Among the Indians who live upon the north-eastern shore of Lake
Huron, a remnant of the Iroquois, it is believed that the heavens contain
only four meteors which have the power of shooting through the
sky. It is thought they severally occupy the four quarters of the
compass, and that they never perform their arrowy journey excepting
for the purpose of warning the Huron Indians of approaching war.
The meteors in question, or Pun gung-nung, are recognized by their
peculiar brilliancy, and universally considered the Manitoes or guardian
spirits of the entire Indian race. They came into existence at the
same period of time which witnessed the creation of Lake Huron itself,
and the legend which accounts for their origin is distinguished for
the wild and romantic fancies of the aborigines. I obtained it from a
chief named On qwa-sug, or Floating Wood.
It was the winter time, and an Indian with his wife and two children,
a daughter and a son, were living in a wigwam on a bleak peninsula of
the Great Lake. The game of that section of country had nearly all
disappeared, and the fish were spending the season in such deep water,
that it was quite impossible to secure any of them for food. Everything
seemed to go wrong with the poverty-stricken Indian, and he
was constantly troubled with the fear that the Master of Life intended
to annihilate his family and himself by starvation. He expressed his
anxiety to his wife, and was surprised to hear her answer him with a
song.
Nearly half a moon had passed away, and the sufferings of this unfortunate
family were melancholy in the extreme. Whole days did
the father spend roaming through the forests, with his bow and arrows,
and on four several evenings had he returned without even a pair of
tiny snow-birds for a supper. The ill-luck which attended him in his
expeditions made him very miserable, but he was frequently astonished
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and alarmed, on such occasions, by the conduct of his wife and children.
When he gave them an account of his ill-luck in obtaining game, instead
of manifesting any anxiety, they usually ran about the wigwam
with their fingers on their mouths, and uttering a singular moan. He
noticed with fear that they were becoming greatly emaciated for the
want of food. So deeply grieved was the poor man, that he almost resolved
to bury himself in the snow and die. He made a better resolution
and again went out to hunt.
On one occasion he had wandered into the woods to an unusual distance,
and, as fortune would have it, was successful in finding and
shooting a single rabbit. With the speed of a deer did he return to
his cabin (with his braided shoes over the crusted snow), but he now
met with a new disappointment. On entering his lodge he found the
fire entirely out, and the simple utensils for cooking all scattered about
in great confusion; but what was far more melancholy, his wife and
children were gone, and he knew not where to find them. The more
he thought upon what had happened for many days past, the more bewildered
did he become. He threw down his game almost in despair,
and hurried out of his cabin in search of his missing family. He
looked in every direction, but could see no signs of their appearing, and
the only noise that he could possibly hear was a singular and most
doleful moan, resembling the wail of a loon, which seemed to come
from the upper air. By a natural instinct he raised his eyes towards
the heavens, and beheld perched upon the dry limb of a tall tree which
stood a short distance off, all the members of his family. He shouted
with delight at the unexpected spectacle, and, rushing towards the tree,
told his wife and children that they must come down, for he had killed
a rabbit and they would now have a good feast. But again was he astonished
to find his words unheeded. Again did he beseech them to
come down, but they replied not a single word, and looked upon him
with eyes that seemed made of fire. And what was still more wonderful
it was evident that they had thrown aside their beaver and deer-skin
dresses, and were now decked out in newly fashioned robes made
of the fur of the white fisher and the white fox. All this was utterly
inexplicable, and the poor husband re-entered his lodge, bewildered
and perplexed to a marvelous degree.
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Then it was that the idea entered his head that he would try an experiment,
by appealing to the hunger of his obstinate wife and children.
He therefore cleaned the rabbit and boiled a sweet soup which he carried
out, and with which he endeavored to allure his friends to the
earth. But this attempt was all in vain. The mother and her children
expressed no desire for the food, and still remained upon the tree,
swaying to and fro like a flock of large birds. Again in his wretchedness
was he about to destroy himself, but he took the precaution to appropriate
the soup to its legitimate purpose. Soon as this business
was accomplished, he relapsed into his former state of melancholy,
from which he was suddenly aroused by the moans of his wife, which
he was sure had an articulate tone. Again was he riveted to his standing
place under the magic tree, and from the moaning of his wife he
gathered the following intelligence. She told him that the Master
of Life had fallen in love with her and her two children, and had therefore
transformed them all into spirits, with a view of preparing them
for a home in the sky. She also told him that they would not depart
for their future home until the coming spring, but would in the
meantime roam in distant countries till the time of his own transportation
should arrive. Having finished her communication, she and
her children immediately commenced a song, which resembled the
distant winds, when they all rose gracefully from the tree, and leaning
forward upon the air, darted away across the lake toward the remote
South.
A cheerless and forlorn moon did the poor Indian spend in his
lonely lodge on the margin of the Great Lake. Spring came, and just
as the last vestige of snow had melted from the woods, and at the
quiet evening hour, his spirit-wife again made her appearance, accompanied
by her two children. She told her husband that he might become
a spirit by eating a certain berry. He was delighted with the
idea, and, complying with her advice, he suddenly became transformed
into a spirit, and having flown to the side of his wife and children,
the party gradually began to ascend into the air, when the Master of
Life thought proper to change them into a family of Shooting Stars.
He allotted to each a particular division of the heavens, and commanded
them to remain there forever, as the guardians of the great
nation of Lake Huron.
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The following legend was obtained from the lips of a Chippeway woman
named Penaqua, or the Female Pheasant, and I hardly know which to admire
most, the simple beauty of the plot, or the graphic and unique manner of the
narrative, of which, I regret to say, I can hardly give a faithful translation.
Among the rivers of the North, none can boast of more numerous
charms than the St. Louis, and the fairest spot of the earth which it
waters is that where now stands the trading post of Fond du lac. Upon
this spot, many summers ago, there lived a Chippeway chief and
his wife, who were the parents of an only daughter. Her name was
Weesh—Ko-da-e-mire, or the Sweet Strawberry, and she was acknowledged
to be the most beautiful maiden of her nation. Her
voice was like that of the turtle-dove, and the red deer was not more
graceful and sprightly in its form. Her eyes were brilliant as the
star of the northern sky, which guides the hunter through the
wilderness, and her dark hair clustered around her neck like grape
vines around the trunk of the tree they loved. The young men of every
nation had striven to win her heart, but she smiled upon none. Curious
presents were sent to her from the four quarters of the world, but
she received them not. Seldom did she deign to reply to the many
warriors who entered her father’s lodge, and when she did, it was only
to assure them that while upon earth she would never change her condition.
Her strange conduct astonished them, but did not subdue
their affection. Many and noble were the deeds they performed, not
only in winning the white plumes of the eagle, but in hunting the
elk and the black bear. But all their exploits availed them nothing,
for the heart of the beautiful girl was still untouched.
The snows of winter were all gone, and the pleasant winds of spring
were blowing over the land. The time for making sugar had arrived,
though the men had not yet returned from the remote hunting grounds,
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and in the maple forests bright fires were burning, and the fragrance
of the sweet sap filled all the air. The ringing laugh of childhood and
the mature song of women were heard in the valley, but in no part of
the wilderness could be found more happiness than on the banks of
the St. Louis. But the Sweet Strawberry mingled with the young
men and maidens of her tribe in a thoughtful mood and with downcast
eyes. She was evidently bowed down by some mysterious grief,
but she neglected not her duties; and though she spent much of her
time alone, her buchère-bucket was as frequently filled with the sugar
juice as any of her companions.
Such was the condition of affairs when a party of young warriors
from the far North came upon a frolic to the St. Louis River. Having
seen the many handsome maidens of this region, the strangers became
enamored of their charms, and each one succeeded in obtaining the
love of a maiden, who was to become his bride during the marrying
season of summer.
The warriors had heard of the Sweet Strawberry, but, neglected by
all of them, she was still doomed to remain alone. She witnessed the
happiness of her old playmates, and, wondering at her own strange
fate, spent much of her time in solitude. She even became so unhappy
and bewildered that she heeded not the tender words of her
mother, and from that time the music of her voice was never heard.
The sugar making season was now rapidly passing away, but the
brow of the Sweet Strawberry was still overshadowed with grief.
Everything was done to restore her to her wonted cheerfulness, but she
remained unchanged. Wild ducks in innumerable numbers arrived
with every southern wind, and settled upon the surrounding waters,
and proceeded to build their nests in pairs, and the Indian maiden
sighed over her mysterious doom. On one occasion she espied a cluster
of early spring flowers peering above the dry leaves of the forest,
and, strange to say, even these were separated into pairs, and seemed
to be wooing each other in love. All things whispered to her of love,
the happiness of her companions, the birds of the air, and the flowers.
She looked into her heart, and, inwardly praying for a companion
whom she might love, the Master of Life took pity upon her lot and
answered her prayer.
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It was now the twilight hour, and in the maple woods the Indian
boys were watching their fires, and the women were bringing in the
sap from the surrounding trees. The time for making sugar was almost
gone, and the well-filled mokucks, which might be seen in all the
wigwams, testified that the yield had been abundant. The hearts of the
old women beat in thankfulness, and the young men and maidens
were already beginning to anticipate the pleasures of wedded life and
those associated with the sweet summer time. But the brow of the
Sweet Strawberry continued to droop, and her friends looked upon her
as the victim of a settled melancholy. Her duties, however, were
performed without a murmur, and so continued to be performed until
the trees refused to fill her buchère-bucket with sap, when she stole away
from the sugar camp and wandered to a retired place to muse upon
her sorrows. Her unaccountable grief was very bitter, but did not
long endure; for, as she stood gazing upon the sky, the moon ascended
above the hills and filled her soul with a joy she had never felt before.
The longer she looked upon the brilliant object, the more deeply in
love did she become with its celestial charms, and she burst forth into
a song—a loud, wild, and joyous song. Her musical voice echoed
through the woods, and her friends hastened to ascertain the cause.
They gathered around her in crowds, but she heeded them not. They
wondered at the wildness of her words, and the airy-like appearance
of her form. They were spell-bound by the scene before them, but
their astonishment knew no limits when they saw her gradually ascend
from the earth into the air, where she disappeared, as if borne upward
by the evening wind. And then it was that they discovered her clasped
in the embraces of the moon, for they knew that the spots which they
saw within the circle of that planet were those of her robe, which she
had made from the skins of the spotted fawn.
Many summers have passed away since the Sweet Strawberry became
the Maiden of the Moon, yet among all the people of her nation
is she ever remembered for her beauty and the mystery of her being.
195
There is an idea existing among the Chippeway Indians, which
corroborates a statement made by the early travelers on this continent
relative to the belief that there once existed among the aboriginal
tribes, a species of vampire, or ghostly man-eater. The Chippeways
do not assert that there ever lived more than one of these unearthly
beings; but they pretend that such an one did, and does exist, and that
he has his residence upon an island in the centre of Lake Superior—which
island can never be seen by mortal man, excepting when
darkness has settled upon the world. The stories they relate of his
appearance and deeds, are horrible in the extreme, and resemble much
the creations of a mind suffering under the influence of the nightmare.
For example, they describe this monster as possessing the material
appearance of the human form—but of such a nature as not to be susceptible
to the touch. He is said to have the body of a serpent, with
human legs and arms—all supplied with immense nails, which he employs
for the double purpose of digging up the earth, and dissecting
the bodies upon which he feeds; his head is like that of the wolf, and
his teeth of a peculiar sharpness.
The deeds which he performs are worthy of his personal appearance—and
some of them are as follows: When the Indian mother, during
a long journey, has lost her infant child, and placed it on the rude
scaffold, that she may return to it at some future day, the Ghostly
Man-Eater only waits until she is fairly out of his sight, and then proceeds
to the sacred place, and feasts himself upon the tender flesh and
blood of his victim. And therefore it is, that the traveler sometimes
sees, in the remote wilderness, fragments of human bones scattered on
the ground, as if a wolf had been suddenly interrupted, while devouring
his prey. But the Man-Eater sometimes enters the house, or half-buried
receptacle of the dead; and, after digging his way to the decaying
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body, coils himself up, as if in delight, and gluts his appetite with
the unholy food. How it is that he travels, with lightning speed,
from one distant place to another, has never been ascertained; but the
strange sounds which the Indian occasionally hears, high in the air
above his wigwam, is thought to be the song of the Man-Eater, as he
hurries upon the wings of the wind, from a recent banquet, to his
mysterious island on the lake.
But I once heard a legend in the Chippeway country, which accounted
for the origin of the man-eating monster—and I now record
it in the English tongue, for the benefit of those who feel an interest
in the mythology of the Indian, and the peculiarities of his mind.
The individual from whom I obtained this story was named Ka-yon-kee-me,
or the Swift Arrow; and his words, as near as we can remember
them, were as follows:—
I ask the white man to listen. At an early period in the history of
the world, an old Indian hunter and a little boy who was his grandson,
lived in an isolated cabin on the north shore of Lake Superior.
They were the only remnants of a once powerful tribe of Indians,
whose name is not now remembered. It was the middle of a long
and dreary winter, and the entire country was covered with snow, to
the height of the tallest wigwam. The section of country where resided
the hunter and child was particularly desolate, and destitute of
almost every species of game; and whilst the former was too feeble to
wander far, after the necessary food, the latter was too young and inexperienced.
The very wood which the unequal pair collected to
keep them warm, was brought to their cabin with the greatest difficulty;
and the thought occasionally entered the old man’s mind, that
the Great Spirit was about to give him up to the pains of starvation.
He uttered not a murmur, however; but, as he reflected upon his impending
fate, he bit his lips with a scornful smile.
One, two, and three days had passed away and the old man, as well
as the child, had not tasted a particle of food. But, on the evening of
the fourth day, the boy came tottering into the comfortless lodge and
threw at the feet of his grandfather the lifeless body of a white partridge,
which he had fortunately killed with his own arrow. Immediately
was the bird divested of its feathers—and, while yet its very
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blood was warm, it was devoured by the starving man and child.—Sweet
was the slumber of the noble boy on that night—but, as the
story goes, that aged man was visited by a dreadful dream at the same
time, which made him a maniac.
Another day was nearly gone, and the unhappy pair were standing
in front of their wigwam watching the western sky, as the sun enlivened
it with his parting beams. The old man pointed to the bright picture,
and told the boy that there was the gateway to the Spirit Land,
where perpetual summer reigned, and game was found in great abundance.
He spoke too of the child’s father and mother, and of his
little brother, whom he described as decked out in the most beautiful
of robes, as they wandered through the forests of that distant, shadowy
land. The boy, though suffering with the pangs of hunger, clapped
his little hands in glee, and told his grandfather that it would make
him very happy if he could go to the land of perpetual summer. And
then it was that the old man patted the boy upon his head, and told
him that his desires should be realized before the sun again made its
appearance above the snow-covered mountains and plains of the east.
