance way. She was old and badly puffed out. She had reared a large family of little toads, but none of them had aroused her love, nor ever grieved her. She had heard the wailing human voice and marveled at the throat which produced the strange sound. Now, in her great desire to keep the stolen boy awhile longer, she ventured to cry as the Dakota woman does. In a gruff, coarse voice she broke forth:

  “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

  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 walki
ng 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 noonday 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.

  Mans̈tin, the Rabbit

  Mans̈tin 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, Mans̈tin started off toward the north. He was scarce over the great high hills when he heard the shrieking of a human child.

  “Wän!” he ejaculated, pointing his long ears toward the direction of the sound; “Wän! that is the work of cruel Double-Face. Shameless coward! he delights in torturing helpless creatures!”

  Muttering indistinct words, Mans̈tin 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, “Ä-bōō! Äbōō!” and at the same time he switched the naked baby with a thorny wild-rose bush.

  Quickly Mans̈tin 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 Mans̈tin 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 Mans̈tin 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 Mans̈tin, the kind-hearted,—Mans̈tin, the noted huntsman. I am your friend. Do not fear.”

  That night a strange thing happened. While the father and mother slept, Mans̈tin took the wee baby. With his feet placed gently yet firmly upo
n 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 Mans̈tin, so much alike were the braves.

  “Henceforth we are friends, to help each other,” said Mans̈tin, 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, Mans̈tin 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-hĕ!” exclaimed Mans̈tin, 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 Mans̈tin, 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 Mans̈tin,” 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.