It was now the hour of midnight. Intensely cold was the wind
which swept over the wilderness, but the sky was very blue, and studded
with many stars. No sound broke upon the air, save the occasional
groan of the ice along the lake shore, and the hissing whisper
of the frost. Within the Indian lodge, which was the very home of
desolation, the child was sweetly sleeping, enveloped in his robes,
while the old man bent over the burning embers as if in despair.
Some inhuman thought had crazed his brain, and he was nerving himself
for an unheard of crime. One moment more, and in the dim
light of that lonely lodge, gleamed the polished blade of a flinty
weapon—a sudden groan was heard—and the Indian maniac was feeding
upon the body of his child.
I have given the white man a sorrowful history, but it is one which
the Chippeway nation believe. On the morning which followed the
event I have now narrated, a party of Indian hunters came to the
cabin of the unknown man, and they found him lying dead upon the
ground, with the mangled remains of the boy at his side. This was
the most terrible deed which ever happened in the Chippeway country—and
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the one which so greatly offended the Great Spirit, that he
pronounced a curse upon the man who had destroyed his child for
food—and he, therefore, doomed him to live upon the earth forever,
tormented with an appetite which nothing can ever appease, but the
decaying flesh of the human race.
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The historical tradition which I am now to narrate, is said to have
occurred at an early day on the extreme western point of what is now
called Drummond’s Island, in the northern waters of Lake Huron. I
obtained it from the lips of Kah-ge-ga-gah-bowh, or Upright Standing,
a young chief of the Chippeway nation, who assured me that it commemorated
the first introduction of the baneful Fire-water into the
Indian country.
It was the afternoon of a pleasant day in the autumn-time, when a
trading canoe landed on Drummond’s Island, in the immediate vicinity
of a Chippeway village. It belonged to a French trader, and was
laden with a barrel of whisky, which he had brought from the lower
country. Soon as he had deposited his barrel upon the beach, he
called together the men of the village, and told them that he had it in
his power to supply them with a beverage which would make them
exceedingly happy, and that he was willing to supply them with what
they wanted, provided they would give into his hands all the furs they
had in their possession. A bargain was consequently made, and while
the entire population of the village were quaffing the baneful fire-water,
the trader packed away his treasures in the canoe, and under cover of
the night, started upon his return to Detroit.
The moon and stars came forth in the northern sky, and the only
sound which broke the solitude of the wilderness issued from the Indian
village, where the medicine man and the chief, the Indian mother
and her infant, were shouting and dancing and fighting in a delirium
of madness. The carousal did not end until the break of day, and
soon as the sun was fairly risen above the horizon, it was rumored in
every wigwam that a young hunter named Ne-mo-a-Kim, or Purple
Shell, had taken the life of a brother hunter, who happened to be his
dearest friend, An apparent gloom rested upon every countenance,
200
and as the more aged Indians reflected upon the sudden disappearance
of the trader, and upon the headache which many of them endured,
they became greatly enraged, and attributed the calamity which had
befallen them to the burning water. But the trader who had brought
it to them was beyond their reach; so they buried the murdered man
with appropriate honors, and then announced that a council should be
immediately held to decide upon the fate of the murderer. Blood for
blood was demanded by the relatives of the deceased; the time-honored
law of the Chippeways could not be evaded, and a delegation was
appointed to prepare Ne-mo-a-Kim for the sacrifice. His lodge was
entered by the ministers of death, but Ne-mo-a-Kim was not there.
They hunted for him in all the wigwams of the village, but nowhere
could he be found. The old men who had suffered with him in the
remote wilderness, and had never known him to be guilty of a cowardly
deed, now shook their heads in sorrow and disappointment. Another
council was held, another ancient law remembered, and it was again
decided that the only relative and brother of Ne-mo-a-Kim should
suffer in his stead. The name of that brother was Ma-Ko-nah, or
The Unbending Pine, and when they informed him of his fate, he
uttered not a murmur, but demanded that his execution should take
place on the following night at the rising of the moon.
And now for another scene in our strange story. The sun has long
been absent from the western sky, and once more has the solemn midnight
settled upon the world. The inhabitants of the Indian village
have assembled upon a level green. Firmly in the earth have they
planted a stake, on either side of which are burning a couple of huge
fires, while at the distance of about one hundred feet may be discerned
a crowd of eight or ten young men, who are bending their bows and
straightening their arrows for the cruel deed. A small white cloud
makes its appearance above the horizon, and a murmur of excitement
issues from the crowd of human beings. The proud form of an Indian
is now seen marching across the green, when the name of Ma-Ko-nah
is whispered from ear to ear, and an unearthly shout ascends into the
upper air. The heroic man stands before the stake, and looks with
scorn upon the withes lying at his feet. The people have confided in
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his bravery, and they will not humble his proud spirit by resorting to
the disgraceful implements of security. Upon his naked breast has
the Indian hero painted the uncouth figure of a swan, as a certain
mark for the arrows which are to deprive him of life. Around his
waist has he carefully adjusted his richest robe, and by a motion of
his hand, has signified his intention of delivering a speech; an intense
silence reigns throughout the surrounding multitude, and Ma-Ko-nah
thus addresses his cowardly brother, whose spirit he imagines to be
hovering near.
“Willingly do I die for you, my brother, but you have disgraced
your nation. Your name will hereafter be hissed at by the little boys,
when they pick up the purple shells on the lake shore. I am going
to the Spirit Land, and while I shall be happy in the possession of
every good, you will be despised by all who learn your history. Your
food will be bitter, and the ground upon which you will have to sleep
will always be uneven, and covered with thorns and stones. You are
a coward, my brother; but Ma-Ko-nah is a brave man, and not afraid
to die.”
Loud and long was the shout which replied to this proud speech.
All things were now ready, and the fatal moment, when the rim of
the moon should appear above the distant waters, was nigh at hand.
Another snowy cloud floated into view, and just as the signal to fire was
about to be given by the great medicine man, Ne-mo-a-Kim suddenly
burst through the crowd, and threw himself upon the ground before his
brother Ma-Ko-nah. To describe the confusion which followed were
quite impossible. It were sufficient to know that Ma-Ko-nah was
released from his obligation, and while he was to continue in the land
of the living, his repentant brother was to perish. But though he
now yielded himself as a willing sacrifice, his integrity had been
doubted, and the lately untouched thongs were used to bind him to
the stake. All things were again ready, the signal was given, the
loud twang of the bow-strings pulled at the same instant was heard,
and the Chippeway murderer was weltering in his own blood.
The night was far spent, the silence of the grave rested upon the
wilderness village, and all the Indians, save one, were asleep in their
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wigwams. But Ma-Ko-nah was filled with grief, and the remaining
hours of that night did he spend in his lodge, mourning over the body
of his unfortunate and only brother. His father and mother were
both dead, and so also was his wife, and the heart of Ma-Ko-nah was
very desolate. So endeth the story of The Fire-Water Sacrifice.
203
There was a time when the world was an unbroken waste of rocks,
hills, and mountains, save only one small valley, which was distinguished
for its luxuriance, and where reigned a perpetual summer. At
that time, too, the only human being who inhabited the earth was a
woman, whose knowledge was confined to this valley, and who is remembered
among the Catawbas as the mother of mankind. She lived
in a cavern, and her food consisted of the honey of flowers, and the
sweet berries and other fruits of the wilderness. Birds without number,
and the wild streams which found a resting place in the valley,
made the only music which she ever heard. Among the wild animals,
which were very numerous about her home, she wandered without any
danger; but the beaver and the doe were her favorite companions. In
personal appearance she was eminently beautiful, and the lapse of
years only had a tendency to increase the brightness of her eyes and
the grace of her movements. The dress she wore was made of those
bright green leaves which enfold the water lilies, and her hair was as
long as the grass which fringed the waters of her native vale. She
was the ruling spirit of a perennial world, for even the very flowers
which bloomed about her sylvan home were never known to wither or
die. In spite of her lonely condition, she knew not what it was to be
lonely; but ever and anon a strange desire found its way to her heart,
which impelled her to explore the wild country which surrounded her
home. For many days had she resisted the temptation to become a
wanderer from her charming valley, until it so happened, on a certain
morning, that a scarlet butterfly made its appearance before the door
of her cave, and by the hum of its wings invited her away. She
obeyed the summons, and followed the butterfly far up a rocky ravine,
until she came to the foot of a huge waterfall, when she was deserted
by her mysterious pilot, and first became acquainted with the emotion
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of fear. Her passage of the ravine had been comparatively smooth;
but when she endeavored, in her consternation, to retrace her steps,
she found her efforts unavailing, and fell to the ground in despair. A
deep sleep then overcame her senses, from which she was not awakened
until the night was far spent; and then the dampness of the dew had
fallen upon her soft limbs, and for the first time in her life did she feel
the pang of a bodily pain. Forlorn and desolate indeed was her condition,
and she felt that some great event was about to happen, when,
as she uncovered her face and turned it to the sky, she beheld, bending
over her prostrate form, and clothed in a cloud-like robe, the image
of a being somewhat resembling herself, only that he was more stoutly
made, and of a much fiercer aspect. Her first emotion at this strange
discovery was that of terror; but as the mysterious being looked upon
her in kindness, and raised her lovingly from the ground, she confided
in his protection, and listened to his words until the break of day.
He told her that he was a native of the far off sky, and that he had
discovered her in her forlorn condition while traveling from the evening
to the morning star. He told her also that he had never before seen
a being so soft and beautifully formed as she. In coming to her rescue
he had broken a command of the Great Spirit, or the Master of Life,
and, as he was afraid to return to the sky, he desired to spend his days
in her society upon earth. With joy did she accept this proposal;
and, as the sun rose above the distant mountains, the twain returned
in safety to the luxuriant vale, where, as man and woman, for many
moons, they lived and loved in perfect tranquillity and joy.
In process of time the woman became a mother; from which time
the happiness of the twain became more intense, but they at the same
time endured more troubles than they had ever known before. The
man was unhappy because he had offended the Master of Life, and the
mother was anxious about the comfort and happiness of her newly-born
child. Many and devout were the prayers they offered to the Great
Spirit for his guidance and protection, for they felt that from them were
to be descended a race of beings more numerous than the stars of
heaven. The Great Spirit had compassion on these lone inhabitants
of the earth; and, in answer to their prayers, he caused a mighty wind
to pass over the world, making the mountains crowd closely together,
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and rendering the world more useful and beautiful by the prairies and
valleys and rivers which now cover it, from the rising to the setting
sun. The Master of Life also told his children that he would give
them the earth and all that it contained as their inheritance; but that
they should never enjoy their food without labor, should be annually
exposed to a season of bitter cold, and that their existence should be
limited by that period of time when their heads should become as white
as the plumage of the swan. And so endeth the words of the Catawba.
206
It was a summer day, and my birchen canoe, paddled by a party of
Chippeway Indians, was gliding along the southern shore of Lake
Superior. We had left the Apostle Islands, and were wending our
way towards the mouth of the Ontonagon, where we intended to spend
the night. Behind us reposed in beauty the Emerald Islands, in our
front appeared the Porcupine Mountains, the sky above was without a
cloud, and the waste of sleeping waters was only broken by the presence
of a lonely swan, which seemed to be following in our wake, apparently
for the sake of our companionship. I was delighted with the
scene which surrounded me, and having requested my comrades to
refill their pipes from my tobacco-pouch, I inquired for an adventure
or a story connected with this portion of the lake. I waited but for a
moment, when the chief of the party, O-gee-maw-ge-zhick, or Chief
of the Sky, signified his intention by a sudden exclamation, and proceeded
with the following historical tradition:
The Indian warrior of other days seldom thought that distance
ought to be considered when he went forth to battle against his enemies,
provided he was certain of winning the applause of his fellow
men. Fatigue and hunger were alike looked upon as unimportant
considerations, and both endured without a murmur.
The white man had not yet become the owner of this wilderness,
and our nation was at war with the Iroquois, who had invaded our
territory. At this time it was that a party of six Iroquois runners had
been sent by their leading chiefs from Ke-wa-we-non, on the southern
shore of Lake Superior, to examine the position of the Chippeways,
who were supposed to be on an island called Moo-ne-quah-na-kon-ing.
The spies having arrived opposite to the island where their enemies
were encamped (which island was about three miles from the main
shore), they built a war-canoe out of the bark of an elm-tree, launched
207
it at the hour of midnight, and, having implored the god of war to
smile upon them and keep the lake in peace, they landed on the
island, and were soon prowling through the village of the unconscious
Chippeways.
They were so cautious in all their movements, that their footsteps
did not even awaken the sleeping dogs. It so happened, however,
that they were discovered, and that, too, by a young woman, who,
according to ancient custom, was leading a solitary life previous to becoming
a mother. In her wakefulness she saw them pass near her
lodge and heard them speak, but could not understand their words,
though she thought them to be of the Na-do-was tribe. When they
had passed, she stole out of her own wigwam to that of her aged
grandmother, whom she informed of what she had seen and heard.
The aged woman only reprimanded her daughter for her imprudence,
and did not heed her words. “But, mother,” replied the girl, “I
speak the truth; the dreaded Na-do-was are in our village; and if the
warriors of the Buffalo Race do not heed the story of a foolish girl,
their women and their children must perish.” The words of the girl
were finally believed, and the warriors of the Crane and Buffalo tribes
prepared themselves for the capture. The war-whoop echoed to the
sky; and the rattling of bows and arrows was heard in every part of
the island. In about an hour, the main shore was lined with about
eight hundred canoes, whose occupants were anxiously waiting for the
appearance of the spies. These desperate men, however, had made up
their minds to try the mettle of their oars to the utmost, and, as the
day was breaking, they launched their canoe from a woody cove, shot
round the island, and started in the direction of the Porcupine
Mountains, which were about sixty miles distant. Soon as they came
in sight of the Chippeways, the latter became quite frantic, and, giving
their accustomed yell, the whole multitude started after them swift as
the flight of gulls. The mighty lake was without a ripple; and the
beautiful fish in its bosom wandered about their rocky haunts in perfect
peace, unconscious of the dreadful strife which was going on
above. The canoes of the pursued and the pursuers moved with magic
speed. The Iroquois were some two miles ahead, and while they
strained every nerve for life, one voice rose high into the air, with a
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song of invocation to the spirits of their race for protection; and, in
answer to their petition, a thick fog fell upon the water, and caused
great confusion. One of the Chippeway warriors laid down his paddle,
seized his mysterious rattle (made of deer’s hoof), and, in a
strange, wild song, implored the spirits of his race to clear away the
fog, that they might only see their enemies. The burthen of the song
was:—
“Mon e-tou ne bah bah me tah wah
Ke shig ne bah bah me tah goon
Ah bee ne nah wah goom me goon
Men ke che dah awas—awas.”
Which may be translated as follows:—
“Spirit! whom I have always obeyed,
Here cause the skies now to obey,
And place the waters in our power.
We are warriors—away, away.”
Just as the last strain died upon the air, the fog quickly rolled away,
and the Iroquois spies were discovered hastening towards the shore,
near Montreal river. Then came the fog again, and then departed,
in answer to the conflicting prayers of the nations. Long and awfully
exciting was the race. But the Great Spirit was the friend of the
Chippeway, and just as the Iroquois were landing on the beach, four
of them were pierced with arrows, and the remaining two taken prisoners.
A council was then called, for the purpose of deciding what
should be done with them; and it was determined that they should
be tortured at the stake. They were fastened to a tree, and surrounded
with wood, when, just as the torch was to be applied, an aged warrior
stepped forth from the crowd of spectators, and thus addressed the
assembly:—
“Why are you to destroy these men? They are brave warriors,
but not more distinguished than we are. We can gain no benefit
from their death. Why will you not let them live, that they may go
and tell their people of our power, and that our warriors are numerous
as the stars of the northern sky.” The council pondered upon the old
man’s advice, and there was a struggle between their love of revenge
209
and love of glory; but both became victorious. One of the spies was
released, and, as he ascended a narrow valley, leading to the Porcupine
Mountains, the fire was applied to the dry wood piled round the form
of the other; and in the darkness of midnight, and amid the shouting
of his cruel enemies, the body of the Iroquois prisoner was consumed
to ashes. The spot where the sacrifice took place has been riven by
many a thunderbolt since then, for the god of war was displeased with
the faintheartedness of the Chippeway, in valuing a name more highly
than the privilege of revenge; and the same summer, of the following
year, which saw the humane Chippeway buried on the shore of Superior,
also saw the remains of the pardoned spy consigned to the
earth on the shore of Michigan.
Thus endeth the legend of Shah-gah-wah-mik, one of the Apostle
Islands, which the French named La Pointe, and which was originally
known as Moo-ne-quah-na-kon-ing. The village stood where the old
trading establishment is now located; and among the greenest of the
graves in the hamlet of La Pointe is that where lie the remains of the
Indian girl who exposed herself to reproach for the purpose of saving
her people.
210
Among the legends which the traveler frequently hears, while crossing
the prairies of the Far West, I remember one which accounts in
a most romantic manner for the origin of thunder. A summer-storm
was sweeping over the land, and I had sought a temporary shelter in
the lodge of a Sioux, or Dahcotah Indian on the banks of the St.
Peters. Vividly flashed the lightning, and an occasional peal of
thunder echoed through the firmament. While the storm continued
my host and his family paid but little attention to my comfort, for
they were all evidently stricken with terror. I endeavored to quell
their fears, and for that purpose asked them a variety of questions
respecting their people, but they only replied by repeating, in a dismal
tone, the name of the Lone Buffalo. My curiosity was of course excited,
and it may be readily imagined that I did not resume my journey
without obtaining an explanation of the mystic words; and from
him who first uttered them in the Sioux lodge I subsequently obtained
the following legend:—
There was a chief of the Sioux nation whose name was the Master
Bear. He was famous as a prophet and hunter, and was a particular
favorite with the Master of Life. In an evil hour he partook of the
white man’s fire-water, and in a fighting broil unfortunately took the
life of a brother chief. According to ancient custom blood was demanded
for blood, and when next the Master Bear went forth to hunt,
he was waylaid, shot through the heart with an arrow, and his body
deposited in front of his widow’s lodge. Bitterly did the woman bewail
her misfortune, now mutilating her body in the most heroic manner,
and anon narrating to her only son, a mere infant, the prominent
events of her husband’s life. Night came, and with her child lashed
upon her back, the woman erected a scaffold on the margin of a neighboring
stream, and with none to lend her a helping hand, enveloped
211
the corpse in her more valuable robes, and fastened it upon the scaffold.
She completed her task just as the day was breaking, when she returned
to her lodge, and shutting herself therein, spent the three following
days without tasting food.
During her retirement the widow had a dream, in which she was
visited by the Master of Life. He endeavored to console her in her
sorrow, and for the reason that he had loved her husband, promised
to make her son a more famous warrior and medicine man than his
father had been. And what was more remarkable, this prophecy was
to be realized within the period of a few weeks. She told her story in
the village, and was laughed at for her credulity.
On the following day, when the village boys were throwing the ball
upon the plain, a noble youth suddenly made his appearance among
the players, and eclipsed them all in the bounds he made and the wildness
of his shouts. He was a stranger to all, but when the widow’s
dream was remembered, he was recognized as her son, and treated with
respect. But the youth was yet without a name, for his mother had
told him that he should win one for himself by his individual prowess.
Only a few days had elapsed, when it was rumored that a party of
Pawnees had overtaken and destroyed a Sioux hunter, when it was immediately
determined in council that a party of one hundred warriors
should start upon the war-path and revenge the injury. Another
council was held for the purpose of appointing a leader, when a young
man suddenly entered the ring and claimed the privilege of leading
the way. His authority was angrily questioned, but the stranger
only replied by pointing to the brilliant eagle’s feathers on his head,
and by shaking from his belt a large number of fresh Pawnee scalps.
They remembered the stranger boy, and acknowledged the supremacy
of the stranger man.
Night settled upon the prairie world, and the Sioux warriors started
upon the war-path. Morning dawned, and a Pawnee village was in
ashes, and the bodies of many hundred men, women, and children
were left upon the ground as food for the wolf and vulture. The Sioux
warriors returned to their own encampment, when it was ascertained
that the nameless leader had taken more than twice as many scalps as
his brother warriors. Then it was that a feeling of jealousy arose,
212
which was soon quieted, however, by the news that the Crow Indians
had stolen a number of horses and many valuable furs from a Sioux
hunter as he was returning; from the mountains. Another warlike
expedition was planned, and as before, the nameless warrior took the
lead.
The sun was near his setting, and as the Sioux party looked down
upon a Crow village, which occupied the centre of a charming valley,
the Sioux chief commanded the attention of his braves and addressed
them in the following language:
“I am about to die, my brothers, and must speak my mind. To
be fortunate in war is your chief ambition, and because I have been
successful you are unhappy. Is this right? Have you acted like
men? I despise you for your meanness, and I intend to prove to you
this night that I am the bravest man in the nation. The task will
cost me my life, but I am anxious that my nature should be changed
and I shall be satisfied. I intend to enter the Crow village alone, but
before departing, I have one favor to command. If I succeed in destroying
that village, and lose my life, I want you, when I am dead,
to cut off my head and protect it with care. You must then kill one
of the largest buffaloes in the country and cut off his head. You must
then bring his body and my head together, and breathe upon them,
when I shall be free to roam in the Spirit-land at all times, and over
our great prairie-land wherever I please. And when your hearts are
troubled with wickedness remember the Lone Buffalo.”
The attack upon the Crow village was successful, but according to
his prophecy the Lone Buffalo received his death wound, and his
brother warriors remembered his parting request. The fate of the
hero’s mother is unknown, but the Indians believe that it is she who
annually sends from the Spirit land the warm winds of spring, which
cover the prairies with grass for the sustenance of the Buffalo race.
As to the Lone Buffalo, he is never seen even by the most cunning
hunter, excepting when the moon is at its full. At such times he is
invariably alone, cropping his food in some remote part of the prairies;
and whenever the heavens resound with the moanings of the thunder,
the red man banishes from his breast every feeling of jealousy, for he
believes it to be the warning voice of the Lone Buffalo.
213
The original Indian name of this island was Mich-il-i-mack-i-nack,
signifying the mammoth turtle. It is a beautiful spot of earth, and
its origin is accounted for by the following Ottaway legend:—
When the world was in its infancy, and all the living creatures were
wandering over its surface from their several birth-places, for a permanent
home, it so happened that a multitude of turtles came to the
southern shore of Lake Erie. They found the country generally level,
and were delighted with the muddy waters of the lake, and also with
the many stagnant rivers and ponds which they discovered in its vicinity.
But while the race were generally satisfied with their discoveries,
and willing to remain where they were, the mammoth leader of
the multitude resolved upon extending his journey to the north. He
was allured to this undertaking by a strange light of exceeding loveliness
(supposed to be the Aurora Borealis), which he had frequently
observed covering the horizon. He endeavored to obtain a few companions
for his intended pilgrimage, but without success. This disappointment
did not dishearten him, however, and as he remembered
that the summer was only half gone, he determined to depart alone.
Long and very circuitous was his journey, and many, beautiful and
lonely, the bayous and swamps where he frequently tarried to rest
himself and obtain refreshment. Summer, and nearly the whole of
autumn were now passed, and the traveling turtle found himself on a
point of land which partially divided the two lakes of Huron and
Michigan. Already he had been numbed by chilly winds, but his
ambition was so great that he still persisted in his foolish pilgrimage.
The day on which he made his final launch upon the waters, was particularly
cold and desolate, and it so happened that in the course of
a few days his career was stopped by the formation of an icy barrier,
214
which deprived him of life and left him, a little black spot, on the waste
of frozen waters.
Spring returned once more, but while the ice gradually dissolved
itself into beautiful blue waves, the shell of the turtle was fastened to
a marine plant or tall reed, and in process of time became an island,
which the Indians appropriately named Mich-il-i-mack-i-nack, or the
Mammoth Turtle.
The individual from whom I obtained the above story was an Ottaway
Indian; and he told it to me as we sat together on the brow of the
arched rock which has, from time immemorial, been considered the
principal natural curiosity of Mackinaw. The following legend I obtained
from the same source, and, like the majority of Indian stories, it
is uncouth and unnatural; but interesting for the reason that it bears a
curious analogy to a certain passage in the Old Testament. But this
remark is applicable, I believe, to the early traditions of nearly all the
aboriginal nations of North America. But to the tradition:—
Very many winters ago, the sun was regularly in the habit of performing
his daily circuit across the heavens, and when the stars made
their appearance in the sky, he invariably descended into an immense
hole supposed to be located in the remote west. But in process of time
it so happened that a chief of the Ottaways committed an unheard of
crime against the person of his only daughter, and the Master of Life
became so offended, that he caused a mighty wind to come upon the
earth, whereby the rocky hills were made to tremble, and the waters
which surrounded them to roar with a dreadful noise. During this
state of things, which lasted for one whole day, the sun shot through
the heavens with an unsteady motion, and when it had reached the
zenith suddenly became fixed, as if astonished at the red man’s wickedness.
All the people of the Ottaway nation were greatly alarmed
at this phenomenon, and while they were gazing upon the luminary,
it gradually changed into the color of blood, and with a dreadful noise,
as if in a passion, it fell upon the earth. It struck the northern shore
of Mackinaw, formed the cavity of the Arched Rock, and so entered
the earth, from which it issued in the far east, at an early hour on the
following morning, and then resumed its usual journey across the
heavens.
215
Many, very many winters have passed away since the last mentioned
incident occurred, and it is true that even the present race of
Indians can seldom be persuaded to approach the brow of the Arched
Rock. Never have I heard of one who was sufficiently bold to walk
over the arch, though the feat might be easily accomplished by any
man with a steady nerve. The shores of the island of Mackinaw are
almost entirely abrupt—and their general altitude is about one hundred
and fifty feet; but the summit of the Arched Rock has been
estimated to be at least two hundred feet above the water. In connection
with the above stories, I might introduce a description of the
island they commemorate, but such a description has already been
published in my “Summer in the Wilderness.”
216
My main object in the present paper is to record a complete account
of the ceremonies which were once practised by the Cherokee Indians,
in connection with their principal agricultural pursuit of raising maize
or Indian corn. For the great majority of my facts I am indebted to
Mr. Preston Starritt, of Tennessee. While this is the case, however,
I beg my readers to understand that I shall speak of the tribe in
question as it existed in the times of old, when its members were the
sole proprietors of the southern Alleghanies. Let us, then, banish
from our minds the unhappy relations which brood over the Cherokees
at the present time, and, by the aid of our fancy, mingle with the
nation as it existed when in its pristine glory.
The snows of winter have melted from the mountain peaks, the
rains are over and gone, the frosts are out of the ground, and the
voice of the turtle is heard in the land. The beautiful valley to which
we have journeyed is entirely surrounded with mountains, about five
miles square, watered by a charming stream, and inhabited by two
thousand aborigines, who are divided into seven clans, and located in
seven villages. The ruling men of the tribe have signified to their
people that the period for planting corn has arrived, and that they
must gather themselves together for the purpose of submitting to the
annual ceremonies of purification. For doing this they have a double
object: they would, in the first place, expunge from their bodies every
vestige of all the colds and diseases with which they may have been
afflicted during the past winter; and, in the second place, they would
propitiate the Great Spirit, so as to secure his blessing upon the crops
which they are about to deposite in the ground. The moon being
now at its full, and a fitting location having been selected, the chiefs
and magicians congregate together, and the preliminary measures are
thus managed. A magic circle is made to keep out all evil spirits
217
and enemies, and the medicine men then proceed to walk in single file,
and with measured steps, completely around the spot which they would
render sacred, and which is generally half a mile in diameter, marking
their route by plucking a single leaf from every tree or bush
which they may happen to pass, all these leaves being carefully deposited
in a pouch carried for the purpose. In the mean time, the
brotherhood of chiefs have not been unemployed, for while the most
aged individual of all has been making a collection of roots, the remainder
have built a rude dam, and thereby formed a pond or pool of
water on the creek which invariably waters the sacred enclosure. The
entire population of the valley are now summoned to the outskirts of
the sacred enclosure, and a general invitation extended to all to approach
and join the chiefs and magicians in the rite they are about to
perform; it being understood, however, that no man, under penalty of
death, shall venture to participate who has left a single wrong unrevenged
or committed any unmanly deed, and no woman who has given
birth to a child since the preceding full moon. In the centre of the
sacred ground, and in the vicinity of the pool, a large fire is now
made, around which the multitude are congregated. The night is
clear, and the moon and stars are flooding the earth with light. An
earthen pot is now placed upon the fire, the roots gathered by the old
chief, numbering seven varieties, are placed therein, also the leaves
plucked by the magicians, when the pot is filled with water by seven
virgins, who are promoted to this honor by the appointment of the
senior chief. After the contents of the pot have been thoroughly
boiled, and a most bitter but medicinal beverage been made, all the
persons present are called upon to take seven sips of the bitter liquid,
and then directed to bathe no less than seven times in the neighboring
pool, the waters of which have been rendered sacred by the incantations
of the priests. All these things being done, the multitude assemble
around the fire once more, and, to the music of a strange wild
singing, they dance until the break of day, and then disperse to their
several homes. The friendship of the Great Spirit has now been
secured, and therefore, as opportunity offers, the Indians proceed to
loosen their ground, as best they may, and then plant their corn.
This labor is performed chiefly by the women, and the planted fields
218
are considered as under their especial charge. Though planted in the
greatest disorder, they keep their cornfields entirely free of weeds, and
the soil immediately around the corn in a loose condition. At every
full moon they are commonly apprehensive that some calamity may
befall their crop, and, by way of keeping the Great Spirit on their side,
the women have a custom of disrobing themselves, at the dead hour of
night, and of walking entirely around the field of corn.
And now that the sunshine and showers of summer are performing
their ministry of good in bringing the corn to its wonted perfection,
it may be well to make the reader acquainted with the following facts:
As the Indians purify themselves and perform all their religious rites
only when the moon is at its full, so do they refrain from plucking a
single ear of corn until they have partaken of their annual harvest or
green-corn feast. This feast occurs on that night of the full moon
nearest to the period when the corn becomes ripe; and, by a time-honored
law of the nation, no man, woman, or child is ever permitted,
under penalty of death, to pluck a single roasting-ear. So rigidly enforced
is this law that many Cherokees are known to have lost their
lives for disobeying it, while many families have suffered the pangs of
hunger for many days, even while their fields were filled with corn,
merely because the harvest moon had not yet arrived, and they had
not partaken of their annual feast. If a full moon should occur only
one week after the corn has become suitable to pluck, the Indians will
not touch a single ear until the next moon, even if it should then be
so hard as to require pounding before becoming suitable for food.
During the ripening period the cornfields are watched with jealous
care, and the first stalk that throws out its silken plume is designated
by a distinguishing mark. In assigning reasons for this peculiar care,
the Indians allege that until the harvest feast has taken place the corn
is exclusively the property of the Great Spirit, and that they are only
its appointed guardians; and they also maintain that, when the corn is
plucked before the appointed moon has arrived, the field which has thus
been trespassed upon is sure to be prostrated by a storm or be afflicted
with the rot; and wherefore it is that they are always greatly alarmed
when they discover that a cornfield has been touched, as they say, by
the Evil One.
219
But the harvest moon is now near at hand, and the chiefs and medicine
men have summoned the people of the several villages to prepare
themselves for the autumnal festival. Another spot of ground is selected,
and the same sanctifying ceremony is performed that was performed in
the previous spring. The most expert hunter in each village has been
commissioned to obtain game, and while he is engaged in the hunt the
people of his village are securing the blessing of the Great Spirit by
drinking, with many mystic ceremonies, the liquid made from seven
of the most bitter roots to be found among the mountains. Of all
the game which may be obtained by the hunters, not a single animal
is to be served up at the feast whose bones have been broken or mutilated;
nor shall a rejected animal be brought within the magic circle,
but shall be given to those of the tribe who, by some misdeed, have
rendered themselves unworthy to partake of the feast. The hunters
are always compelled to return from the chase at the sunset hour, and
long before they come in sight of their villages they invariably give a
shrill whistle, as a signal of good luck, whereupon the villagers make
ready to receive them with a wild song of welcome and rejoicing.
The pall of night has once more settled upon the earth, the moon
is in its glory, the watch-fire has been lighted within the magic circle,
and the inhabitants of the valley are again assembled together in one
great multitude. From all the cornfields in the valley the magicians
have collected the marked ears of corn, and deposited them in the
kettles with the various kinds of game which may have been slaughtered,
from the bear, the deer, and the turkey, to the opossum, the squirrel,
and the quail. The entire night is devoted to eating, and the feast
comes not to an end until all the food has been dispatched, when, in
answer to an appropriate signal from the medicine men, the bones which
have been stripped of their flesh are collected together and pounded
to a kind of powder, and scattered through the air. The seven days
following this feast are devoted to dancing and carousing, and at the
termination of this period the inhabitants of the valley retire to their
various villages, and proceed to gather in their crops of the sweet
maize or Indian corn.
220
The world was in its prime, and time rolled on with its accustomed
regularity. The tiny streams among the hills and mountains shouted
with joy, and the broad rivers wound their wonted course along the
peaceful valleys. Many a tall oak had grown from the acorn, spread
its rich foliage to the summer winds, decayed with age, and mingled
with its mother earth. The moon and stars had long made the night-skies
beautiful, and guided the Indian hunter through the wilderness.
The sun, which the red man calls the glory of the summer time, had
never failed to appear at his appointed periods. Many generations of
men had lived and passed away.
In process of time the aspect of the world became changed. Brother
quarreled with brother, and cruel wars frequently covered the
earth with blood. The Great Spirit saw all these things and was displeased.
A terrible wind swept over the wilderness, and the red men
knew that they had done wrong, but they lived as if they did not care.
Finally a stranger prophet made his appearance among them, and
proclaimed in every village the news that the human race was to be
destroyed. None believed his words, and the moons of summer again
came and disappeared. It was now the autumn of the year. Many
cloudy days had occurred, and then a total darkness came upon the
earth, and the sun seemed to have departed forever. It was very
dark and very cold. Men laid themselves down to sleep, but they
were troubled with unhappy dreams. They arose when they thought
it was time for the day to dawn, but only to see the sky covered with
a darkness deeper than the heaviest cloud. The moon and stars had
all disappeared, and there was constantly a dismal bellowing of thunder
in the upper air. Men now believed that the sun would never
return, and there was great consternation throughout the land. The
221
great men of the Choctaw nation spoke despondingly to their fellows,
and sung their death songs, but those songs were faintly heard in the
gloom of the great night. It was a most unhappy time indeed, and
darkness reigned for a great while. Men visited each other by torch-light.
The grains and fruits of the land became mouldy, and the
wild animals of the forest became tame and gathered around the watch-fires
of the Indians, entering even into the villages.
A louder peal of thunder than was ever before heard now echoed
through the firmament, and a light was seen in the North. It was
not the light of the sun, but the gleam of distant waters. They made
a mighty roar, and, in billows like the mountains, they rolled over the
earth. They swallowed up the entire human race in their career, and
destroyed everything which had made the earth beautiful. Only one
human being was saved, and that was the mysterious prophet who
had foretold the wonderful calamity. He had built him a raft of sassafras
logs, and upon this did he float safely above the deep waters.
A large black bird came and flew in circles above his head. He
called upon it for aid, but it shrieked aloud, and flew away and returned
to him no more. A smaller bird, of a bluish color, with
scarlet eyes and beak, now came hovering over the prophet’s head.
He spoke to it, and asked if there was a spot of dry land in any part
of the waste of waters. It fluttered its wings, uttered a sweet moan,
and flew directly towards that part of the sky where the newly-born
sun was just sinking in the waves. A strong wind now arose, and
the raft of the prophet was rapidly borne in the same direction which
the bird had pursued. The moon and stars again made their appearance,
and the prophet landed upon a green island, where he encamped.
Here he enjoyed a long and refreshing sleep, and when morning
dawned he found that the island was covered with every variety of
animals, excepting the great Shakanli, or mammoth, which had been
destroyed. Birds, too, he also found here in great abundance. He
recognized the identical black one which had abandoned him to his
fate upon the waters, and, as it was a wicked bird and had sharp
claws, he called it Ful luh-chitto, or bird of the Evil One. He also
discovered, and with great joy, the bluish bird which had caused the
wind to blow him upon the island, and because of its kindness to him
222
and its beauty, he called it Puch che-yon-sho-ba, or the soft-voiced
pigeon. The waters finally passed away, and in process of time that
bird became a woman and the wife of the prophet, from whom the
people now living upon the earth are all descended. And so endeth
the story of The Overflowing Waters.
223
There once lived in the royal Indian town of E-ya-sho (Ya-zoo) the
only son of a war chief, who was eminently distinguished above all his
fellows for his elegant form and noble bearing. The old men of the
nation looked upon him with pride, and said that he was certainly born
to occupy a high position as a warrior. He was also an eloquent orator,
and none ever thought of doubting his courage. But, with all these
qualities, he was not allowed a seat in the councils of his nation, because
he had not distinguished himself in war. The renown of having
slain an enemy he could not claim, nor had he ever been fortunate
enough to take a single prisoner. He was universally beloved, and,
as the name of his childhood had been abandoned according to an ancient
custom, and he had not yet succeeded in winning a name worthy
of his ability, he was known among his kindred as the Nameless
Choctaw.
In the town of E-ya-sho there also once lived the most beautiful
maiden of her tribe. She was the daughter of a hunter, and the betrothed
of the Nameless Choctaw. They met often at the great dances,
but, because she hoped to become his bride, she treated him as a stranger.
Often, too, did they meet at the setting of the sun, but then they
listened to the song of the whipporwill or watched the rising of the
evening star, when each could hear the throbbing of the other’s heart.
They loved with a wild passion and were very happy. At such times
one thought alone entered their minds to cast a shadow. It was this:
They knew that the laws of their nation were unalterable, and that
she could not become his bride until he had won a name. She knew
that he could always place at the door of her lodge an abundance of
game, and would deck her with the most beautiful of shells and wampum;
but all this availed them nothing; that he must go upon the war-path
was inevitable. She belonged to a proud family, and she never would
224
consent to marry a man who had not a loud sounding name, and who
could not sit in the councils of her people. She was willing to become
his bride at any time, and therefore left him, by his prowess, to decide
upon that time.
It was now midsummer and the evening hour. The Nameless Lover
had met his promised bride upon the summit of a small hill, covered
with pines. From the centre of a neighboring plain arose the smoke
of a large watch-fire, around which were dancing a party of four hundred
warriors. They had planned an expedition against the Osages, and
the present was the fourth and last night of the preparation ceremonies.
Up to that evening the Nameless Choctaw had been the leader in the
dances, and even now his absence was only temporary, for he had
stolen away to express his parting vows to his beloved. The last embrace
was given, and then the maiden was alone upon the hill-top,
looking down in sadness upon the dancing warriors, among whom she
beheld none who commanded more attention than the being whom she
loved.
Morning dawned, and the Choctaw warriors were upon the war-path
leading to the country of their enemies, far up on the headwaters of
the Arkansas. Upon that stream they found a cave, and in that cave,
because they were on a prairie land, they secreted themselves. Two
men were then selected to act as spies, one of whom (the Nameless
Choctaw) was to reconnoitre in the west and the other in the east.
Night came, and the party in the cave were discovered by an Osage
hunter, who had traveled thither for the purpose of sheltering himself
until morning from the heavy dews. By the light of the stars did he
then travel to the nearest village, and having warned his people of the
proximity of their enemies, they hurried in a large body to the cave.
At its mouth they built a fire, and when the sun rose into the horizon
the entire party of Choctaws had been smothered to death by the
cunning of their enemies.
The Choctaw spy who had journeyed towards the east, had witnessed
the surprise and unhappy fate of his brother warriors, and, returning
to his own country, he called a council and revealed the sad intelligence.
As to the fate of the Nameless Choctaw, who had journeyed to the
westward, he knew that he too must have been overtaken and slain.
225
Upon the heart of one being this last intelligence fell with a most heavy
weight, and the promised bride of the Nameless Lover pined in melancholy
grief. From the night on which she was made wretched, she
began to droop, and before the reigning moon had passed away she
died, and was buried on the identical spot where she had parted with
her lover.
But what became of the Nameless Choctaw? It was not true that he
had been overtaken and slain. He was indeed discovered by the Osages,
and far over the prairies and across the streams was he closely pursued.
For many days and through the watches of many nights did the race
continue, but the Choctaw warrior finally made his escape. His course
had been exceedingly winding, and when he came to a pause he was
astonished to find that the sun rose in the wrong quarter of the heavens.
Everything appeared to him wrong and out of order, and the truth
was he became a bewildered and forlorn man, and everywhere did he
wander. He found himself at the foot of a mighty range of mountains,
which were covered with grass and unlike any that he had ever before
seen.
It so happened, however, at the close of a certain day, that he sauntered
into a wooded valley, and having built him a rude bower and
killed a rabbit, he lighted a fire, and prepared himself for one quiet
meal and a night of repose. Morning dawned, and he was still in
trouble. Many moons passed away and the Choctaw was still desolate
and forlorn. It was now summer, and he called upon the Great Spirit
to make his pathway plain; and having hunted the forests for a spotted
deer, and slain her, on a day when there was no wind he offered a sacrifice,
and that night supped upon a portion of the animal’s sweet flesh.
His fire burnt brightly, and though somewhat forlorn, he found that
his heart was at peace. But now he hears a footstep! A moment
more, and a snow-white wolf of immense size is crouching at his feet,
and licking his torn moccasins. “How came you in this strange
country?” inquired the wolf; and the poor Indian related the story of
his unsuccessful exploit and subsequent escape. The wolf took pity
upon the Choctaw and told him that he would conduct him in safety
to the country of his kindred; and on the following morning did they
take their departure. Long, very long was the journey, and many
226
and very wild and turbulent the streams which they had to cross. The
wolf helped the Choctaw to kill game for their mutual sustenance, and
by the time that the moon for weeding the corn had arrived the
nameless Choctaw had entered his native village again. This was on
the anniversary of the day he had parted with his betrothed, and he
was sorely grieved to find his people mourning her untimely death.
Time and fatigue had so changed the returned Choctaw that his relatives
and friends did not recognize him, and he chose not to reveal
himself. From many a mouth, however, did he learn the story
of her death, and many a wild song, to the astonishment of all his
friends, did he sing to the memory of the departed, whom he called
by the beautiful name of Imma, or the idol of warriors. And on a
cloudless night did he wander to the grave of his beloved, and at a
moment when the Great Spirit cast his shadow upon the moon (alluding
to an eclipse) did he throw himself thereon and die. For three nights
thereafter were the inhabitants of the Choctaw village alarmed by the
continual howling of a wolf, and when it ceased, the pine forest, upon
the hill where the lovers were resting in peace, took up the dismal
howl or moan, and has continued it to the present time.
227
It was midsummer, and there was a terrible plague in the wilderness.
Many a Chippeway village on the borders of Lake Superior had
been depopulated. The only band of the great northern nation which
had thus far escaped, was the one whose hunting grounds lay on the
northern shore of the St. Mary’s River. Their principal village stood
upon a gentle promontory overlooking the Great Lake, immediately
at the head of the Sault or Falls, and at this village the chiefs and
warriors of the tribe were assembled in council. Incantations of every
possible description had for many days been performed, and yet nightly
tidings were received, showing that the fatal disease was sweeping over
the land, like the fires of autumn over the prairies. The signs in the
sky, as well as these tidings, convinced the poor Indians that their
days were numbered. It was now the last night of their council, and
they were in despair. They knew that the plague had been sent upon
the earth by the Great Spirit, as a punishment for some crime, and
they also knew that there was but one thing that could possibly appease
his anger. And what was this? The sacrifice of the most beautiful
girl of her tribe. And such was the decree, that she should enter her
canoe, and throwing away her paddle, cast herself upon the waters,
just above the Sault.
Morning dawned, and loud and dismal beyond compare, was the
wail of sorrow which broke upon the silent air. Another council was
held, and the victim for the sacrifice was selected. She was an only
child, and her mother was a widow, feeble and infirm. They told the
maiden of her fate, and she uttered not a repining word. The girls
and women of the village flocked around their long-loved companion,
and decked her hair and her neck with all the brightest wampum, and
the most beautiful feathers and shells that could be found in all the
tribe. The time appointed for the sacrifice was the sunset hour; and
228
as the day was rapidly waning, the gloom which pervaded the entire
village gradually increased, and it even seemed as if a murmuring
tone mingled with the roar of the mighty waterfall. The day had
been one of uncommon splendor, and as the sun descended to the
horizon a retinue of gorgeous clouds gathered around him, and the
great lake, whose waters receded to the sky, was covered with a deeper
blue than had ever before been seen.
All things were now ready, and the Indian maiden was ready for
the sacrifice. In silence was she conducted to her canoe, and loud
was the wail of lamentation. It died away; and now, to the astonishment
of all the people, a strange echo came from over the waters.
What could it mean? A breathless silence ensued, and even the old
men listened with fear. And now a louder and a clearer continuation
of the same echo breaks upon the air. A speck is seen upon the
waters. The sun has disappeared, and a small canoe is seen rapidly
approaching, as if from the very spot where the orb touched the waters.
The song increases; and as the fairy-like canoe sweeps mysteriously over
the watery waste, it is now seen to contain a beautiful being, resembling
a girl, clothed in a snow-white robe. She is in a standing attitude,
her arms are folded, and her eyes are fixed upon the heavens. Her
soul is absorbed in a song, of which this is the burden:—
“I come from the Spirit land,
To appease the Great Spirit,
To stay the plague,
And to save the life of the beautiful Chippeway.”
Onward she came, and her pathway lay directly towards the mighty
rapids. With utter astonishment did the Indians look upon this unheard
of spectacle, and while they looked they saw the canoe and its
spirit voyager pass directly into the foam, where it was lost to them
for ever.
And so did the poor Indians escape the plague. The St. Mary is
a beautiful river; and during the summer time its shores are always
lined with lilies, large, and of a marvelous whiteness; and it is a
common belief among the Chippeways, that they owe their origin to
the mysterious spirit, from whose mutilated body they sprang. And
so endeth the Legend of the Spirit Sacrifice.
229
The following story was obtained by the writer, directly from the lips of a
Seneca Indian, and the hero is said to have been the grandfather of the celebrated
orator Red Jacket.
There was a time when all the Indian tribes in the world were at
war with the great Seneca nation, whose hunting grounds were on the
borders of Lake Ontario. So fearful had they become of their
enemies, that the bravest hunters and warriors never left their wig-wams
without bending their bows, and little children were not permitted
by their mothers to gather berries or hickory nuts in the
neighboring woods. The head chief of the nation at that time, was
Sa-go-you-wat-ha, or Always Awake. He was a good man, and being
sorely grieved at the unhappiness of his people, he conceived the idea
of securing a permanent peace. It was true, he said, that his father
had been a cruel and unpopular chief, but he did not think it right
that the generation which followed his father should be made miserable
for crimes never committed by them. And therefore it was that
he prayed to the Great Ha-nee to tell him, in a dream, what he must
do to accomplish his end. Night came, and in spite of his name,
Always Awake fell into a deep sleep and had a dream.
He was told that in the direction whence came the warm winds of
summer, and distant from his village a journey of one moon, there
was a very large mountain. On the summit of that mountain, as he
was told, were living a few people from all the nations of the earth,
excepting the Senecas. The place alluded to was called the Mountain
of Refuge, and it was so sacred a place, that its soil had never been
wet with human blood, and the people who lived there, were the peculiar
favorites of the Great Ha-nee, and were the law makers of the
world. The dream also told the Seneca chief, that he could secure a
permanent peace only by visiting the sacred mountain; but as the
230
intervening distance was so great, and his trail would be only among
enemies, the dangers of the expedition would be very numerous. By
traveling at night, however, and sleeping in the day time, the task
might be accomplished, and he was at liberty to try his fortune.
Always Awake pondered a long time upon this strange vision, but
finally determined to start upon the appointed expedition. Great was
the fatigue that he endured, and oftentimes was he compelled to
satisfy his hunger with the roots and berries of the forest. Many a
narrow escape did he make from his enemies; but in due time he
reached the Mountain of Refuge. He was warmly welcomed among
the Indians of the mountain, and when he told his story and talked
of peace, they honored him with many a loud shout of applause. A
council was held, and a decree passed, to the effect that the important
question at stake should be settled by another council composed of
the head chiefs of all the Indian nations in the land. The fleetest
runners were employed to disseminate the news, and at the appointed
time the council of chiefs was held. They formed themselves into a
confederacy, and with one exception, the nations of the wilderness became
as one people, and so continued until the white man crossed the
great waters and taught them the vices which have almost consumed
them from the face of the earth. The only nation that would not
join the confederation was the Osage nation, and because of their
wickedness in so doing, they were cursed by the Great Ha-nee, and
have ever since been a by-word and a reproach among their fellows.
And when the Seneca chief returned to his own country, he was
very happy. His trail through the forests and over the mountains
was lined with bonfires, and in every village that he tarried, he was
feasted with the best of game. One moon after he returned to his
people he died and was buried on the banks of the beautiful lake
where he lived; and ever since that time the Great Ha-nee has permitted
his people to live upon the land inherited from their fathers.
231
Wa-pit-pa-taska, or the Yellow Sky, was the daughter of a Shawnee
or Snake hunter. His lodge was not one of the handsomest in
the village where it stood, but the paths leading to it were more beaten
than those leading to any other, for the daughter of the hunter was a
great favorite among the young men of her tribe. The exploits of
those who sought her hand had no charm for her ear, and her tastes
were strangely different from those common among women. She
knew that she had not many years to live upon the earth, and her
dreams had told her she was created for an unheard-of mission. There
was a mystery about her being, and none could comprehend the meaning
of her evening songs. On one condition alone did she avow her
willingness to become a wife, and this was, that he who became her
husband should never, under any circumstances, mention her name.
If he did so, a sad calamity would befall him, and he would forever
thereafter regret his thoughtlessness. By this decree was the love of
one of her admirers greatly enhanced, and before the summer was
gone the twain were married and dwelt in the same lodge.
Time flew on and the Yellow Sky sickened and died, and her last
words were that her husband should never forget her admonition
about breathing her name. The widower was very unhappy, and for
five summers did he avoid his fellow men, living in solitude, and wandering
through the forests alone. The voices of autumn were now
heard in the land, and the bereaved husband had, after his many
journeyings, returned to the grave of his wife, which he found overgrown
with briers and coarse weeds. For many moons had he
neglected to protect the remains of his wife, and he now tried to atone
for his wickedness by plucking up the briers and covering the grave
with a soft sod. In doing this he was discovered by a stranger Indian,
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who asked him whose grave it was of which he was taking so
much care? “It is the grave,” said he, “of Wa-pit-pa-taska;” and
hardly had the forbidden name (which he thoughtlessly uttered)
passed from his lips, before he fell to the earth in a spasm of great
pain. The sun was setting, and his bitter moans echoed far through
the gloomy woods, even until the darkness settled upon the world.
Morning came, and near the grave of the Yellow Sky a large buck
was quietly feeding. It was the unhappy husband, whom the Great
Spirit had thus changed. The trotting of a wolf was heard in the
brake, and the deer pricked up his ears. One moment more, and the
wolf started after the deer. The race was very long and painful, but
the deer finally escaped. And thus from a man came into existence
the beautiful deer, or mu-rat-si; and because of the foolishness of this
man, in not remembering his wife’s words, the favorite animal of the
Shawnee has ever been at the mercy of the wolf.
233
It was in the country of the Winnebagoes, or people of the turbid
water, and there was a great scarcity of game. An Indian hunter,
while returning from an unsuccessful expedition, at the sunset hour,
chanced to discover in the top of a tree a large white owl. He knew
that the flesh of this bird was not palatable to the taste, but as he
thought of his wife and children, who had been without food for
several days, he concluded to bend his bow and kill the bird. Hardly
had he come to this determination, before he was astonished to hear
the owl speaking to him in the following strain: “You are a very
foolish hunter. You know it is against the laws of your nation to
kill any of my tribe, and why should you do wrong because you
happen to be a little hungry? I know that your wife and children
are also hungry, but that is not a good reason for depriving me of life.
I too have a wife and several children, and their home is in the hollow
of an old tree. When I left them a little while ago, they were quite
as hungry as you are, and I am now trying to obtain for their enjoyment
a red squirrel or a young opossum. Unlike you, I have to hunt
for my game only at night, and if you will go away and not injure
me, I may have it in my power to do you a kindness at some future
time.”
The Indian hunter was convinced, and he unbent his bow. He
returned to his wigwam, and after he had told his wife what had
happened to him, she told him she was not sorry, for she had been
particularly fortunate in gathering berries. And then the Indian and
his family were contented, and game soon afterwards became abundant
in the land.
Many seasons had passed away, and the powerful nation of the Iroquois
were making war upon the Winnebagoes. The hunter already
mentioned had become a successful warrior and a chief. He was a
234
mark for his enemies, and the bravest among them started upon the
war-path for the express purpose of effecting his destruction. They
hunted him as they would the panther, but he always avoided their
arrows. Many days of fatigue had he now endured, and, believing
that his enemies had given up the chase, he stopped, on a certain
evening, to rest himself and enjoy a repast of roots. After this comfortless
supper was ended, he wrapped himself in his skins and thought
that he would lie down and enjoy a little sleep. He did so, and the
only sounds which broke the stillness of the air were caused by the
falling of the dew from the leaves, and the whistling of the whipporwill.
It was now past midnight, and the Winnebago was yet undisturbed.
A whoop is heard in the forest, but so remote from his
grassy couch as not to be heard by the unconscious sleeper. But what
can this shouting mean? A party of the Iroquois warriors have
fallen upon the trail of their enemy, and are in hot pursuit. But still
the Winnebago warrior is in the midst of a pleasant dream. On come
his enemies, and his death is inevitable. The shouting of the Iroquois
is now distinct and clear, but in the twinkling of an eye it is swallowed
up in a much louder and more dismal shriek, which startled
the Winnebago to his feet. He is astonished, and wonders whence
comes the noise. He looks upwards, and lo! perched upon one of
the branches of the tree under which he had been resting, the form of a
large white owl. It rolls its large yellow eyes upon him, and tells him
that an enemy is on his trail, and that he must flee for his life. And
this is the way in which the white owl manifested its gratitude to the
Winnebago hunter for his kindness in sparing its own life many years
before. And since that time the owl has ever been considered a very
good and a wise bird, and when it perches above the wigwam of the
red man it is always safe from harm.
235
The following story was obtained from the lips of a Chippeway warrior
named Maw-gun-nub, or Setting-ahead. He told it with as serious an air as if
it had been a matter of actual and important history, and was evidently a firm
believer in the wonders therein contained.
An Indian village stood upon the borders of the Lake of the Woods.
It was a summer day, and a heavy rain storm had passed over the country,
when a large Giant or Cannibal suddenly made his appearance in
the village. He was as tall as the tallest hemlock, and carried a club in
his hand which was longer than the longest canoe. He told the Indians
that he had come from a far country in the North; that he was tired
and hungry; and that all the wild rice and the game in the village
must be immediately brought to his feet, that he might satisfy his appetite.
His orders were obeyed, and when the food was brought, and
the inhabitants of the village were collected together to see him enjoy
his feast, the Giant told them he was not yet satisfied; whereupon,
with one blow of his huge club, he destroyed, with one exception, all
the people who had treated him so kindly. The only person who
escaped the dreadful blow was a little boy, who happened to be sick
in one of the wigwams.
After the Giant had committed his cruel deed, he devoured a number
of the dead bodies, and during the night disappeared without discovering
the boy. In a few days the boy was well enough to move
about, and as he went from one wigwam to another, he thought of his
friends who had been so suddenly killed, and was very unhappy. For
many seasons did he live alone. While very young his food consisted
of such birds as the partridge, but as he grew up to the estate of manhood,
he became a successful hunter, and often feasted upon the
deer and the buffalo. He became a strong man, but was very lonely,
236
and every time he thought of the Giant who had destroyed his relatives
and friends he thirsted for revenge.
Time passed on, and the Chippeway hunter became uneasy and discontented.
He fasted for many days, and called upon the Great Spirit
to give him power to discover and destroy the Giant who had done
him so much harm. The Great Spirit took pity upon him, heard his
prayer, and sent to his assistance a troop of a hundred men, from
whose backs grew the most beautiful of wings. They told the hunter
that they knew all about the Giant, and would help him to take his life.
They said that the Giant was very fond of the meat of the white bear,
and that if the hunter would give a bear feast they were certain that
the Giant would make his appearance and ask for a portion of the
choice food. The time for giving the feast was appointed, and it was
to take place in a large natural wigwam, formed by the locked branches
of many trees; whereupon the strange people disappeared and the
hunter started towards the north after a bear.
The hunter was successful; the appointed time arrived, the feast
was ready, and the strange people were on the ground. The dancing
and the singing were all over, and the hot bear soup filled the wigwam
with a pleasant odor. A heavy tramp was heard in the woods, and in
a little time the Giant made his appearance, attracted to the place by
the smell of the soup. He came rushing to the wigwam like one who
knew not what it was to fear; but when he saw the array of people
with wings he became very quiet, and asked the hunter if he might
participate in the feast. The hunter told him that he might, on condition
that he would go to the mouth of a certain stream that emptied
into the lake, and bring therefrom to the wigwam a large rock which
he would find there. The Giant was angry at this request, but as he
was afraid of the people with wings he dared not disobey. He did as
he was bidden, and the thong which he used to hold the rock on his
back cut a deep gash in his forehead.
The hunter was not yet satisfied, and he told the Giant that before
he could be admitted to the feast he must bring to the wigwam a gill-net
that would reach across the widest stream. The Giant departed,
and, having obtained a beautiful net from a mammoth spider that lived
in a cave, he brought it to the hunter. The hunter was well pleased,
237
but not yet fully satisfied. One more thing did he demand from the
Giant before he could be admitted to the feast, which was this, that he
must make his appearance at the feast wearing a robe made of weasel
skins, with the teeth and claws all on. This robe was obtained, the
Giant was admitted, and the feast proceeded.
It lasted for several days and nights, and the hunter, the strange
people, and the Giant danced and caroused together as if they had
been the best of friends. The Giant was delighted with the singing
of his entertainers, and while he praised them to the skies he did not
know that in his bowl of soup the Chippeway hunter, who had not
forgotten the death of his friends, had placed a bitter root, which
would deprive him of his strength. But such was, indeed, the case.
On the last night of the feast the Giant became very tired and stupid,
and asked permission to enjoy some sleep. Permission was granted,
and in the centre of the great lodge was spread for his accommodation
his weasel-skin robe. Upon the stone which he brought from the
river did he rest his head, and over him was spread the net he had
obtained from the mammoth spider. He then fell into a deep sleep,
and the men with wings and the hunter continued the revelry. Each
man supplied himself with a war club, and they performed the dance
of revenge. They formed a ring around the sleeping Giant, and at a
signal made by the hunter they all gave him a severe blow, when the
spirit-men disappeared into the air, and the weasel-skin robe suddenly
became alive. The little animals feasted upon the Giant with evident
satisfaction, and by morning there was nothing left of him but his
bones. These did the hunter gather into a heap, and having burnt
them to ashes, he threw them into the air, and immediately there came
into existence all the beautiful birds which now fill the world. And
in this manner was the great Giant of the Chippeways destroyed, and
instead of his living to feast upon the flesh of man, his own body, by
the wisdom of the Great Spirit, was turned into the birds, which are
the animal food of man.
238
This legend, with at least a score of variations, was related to me
by a Chippeway hunter named Ka-zhe-osh, or the Fleet Flyer. It is
excessively romantic, but will most certainly enlist the sympathies of
the ladies.
Near the head of the Mississippi is Sandy Lake. In the centre of
this lake there is an island, and on this island, in the olden times, stood
a Chippeway village. The chief of this village had a daughter, and
that daughter had a lover, who was the greatest warrior of his tribe,
and a magician. He had the power of turning himself into any kind
of animal he pleased, and for this reason he was looked upon with
suspicion by the females of his acquaintance. He lived in a secluded
lodge on the outskirts of the village, and none ever disturbed him in
his seclusion without express permission; and a greater number of
scalps hung from the poles of his lodge than from those of any other
in the tribe. The chief’s daughter admired him for his noble bearing
and his exploits, but she could not reconcile herself to become his wife.
She was afraid of the strange power that he possessed, but she loved
her father, and had promised him that she would never disobey his
commands in regard to choosing her husband, though she trusted that
the magician would never be mentioned in that connection.
In view of this state of things the magician made interest with the
entire brotherhood of warriors and hunters, and proclaimed his intention
of leading them upon the war-path to a distant country. He was
unhappy, and hoped to find peace of mind by wandering into strange
lands. At an appointed time the party assembled upon a neighboring
plain, and they went through the ceremonies of the war-dance. They
also shouted a loud war song, with the following burden:—
“We love the whoop of our enemies;
We are going to war,
We are going to war, on the other side of the world.”
239
On witnessing these preparations, the chief of the village became
troubled. He well knew that if the old men and the women and
children under his charge should be abandoned by the fighting men
and hunters of the tribe, they would be visited by much suffering, and
he determined to avoid the calamity. But how could this be done?
He thought of only one method, which was to give the magician his
daughter. He told the daughter, and she promised to obey. He
made the proposition to the magician, and it was accepted. It was on
certain conditions, however, and these were as follows:—
The magician was first to capture the largest white-fish in the lake,
then kill a white deer, and finally win a foot-race of fifteen miles
against the swiftest runner in the tribe. All these things the magician
promised to do, and he did them all. He turned himself into an
otter, and by the assistance of the chief of the otters secured the
largest fish that had ever been seen, and appearing in his own form
again, deposited it in the lodge of the chief. He also turned himself
into a black wolf, and having ranged the forest for a white deer he
caught it, and again resuming his natural form carried it to the lodge
where lived his betrothed. In running the race that had been proposed
he had one hundred competitors, and at the end of the fifteen
miles was stationed the chief’s daughter, with a belt of wampum in
her hand to crown the victor. The magician started upon the race in
the form of a man, but before he had run a mile he turned himself
into a hawk, and swooping to the side of the maiden, demanded that
she should now become an inmate of his lodge. She consented, and
the chief gave her to the magician. Before he took her away he called
together the men of his tribe who had competed with him for the
prize, and complimented them for their great activity in running the
race, and condoled with them in their disappointment. He then told
the chief that he did not thank him for what he had done, and turning
to the daughter he said that as she had cost him so much trouble she
must enter his camp and do all his work for him, even to the end of
her days. And ever since that time has it been the lot of all Indian
women to act as the servants of their husbands.
240
I obtained the following legend from the lips of an Indian trader, whom I
met at the island of La Pointe, in Lake Superior. He said it was related to
him by a hunter of the Chippewyan nation, and that he had heard a similar
story among the Chippeways.
There was once a quarrel among the stars, when one of them was
driven away from its home in the heavens and descended to the earth.
It wandered from one tribe of Indians to another, and had been seen
hovering over the camp-fires of a thousand Indians, when they were
preparing themselves to sleep. It always attracted attention and inspired
wonder and admiration. It often lighted upon the heads of
little children, as if for the purpose of playing with them, but they
were invariably frightened and drove it away by their loud crying.
Among all the people in the world, only one could be found who was
not afraid of this beautiful star; and this was a little girl, the daughter
of a Chippewyan warrior. She was not afraid of the star, but rather
than this, she loved it with her whole heart, and was very happy in
her love. That she was loved by the star in return there could be
no doubt, for wherever she traveled with her father through the
wilderness there, as the night came on did the star follow, but it was
never seen in the day time. When the girl awoke at night, the star
floated just above her head; and, when she was asleep, it was so constant
in its watchfulness, that she never opened her eyes, even at midnight,
without beholding its brilliant light. People wondered at this
strange condition of things, but how much more did they wonder,
when they found that the father of the girl never returned from the
hunt without an abundance of game. They therefore concluded that
the star must be the son of the Good Spirit, and they ever after spoke
of it with veneration.
Time passed on, and it was midsummer. The Indian girl had gone
into the woods for the purpose of gathering berries. Those of the
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wintergreen were nearly all eaten up by the pigeons and the deer, and,
as the cranberries were beginning to ripen, she wandered into a large
marsh with a view of filling her willow basket with them. She did
so, and in the tangled thickets of the swamp she lost her way. She
became frightened and cried aloud for her father to come to her assistance.
The only creatures that answered her cries were the frogs and
the lonely bittern. The night was rapidly coming, and the farther
she wandered the more intricate became her path. At one time she
was compelled to wade into the water even to her knees, and then
again would she fall into a deep hole and almost become drowned
among the poisonous slime and weeds. Night came, and the poor girl
looked up at the sky, hoping that she might see the star that she
loved. A storm had arisen, and the rain fell so rapidly that a star
could not live in it, and therefore was there none to be seen. The
storm continued, the waters of the country rose, and in rushing into
the deeper lakes, they destroyed the Indian girl, and washed her body
away so that it never could be found.
Many seasons passed away and the star continued to be seen above
the watch-fires of the Chippewyans; but it would never remain long
in one place, and its light appeared to have become dimmed. It ever
seemed to be looking for something that it could not find, and people
knew that it was unhappy on account of the untimely death of the
girl it had loved. Additional years passed on, and with the leaves of
autumn, it finally disappeared. A cold and long winter soon followed,
and then the hottest summer that had ever been known. During this
season it so happened that a hunter chanced at night to follow a bear
into one of the largest swamps of the land, when to his astonishment
he discovered a small light hanging over the water. It was so beautiful
that he followed it for a long distance, but it led into such dangerous
places that he gave up the pursuit, and returned to tell his people
what he had seen. And then it was that the oldest men of the tribe
told him that the light he had seen was the star that had been driven
from heaven, and that it was now wandering over the earth for the
purpose of finding the beautiful girl it had loved. And that same star
is still upon the earth, and is often seen by the hunters as they
journey at night through the wilderness.
242
According to the belief of the Pottowatomies, there once lived on
the western shore of Lake Michigan two great spirits. Their names
were Kit-che-mo-ne-to, or the Good Spirit, and Mat-che-mo-me-to, the Evil
Spirit. They were equally powerful, but the creation of the world
was attributed to the former. When he had piled up the mountains,
and filled the valleys with running streams, he proceeded to people the
world with living creatures, and allotted to each variety its peculiar
sphere. He then endeavored to create a being that should resemble
himself, but in this attempt he did not succeed. The animal that he
made looked and acted more like a wolf than any other creature.
Disappointed at this failure the Good Spirit became angry, and seizing
the strange creature he had made he threw it into a great lake, and it
was drowned. A storm arose, and the waters of the lake made a terrible
noise as they beat upon its rocky shores. Among the shells and
pebbles washed upon the sands were the bones of the strange animal
that the Good Spirit had made, and when the storm had abated the
bones were turned into a being who bore a strong likeness to the
present race of Pottowatomies, and that being was the first woman.
So well pleased with this creation was the Good Spirit that he made
five other beings resembling her in form, but only more rugged, who
were to help her in all her employments; and these were the first
men. One of them was named U-sa-me, or Smoking-Weed; another
Wa-pa-ho, or Pumpkin; another Esh-kos-sim-in, or the Melon; another
Ko-kees, or the Bean; and the other Mon-ta-min, or Yellow
Maize. The business of these several beings was to protect and
gather the various productions of the earth after which they were
named, and in doing this they continued to be employed from the
time that the acorn fell to the ground until it became one of the
largest trees of the forest.
243
The world had now become very beautiful, and the few men who
had the care of it very proud. They became the friends of the Evil
Spirit. They quarreled among themselves, and in process of time
with the woman, whom they had for a long time obeyed. They
looked upon her as the queen of the world, and coveted her power
and happiness. They tried to take her life, but without success. She
became acquainted with the wickedness of their hearts, and regretted
that she had ever been created. So unhappy did she become that
she prayed to the Good Spirit to take her to the sky; and when the
following evening came she was transformed into a star, and ever
since that time has been the first to take her station in the horizon
after the sun has disappeared behind the distant hills. And it is
thought that so long as this star remains unchanged no misfortune
can happen to the world.
When the five young men found themselves alone they were sorry
for the unkind feelings they had manifested towards the woman, and
were constantly missing the brightness of her smiles and the music of
her voice, which they now remembered with mingled feelings of pleasure
and pain. They were in great tribulation, and expected to
perish from the face of the earth for their wickedness. They called
upon the Evil Spirit for comfort and power, but he heard them not;
he had abandoned them to their fate. They then thought that they
would implore the assistance of the Good Spirit. They did so, and
told him that they only wanted each the companionship of a woman,
like the one that had been taken away. Their prayer was answered,
and thus did they become the husbands of affectionate wives, from
whom are descended the nation of Pottowatomies, or the people who
make their own fires.
244
The sea alluded to in this legend is supposed to be the Gulf of Mexico, and
the mighty river the Mississippi. So said the educated Choctaw Pitchlyn, from
whom it was obtained. The idea that the Choctaws were the original mound
builders, will strike the reader as something new.
According to the traditions of the Choctaws, the first of their race
came from the bosom of a magnificent sea. Even when they first
made their appearance upon the earth they were so numerous as to
cover the sloping and sandy shore of the ocean far as the eye could
reach, and for a long time did they follow the margin of the sea before
they could find a place suited to their wants. The name of their
principal chief has long since been forgotten, but it is well remembered
that he was a prophet of great age and wisdom. For many
moons did they travel without fatigue, and all the time were their
bodies strengthened by pleasant breezes, and their hearts, on the other
hand, gladdened by the luxuriance of a perpetual summer. In process
of time, however, the multitude was visited by sickness, and one after
another were left upon the shore the dead bodies of old women and
little children. The heart of the Prophet became troubled, and, planting
a long staff that he carried in his hand, and which was endowed
with the miraculous power of an oracle, he told his people that from
the spot designated they must turn their faces towards the unknown
wilderness. But before entering upon this portion of their journey
he designated a certain day for starting, and told them that they were
at liberty, in the meantime, to enjoy themselves by feasting and
dancing, and performing their national rites.
It was now early morning, and the hour appointed for starting.
Heavy clouds and flying mists rested upon the sea, but the beautiful
waves melted upon the shore as joyfully as ever before. The staff
which the Prophet had planted was found leaning towards the north,
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and in that direction did the multitude take up their line of march.
Their journey lay across streams, over hills and mountains, through
tangled forests, and over immense prairies. They were now in an entirely
strange country, and as they trusted in their magic staff they
planted it every night with the utmost care, and arose in the morning
with great eagerness to ascertain the direction towards which it leaned.
And thus had they traveled for many days when they found themselves
upon the margin of an O-kee-na-chitto, or great highway of
water. Here did they pitch their tents, and having planted the staff,
retired to repose. When morning came the oracle told them that
they must cross the mighty river before them. They built themselves
a thousand rafts, and reached the opposite shore in safety. They now
found themselves in a country of surpassing loveliness, where the
trees were so high as almost to touch the clouds, and where game of
every variety and the sweetest of fruits were found in the greatest
abundance. The flowers of this land were more brilliant than any
they had ever before seen, and so large as often to shield them from
the sunlight of noon. With the climate of the land they were delighted,
and the air they breathed seem to fill their bodies with a new vigor.
So pleased were they with all that they saw that they built mounds
in all the more beautiful valleys they passed through, so that the Master
of Life might know that they were not an ungrateful people. In
this new country did they conclude to remain, and here did they establish
their national government with its benign laws.
Time passed on, and the Choctaw nation became so powerful that
its hunting grounds extended even to the sky. Troubles now arose
among the younger warriors and hunters of the nation, until it came to
pass that they abandoned the cabins of their forefathers, and settled
in distant regions of the earth. Thus from the very body of the
Choctaw nation have sprung those other nations which are known as
the Chickasaws, the Cherokees, the Creeks or Mukogees, the Shawnees
and the Delawares. And in the process of time the Choctaws founded
a great city, wherein their more aged men might spend their days in
peace; and, because they loved those of their people who had long
before departed into distant regions, they called this city Yazoo, the
meaning of which is, home of the people who are gone.
246
That beautiful phenomenon known to the white man as the Aurora
Borealis, or Northern Lights, is called by the Chippeway Indians Je-bi-ne-me-id-de-wand,
or the Dancing Ghosts. The legends accounting
for it are numerous, and the following, which was related to the
translator by a Chippeway hunter, named Keesh-Chock, or Precipice
Leaper, is quite as fantastic as the phenomenon itself. That it is a
very ancient tradition is evident from the fact that the sacrifice to
which it alludes has not been practiced by the Chippeways for at least
a century.
There was a time when all the inhabitants of the far North were
afflicted by a famine. It was in the depth of winter, and the weather
had for a long time been so cold that even the white bear was afraid
to leave his hiding place. The prairies were so deeply covered with
snow that the deer and the buffalo were compelled to wander to a
warmer climate, and the lakes and rivers were so closely packed with
ice that it was only once in a while that even a fish could be obtained.
Such sorrow as reigned throughout the land had never before been
known. The magicians and wise men kept themselves hidden in their
cabins. The warriors and hunters, instead of boasting of their exploits,
crowded around their camp-fires, and in silence meditated upon
their unhappy doom. Mothers abandoned their children to seek for
berries in the desolate forests, and the fingers of the young women had
become stiff from idleness, for they had not any skins out of which to
make the comfortable moccasin. From one end of the Chippeway
country to the other was heard the cry of hunger and distress. That
the Great Spirit was angry with his people was universally believed,
but for what reason none of the magicians could tell. The chief of the
Chippeways was the oldest man in the nation, and he was consulted
in regard to the impending calamity. He could give no reason for
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the famine, but stated that he had been informed in a dream that the
anger of the Great Spirit could be appeased by a human sacrifice.
How this should come to pass, however, he could not tell, and therefore
concluded to summon to his lodge all the medicine-men who lived
within a day’s journey, for the purpose of consulting with them. He
did so, and when the council was ended it was proclaimed that three
Chippeways should be immediately bound to the stake and consumed.
They were to be selected by lot from among the warriors of the tribe;
and, when this sad intelligence was promulgated, a national assembly
was ordered to convene.
The appointed time arrived, and, in the presence of a large multitude,
the fatal lots were cast, and three of the bravest men of the tribe
were thus appointed to the sacrifice. They submitted to their fate
without a murmur. Whilst their friends gathered around them with
wild lamentations, and decked them with the costliest robes and ornaments
to be found in all the tribe, the youthful warriors uttered not a
word about their untimely departure, but only spoke in the most
poetical language of the happy hunting grounds upon which they were
about to enter. The spot selected for the sacrifice was the summit of
a neighboring hill which was covered with woods. Upon this spot had
three stakes been closely erected, around which there had been collected
a large pile of dry branches and other combustible materials.
To the stakes, at the hour of midnight, and by the hands of the magicians,
unattended by spectators, were the three warriors securely
fastened. They performed their cruel duty in silence, and the only
sounds that broke the stillness of that winter night were the songs and
the shoutings of the multitude assembled in the neighboring village.
The incantations of the priests being ended, they applied a torch to
the fagots, and, returning to their village, spent the remainder of the
night in performing a variety of strange and heart-sickening ceremonies.
Morning dawned, and upon the hill of sacrifice was to be seen only
a pile of smouldering ashes. On that day the weather moderated,
and an unusual number of hunters went forth in pursuit of game.
They were all more successful than they had been for many seasons,
and there was an abundance of sweet game, such as the buffalo, the
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bear, and the deer in every wigwam. A council was called, and the
patriarch chief proclaimed the glad tidings that the Great Spirit had
accepted their sacrifice, and that it was now the duty of his children to
express their gratitude by a feast—the feast of bitter roots.
The appointed night arrived, and the bitterest roots which could be
found in the lodges of the magicians were collected together and made
into a soup. The company assembled to partake of this feast, was the
largest that had ever been known, and, as they were to conclude their
ceremony of thankfulness by dancing, they had cleared the snow from
the centre of their village, and on this spot were they duly congregated.
It was a cold and remarkably clear night, and their watch-fires
burnt with uncommon brilliancy. It was now the hour of midnight,
and the bitter soup was all gone. The flutes and the drums
had just been brought out, and the dancers, decked in their most
uncouth dresses, were about to enter the charmed ring, when a series
of loud shoutings were heard, and the eyes of the entire multitude
were intently fixed upon the northern sky, which was illuminated by
a most brilliant and unearthly light. It was a light of many colors,
and as changeable as the reflections upon a summer sea at the sunset
hour. Across this light were constantly dancing three huge figures of
a crimson hue, and these did the magicians proclaim to be the ghosts
of the three warriors who had given up their bodies for the benefit of
their people, and who had thus become great chiefs in the spirit-land.
The fire by which their bodies had been consumed had also consumed
every feeling of revenge; and ever since that remote period it has
been their greatest pleasure to illume by their appearance on winter
nights the pathway of the hunters over the snowy plains of the north.
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It was in olden times, and two Choctaw hunters were spending
the night by their watch-fire in a bend of the river Alabama. The
game and the fish of their country were with every new moon becoming
less abundant, and all that they had to satisfy their hunger on the
night in question, was the tough flesh of a black hawk. They were
very tired, and as they mused upon their unfortunate condition, and
thought of their hungry children, they were very unhappy, and talked
despondingly. But they roasted the bird before the fire, and proceeded
to enjoy as comfortable a meal as they could. Hardly had
they commenced eating, however, before they were startled by a singular
noise, resembling the cooing of a dove. They jumped up and
looked around them to ascertain the cause. In one direction they
saw nothing but the moon just rising above the forest trees on the
opposite side of the river. They looked up and down the river, but
could see nothing but the sandy shores and the dark waters. They
listened, and nothing could they hear but the murmur of the flowing
stream. They turned their eyes in that direction opposite the moon,
and to their astonishment, they discovered standing upon the summit
of a grassy mound, the form of a beautiful woman. They hastened to
her side, when she told them she was very hungry, whereupon they
ran after their roasted hawk, and gave it all into the hands of the
strange woman. She barely tasted of the proffered food, but told the
hunters that their kindness had preserved her from death, and that
she would not forget them, when she returned to the happy grounds
of her father, who was the Hosh-tah-li, or Great Spirit of the Choctaws.
She had one request to make, and this was, that when the
next moon of midsummer should arrive, they should visit the spot
where she then stood. A pleasant breeze swept among the forest
leaves, and the strange woman suddenly disappeared.
250
The hunters were astonished, but they returned to their families,
and kept all that they had seen and heard, hidden in their hearts. Summer
came, and they once more visited the mound on the banks of the
Alabama. They found it covered with a new plant, whose leaves
were like the knives of the white man. It yielded a delicious food,
which has since been known among the Choctaws as the sweet toncha
or Indian maize.
251
In the great wilderness of the north, midway between Hudson’s
Bay and Lake Ontario, lies a beautiful sheet of water called Stone
Lake. It is surrounded with hills, which are covered with a dense
forest, and the length thereof is about twelve miles. On the shore of
this lake there stood, in the olden time, an Ottawa village, and the
most notorious vagabond in said village was an old bachelor. He was
a kind-hearted rogue, and though he pretended to have a cabin of his
own, he spent the most of his time lounging about the wigwams of
his friends, where he was treated with the attention usually bestowed
upon the oldest dog of an Indian village. The low cunning for which
he was distinguished made him the laughing-stock of all who knew
him, and his proverbial cowardice had won for him the contempt of
all the hunters and warriors. Whenever a war party was convened
for the purpose of pursuing an enemy, Wis-ka-go-twa, or the White
Liver, always happened to be in the woods; but when they returned,
singing their songs of victory, the vagabond bachelor generally mingled
conspicuously with the victors.
But, in process of time, Wis-ka-go-twa took it into his head to get
married, and from that moment began the troubles of his life. As
soon as his resolution had become known among the young women of
the village, they came together in secret council, and unanimously
agreed that not one of them would ever listen to the expected proposals
of the bachelor, for they thought him too great a coward to enjoy
the pleasures of matrimony. Years elapsed, and the vagabond was
still in the enjoyment of his bachelorhood.
In the meanwhile a beautiful maiden, named Muck-o-wiss, or the
Whipporwill, had budded into the full maturity of life. She was
the chief attraction of the village, and the heart of many a brave warrior
and expert hunter had been humbled beneath her influence. Among
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those who had entered her lodge in the quiet night, and whispered
the story of his love, was Wis-ka-go-twa. She deigned not to reply to
his avowals, and he became unhappy. He asked the consent of her
father to their union, and he said that he had no objections provided
the daughter was willing. It so happened, however, that the maiden
was not willing, for she was a member of that female confederacy
which had doomed the vagabond lover to the miseries of single life.
Time passed on, and he was the victim of a settled melancholy.
The sunny days of autumn were nearly numbered, and an occasional
blast from the far north had brought a shudder to the breast of
Wis-ka-go-twa, for they reminded him of the long winter which he
was likely to spend in his wigwam alone. He pondered upon the
gloomy prospect before him, and in his frenzy made the desperate
resolution that he would, by any means in his power, obtain the love
of his soft-eyed charmer. He consequently began to exert himself in
his daily hunts, and whenever he obtained an uncommonly fat beaver,
or large bear, he carefully deposited it before the lodge of Muck-o-wiss,
and he now mingled, more frequently than ever before, in the
various games of the village, and was not behind his more youthful
rivals in jumping and playing ball. In a variety of ways did he
obtain renown, but it was at the expense of efforts which nearly deprived
him of life. Again did he sue for the smiles of Muck-o-wiss,
but she told him he was an old man, and that he did not wear in his
hair a single plume of the eagle, to show that he had ever taken a
scalp.
The disappointed vagabond now turned his attention to war. It so
happened, however, that a permanent peace had been established between
the Ottawas and the neighboring tribes, so that our hero was
baffled on this score also. But he had heard it reported in the village
that a party of Iroquois warriors had been seen on that side of the
Great Lake, and as they were heartily hated by his own tribe, he
conceived the idea of absenting himself for a few days, for the purpose
of playing a deceptive game upon the maiden of his love and the
entire population of the village where he lived. Having formed his
determination, he kept it entirely to himself, and on a certain morning
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he launched his canoe upon the lake and disappeared, as if going
upon a hunting expedition.
Four or five days had elapsed, and the vagabond bachelor was not
yet returned. On the afternoon of the sixth day, a couple of Indian
boys, who had been frolicking away the morning in the woods, returned
to the village in an uncommonly excited mood. They visited almost
every wigwam, and related a grand discovery which they had made.
While chasing a deer into a secluded bay, about ten miles down the
lake, they announced that they had seen Wis-ka-go-twa engaged in a
most singular employment. They were aware of his peculiar reputation,
and when they saw him in this out-of-the-way place, they watched
him in silence from behind a fallen tree. The first act which they
saw him perform was, to shoot into the side of his little canoe some
twenty of his flint-headed arrows, which mutilated the canoe in a most
disgraceful manner. He next took some unknown instrument, and
inflicted a number of severe wounds upon his arms and legs. But the
deepest incision which he made was on his leg, just above the knee,
into which they were astonished to see him place, with a small stick, a
kind of white material, which resembled the dry shell of a turtle. All
this being accomplished, they saw the vagabond embark in his leaky
canoe, as if about to return to the village. They suspected the game
that was being played, so they made the shortest cut home and related
the foregoing particulars.
An hour or two passed on, and, as the sun was setting, the villagers
were attracted by a canoe upon the lake. They watched it with peculiar
interest, and found that it was steadily approaching. Presently
it made its appearance within hailing distance, when it was discovered
to be occupied by the vagabond bachelor. Every man, woman, and
child immediately made their appearance on the shore, apparently for
the purpose of welcoming the returning hunter, but in reality with a
view of enjoying what they supposed would turn out a good joke. The
hunter looked upon the crowd with evident satisfaction, but he manifested
his feelings in a very novel manner, for he was momentarily uttering
a long-drawn groan, as if suffering from a severe wound. As
the canoe touched the sand it was found to be half full of bloody
water, and one of the sides had evidently been fired into by the arrows
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of an enemy. A murmur ran through the crowd that Wis-ka-go-twa
must have had a dreadful time, and he was called upon to give the
particulars, when he did so in a few words. He had been overtaken,
he said, by a party of Iroquois, consisting of some twenty men, who
attacked him while he was pursuing a bear, and though he succeeded
in killing four of his rascally pursuers, his canoe had been sadly mutilated,
and he had received a wound which he feared would be the cause
of his death. In due time the wound was revealed to the public eye, and
the young women turned away with a shudder; and then the vagabond
bachelor was conveyed to his lodge, and the medicine-man sent for to
administer relief.
A day or two elapsed, and the poor hunter was evidently in a bad
way. They asked him what individual in the village he would have
to attend him. He expressed a preference for the father of Muck-o-wiss,
who came and faithfully attended to his duties as a nurse; but
the sick was not yet satisfied. “Whom will you have now?” asked
the old man, and the name of Muck-o-wiss trembled on the lips of
the sick lover. His chief desire was granted, and for three days did
the maiden attend to the little wants of her unfortunate lover. Another
day, and he was rapidly mending. He was now so nearly restored
that the maiden began to talk of returning to her mother’s wigwam.
This intelligence roused the hunter from his bed of furs, and he once
more avowed his undying attachment to the charming maiden. She
repulsed him with a frown, and retired from the lodge; so the hunter
was again sadly disappointed. The maiden hastened to tell the news
to all the women of the village, and after they had enjoyed themselves
for upwards of an hour, Muck-o-wiss returned to the wigwam of her
lover, and told him that she would become his wife on one condition,
which was, that on the day he should succeed in killing five bears, on
that day would she enter his lodge and make it her permanent home.
For an Indian to kill five bears on one day was considered a remarkable
feat, and the roguish Muck-o-wiss thought herself secure.
Days passed on, and the vagabond bachelor was again restored to
sound health and devoting himself to the chase. It was just the season
when the black bear takes up its annual journey for the south,
and the hunter had discovered a narrow place in the lake, where the
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animals were in the habit of coming. It was the last day of autumn,
and early in the morning he had stationed himself in a good ambush.
By the time the sun cast a short shadow, he had killed three fine specimens,
and placed them before the lodge of his intended wife. The
middle of the afternoon arrived, and he had deposited the fourth animal
at the same place. The sunset hour was nigh at hand, and the
hunter had killed and placed in his canoe the fifth and largest bear
that he had ever seen. The happiest hour of the poor man’s life was
now surely nigh at hand. Impatiently did he paddle his way home.
The villagers saw that the vagabond bachelor had been successful, and
Muck-o-wiss and all her female companions were filled with consternation.
But the truly heroic warriors, who had striven in vain to win
the love of the village beauty, were not only astonished, but indignant,
for they could not bear the idea of losing, in such a manner, the prize
which had urged them on in the more noble deeds of war. But now
has the canoe once more reached the shore. Upon his back has the
hunter lifted his prize, and up the bank is he toiling and staggering
along with the immense load, and now has he fixed his eyes upon the
lodge where he is hoping to receive his promised bride. His heart
flutters with tumultuous joy—his knees tremble from fatigue—a strange
faintness passes over his brain—he reels from his upright position—the
bear falls to the ground—and the vagabond bachelor is—dead.
256
Many, many moons ago, an old and very celebrated hunter of the
Pottowattomie nation was at the point of death, in a remote forest.
He was alone on his bed of leaves, for he had been stricken by the
hand of disease while returning from a hunting expedition. Among
the treasures that he was to leave behind him was a beautiful hickory
arrow, with which he had killed a great number of animals. The
head thereof was made of a pure white flint, and the feathers which
adorned it had been plucked from the wings of the scarlet birds. It
had been the means of saving his life on many occasions, and its
virtues were so peculiar, that it could pass entire through a buffalo
without being tinged with the life-blood of the animal.
The greatest weight which rested upon the mind of the dying Indian,
arose from the idea that he could not bequeath his arrow to his oldest
son. He was alone in the wilderness, and it made him very unhappy
to think that the treasure of his family might yet become the property
of an enemy, who would be likely to cross his trail after the ravens
or wolves had eaten his flesh. But this was a thought that he could
not possibly endure, and as the pall of night settled upon the world,
he fixed his eyes upon the northern star, which had guided him through
many dangers, and prayed to the Master of Life that he would take
his arrow and carry it safely to the smiling planet. A moment more
and the unknown hunter buried his head among the dry leaves, and—died.
On the following night, a terrible gale of wind swept over the land,
which took the arrow from the ground and hurled it into the upper
air. A strange silence immediately followed, when the northern star
was seen to tremble in the sky: another brief period elapsed, and
there was a deafening noise heard in the firmament, when the evening
star left its own quiet home, and fell upon the northern star for the
257
purpose of winning, by single combat, the arrow of the great hunter.
The conflict was a desperate one, and as the two stars fought for the
earthly prize, sparks of white light shot from their sides, and in unnumbered
particles fell upon the country now known as Michigan.
A long rain storm soon followed, by which the particles of light were
taken to the river, and by a decree of the Master of Life, were changed
into the beautiful white lilies which adorn the numerous streams of
the western country.
258
I now speak of two Chippeway hunters, who lived among the
Porcupine mountains, near Lake Superior. They were the oldest sons
of two brothers, and noted in their village for the warm friendship
existing between them, and for their powers in hunting. They were
very famous throughout the land, and into whatever village they happened
to enter, the old men asked them to remain and marry their
handsome women, but the hunters laughed at all such proposals, for
they had pledged their words to each other that they would ever
remain single and free.
It was when the leaves were fading, that the young cousins heard
of a great hunt which was to take place in a distant village. It was
got up by an old warrior, who was the father of a beautiful daughter,
and he had determined that the most successful hunter should become
his son-in-law. This intelligence had been conveyed to the cousins
in a secret manner, and on departing from their own village, they spoke
not a word of their determination. In due time the hunt took place,
and an immense quantity of game was taken. Some of the hunters
brought home two bears, some three and four deer, but the two cousins
captured each five bears. As no one man had eclipsed his fellows,
it was resolved by the old warrior that the man who should
bring to his lodge the scalps of ten bears, should be the successful
candidate for the hand of his daughter. Another hunt took place,
and each of the cousins brought in, not only the scalps of ten full
grown bears, but also a large quantity of choice meats, which they
deposited at the tent door of the chief. The difficulty of making a
selection was now even greater than before, but the truth was, the
young friends had no desire to marry the beautiful girl, but were only
anxious to manifest their bravery, or rather wonderful expertness in
259
killing wild animals. Their singular conduct astonished everybody,
but mostly the venerable warrior and his favorite daughter.
The important question must be decided, however, and the old man
resorted to a number of expedients to decide upon a future son-in-law.
The first was that the two cousins should enter upon a wrestling
match—they did so, and the twain fell to the ground at the same
moment. The next was that they should try their agility in leaping
over a suspended stick, but in this trial they also came out exactly
even. The third was, that they shoot their arrows at a pair of humming
birds, and the maker of the best shot to be the lady’s husband;
the arrows were thrown, and the right wing of each bird was broken.
The fourth expedient was that they should go upon a squirrel hunt—they
did so, and each one returned with just exactly one hundred of
those sprightly creatures. It now came to pass, and was whispered
about the village, that one of the cousins had really become interested
in the girl who was the innocent cause of so much contention, and
when her father found this out, he resolved to make one more experiment.
He therefore commanded the young men to kill each a specimen
of the ke necoh or war-eagle, and the one who should present her
with the greatest number of perfectly formed feathers, would be welcomed
as a relative. The trial was made and the whole number of
feathers obtained was twenty-one, the odd feather having been gained
by the enamored cousin. The girl was of course awarded to him in
due time, but what was the surprise of all the villagers, when it was
proclaimed that he would not receive the prize unless the young men
of the tribe should first build him a handsome lodge and furnish it
with the choicest of meats and skins. At this suggestion the young
men were greatly enraged, but they concluded, in consideration of
their admiration for the Indian girl, to change their minds, and forthwith
proceeded to erect the new lodge.
In the meanwhile, it was ascertained that the unlucky cousin had
become somewhat offended at his companion, whereupon the accepted
lover joined the other in a bear hunt for the purpose of effecting a
reconciliation. It so happened, however, that the existing coldness
between them could not be removed, and while the twain were toiling
up a remote hill with the view of encamping for the night, the disappointed
260
cousin was suddenly transformed into a large fire-fly, and
having ascended into the air, immediately experienced another change,
and became what is now known as the Northern Star. The remaining
cousin felt himself severely punished by this abandonment for having
broken his vow, and therefore became an exile from his native land
and led a comfortless and solitary life; while the maiden whom he
was to wed, it is said, is still waiting patiently, but in vain, for the
return of her long lost lover.
261
There once lived in the Osage country an Indian whose name
was Koo-zhe-ge-ne-cah; or The Distant Man. He had been a famous
warrior and hunter, but time had weakened his arm and lifted a mist
before his eye. His wives were all dead, and the only one of his
kindred left upon earth to minister to his wants was a little damsel,
his grandchild, and the joy of his old age. The twain were much beloved
by all their tribe, and when journeying across the broad prairies
they were always supplied with the gentlest of horses, and they never
had to ask the second time for their favorite food. Whenever the
tribe came to a halt on the bank of a river, in a country abounding in
game, the first tent-poles planted in the ground were those belonging
to the Distant Man and his child, and their tent always stood next to
that of the chief.
It was midsummer, and the entire Osage nation was encamped upon
a plain at the foot of a mountain, covered to the very summit with
rich grass and brilliant flowers. The last hunts had been successful,
and in every lodge was to be found an abundance of buffalo and deer
meat. Feasting and merrymaking, dancing and playing ball, were
the chief employments of the hour throughout the entire village,
while in every direction upon the prairies the horses, with their feet
hobbled, were cropping their sweet food. The children and the dogs
sported upon the green together, and many a laugh resounded long and
loud. The sun was near his setting, when suddenly an unusual stillness
pervaded the air. The people gathered together in haste and
wondered what it could all mean. The strange silence caused them
to listen with increased attention, when a distant whoop came stealing
along the air. It seemed to come from the neighboring mountain,
and as the multitude cast their eyes in that direction, they saw a single
horseman coming towards their encampment with the speed of the
262
wind. They waited in breathless expectation, and were astonished at
the boldness of the stranger in riding with such fury directly into
their midst.
He was mounted upon a black horse of gigantic size, with splendidly
flowing mane and tail, and an eye of intense brilliancy, and was
caparisoned in a most gorgeous manner. The stranger was clad from
head to foot with a dress of many colors, and from his hair hung a
great variety of the most curious plumes. He carried a lance, and to
his side were fastened a bow and a quiver of arrows. He was in the
prime of life, and his bearing was that of a warrior chief. He avowed
himself the son of the Master of Life, and his home to be in the Spirit
Land. He said that there was a woman in that land who had told
him that the most beautiful maiden in the Osage nation was her
daughter. From other lips also had he heard that she was good as
well as beautiful, and that her only protector and friend was an old
man named Koo-ze-ghe-ne-cah. He had asked for a dream that he
might see this being of the earth. Having seen her, and being in want
of a wife, he was now come to demand her of her venerable parent, and
forthwith rode to the door of his tent to make a bargain. The stranger
dismounted not from his horse, but talked with the old man leaning
upon the neck of his noble animal, the maiden meanwhile sitting
in pensive quietness within her tent door, working a pair of moccasins.
The old man doubted the stranger’s words, and desired him to prove
that he was the son of the Master of Life. “What sign of my nature
and power would you witness?” inquired the stranger. “That you
would cover the heavens with thick darkness, picture it with lightning,
and fill the air with loud thunder,” replied the old man. “Do this,
and my daughter shall be your bride.” Suddenly a storm arose, and
the sign was fulfilled to the utmost extent, so that the entire nation
were stricken with fear. Night came on, the sky was without a cloud,
but spangled with stars, and the air was perfectly serene, and when
the stranger and his steed were sought for, it was found that they had
disappeared. Peace rested upon the Osage village, and the oldest men
of that tribe never enjoyed a more refreshing sleep than on that memorable
night.
On the following day everything about the Osage encampment
263
wore its ordinary aspect, and the events of the previous day were
talked over as people talk of their dreams. The old man and the
maiden made an offering to the Master of Life, and while the former,
before the assembled nation, promised to give up his child, she, in her
turn, expressed her entire willingness to become the bride of the
stranger, should he ever return. Not only was she prompted to do
this by the honor conferred upon her, and also by the nobleness of the
stranger, but she thought it would make her so happy to rejoin her
long departed mother in the spirit land. She was only troubled about
the feeble old man, whom she dearly loved; but when the whole nation
promised, as with one voice, to make him the object of their peculiar
care, she was satisfied.
Again was the sun in the western horizon. Again did the stranger
appear mounted as before. But as he entered the village, there trotted
by his side a white horse of exceeding beauty, decked from forelock
to tail with the richest and rarest of ornaments. He had come for
his bride, and was impatient to be gone. He led the white horse to
the tent of the girl he loved, and throwing at her feet a dress of scarlet
feathers, he motioned her to prepare for a long journey. When
she was ready, he motioned to the white horse to fall upon his knees,
and the maiden leaped upon his back. The twain then walked their
horses to the outskirts of the village, and as they passed along the
stranger took from his quiver and tossed into the hands of the Osage
chief and each of his warriors and hunters, a charmed arrow, which,
he said, would enable them not only to subdue their enemies, but also
supply them with an abundance of game, as long as they roamed the
prairies. The stranger now gave a whoop and the horses started upon
the run. Their path lay over the mountain, where the stranger had
been first seen. They flew more swiftly than the evening breeze, and
just as the sun disappeared, they reached the summit of the mountain
and also disappeared, as if received into the bosom of a golden cloud.
264
The following legend was originally translated into English by an educated
Choctaw, named J. L. McDonald, and subsequently embodied in a private letter
to another Choctaw, named Peter P. Pitchlyn. The former of these very worthy
Indian gentlemen has long been dead, and it is therefore with very great pleasure
that I avail myself of the opportunity, kindly afforded me by the latter
gentleman, of associating the legendary relic with my own. I have ventured,
by the permission and advice of Mr. Pitchlyn, to alter an occasional expression
in the text, but have not trespassed upon the spirit of the story.
Ko-way-hoom-mah, or the Red Panther, once started out on a hunting
expedition. He had an excellent bow, and carried with him some
jerked venison. His only companion was a large white dog, which
attended him in all his rambles. This dog was a cherished favorite,
and shared in all his master’s privations and successes. He was the
social companion of the hunter by day, and his watchful guardian by
night.
The hunter had traveled far, and as the evening approached, he
encamped upon a spot that bore every indication of an excellent hunting-ground.
Deer-tracks were seen in abundance, and turkeys were
heard clucking in various directions, as they retired to their roosting
places. Ko-way-hoom-mah kindled a fire, and having shared a portion
of his provision with his dog, he spread his deer-skin and his blanket
by the crackling fire, and mused on the adventures of the day already
passed, and on the probable success of the ensuing one. It was a bright
starlight night; the air was calm, and a slight frost which was falling,
rendered the fire comfortable and cheering. His dog lay crouched
and slumbering at his feet, and from his stifled cries, seemed dreaming
of the chase. Everything tended to soothe the feelings of our hunter,
and to prolong that pleasant train of associations, which the beauty of
the night and the anticipations of the morrow were calculated to
265
inspire. At length, when his musings were assuming that indefinite and
dreamy state which precedes a sound slumber, he was startled by a
distant cry, which thrilled on his ear, and roused him into instant
watchfulness. He listened with breathless attention, and in a few
minutes again heard the cry, keen, long, and piercing. The dog gave
a plaintive and ominous howl. Ko-way-hoom-mah felt uneasy. Can
it be a lost hunter? was the inquiry which suggested itself. Surely
not, for a true hunter feels lost nowhere. What then can it be?
With these reflections our hunter stepped forth, gathered more fuel,
and again replenished his fire. Again came a cry, keen, long, and
painfully thrilling, as before. The voice was evidently approaching,
and again the dog raised a low and mournful howl. Ko-way-hoom-mah
then felt the blood curdling to his heart, and folding his blanket
around him, he seated himself by the fire and fixed his eyes intently
in the direction from which he expected the approach of his startling
visitor. In a few moments he heard the approach of his footsteps.
In another minute, a ghastly shape made its appearance, and advanced
towards the fire. It seemed to be the figure of a hunter, like himself.
Its form was tall and gaunt, its features livid and unearthly. A tattered
robe was girded round his waist, and covered his shoulders, and he
bore an unstrung bow and a few broken arrows.
The spectre advanced to the fire, and seemed to shiver with cold.
He stretched forth one hand, then the other to the fire, and as he did
so, he fixed his hollow and ghastly eye on Ko-way-hoom-mah, and a
slight smile lighted up his livid countenance, but not a word did he
utter. Ko-way-hoom-mah felt his flesh and hair creep, and the blood
freezing in his veins, yet with instinctive Indian courtesy he presented
his deer-skin as a seat for his grim visitor. The spectre waved his hand,
and shook his head in refusal. He stepped aside, plucked up a parcel
of briers from an adjacent thicket, spread them by the fire, and on his
thorny couch he stretched himself and seemed to court repose.
Our hunter was petrified with mingled fear and astonishment. His
eyes continued long riveted on the strange and ghastly being stretched
before him, and he was only awakened from his trance of horror by
the voice of his faithful dog. “Arise,” said the dog, suddenly and
supernaturally gifted with speech, “Arise, and flee for your life! The
266
spectre now slumbers: should you also slumber, you are lost. Arise
and flee, while I stay and watch!” Ko-way-hoom-mah arose, and stole
softly from the fire. Having advanced a few hundred paces, he stopped
to listen; all was silent, and with a beating heart he continued his
stealthy and rapid flight. Again he listened, and again, with renewed
confidence, he pursued his rapid course, until he had gained several
miles on his route homeward. Feeling at length a sense of safety, he
paused to recover breath, on the brow of a lofty hill. The night was
calm and serene, the stars shone with steady lustre, and as Ko-way-hoom-mah
gazed upwards, he breathed freely and felt every apprehension
vanish. Alas! on the instant, the distant baying of his dog
struck on his ear; with a thrill of renewed apprehension, he bent his
ear to listen, and the appalling cry of his dog, now more distinctly
audible, convinced him that the spectre was in full pursuit. Again
he fled with accelerated speed, over hill, over plain, through swamps
and thickets, till once more he paused by the side of a deep and
rapid river. The heavy baying of his dog told him too truly, that his
fearful pursuer was close at hand. One minute he stood for breath,
and he then plunged into the stream. But scarcely had he gained the
centre, when the spectre appeared on the bank, and plunged in after
him, closely followed by the panting dog. Ko-way-hoom-mah’s apprehensions
now amounted to agony. He fancied he saw the hollow and
glassy eyeballs of his pursuer glaring above the water, and that his
skeleton hand was already outstretched to grapple with him. With a
cry of horror he was about to give up the struggle for life and sink
beneath the waves, when his faithful dog, with a fierce yell, seized upon
his master’s enemy. After a short but severe struggle they both sunk;
the waters settled over them forever. He became an altered man.
He shunned the dance and the ball play, and his former hilarity gave
place to a settled melancholy. In about a year after this strange
adventure he joined a war party against a distant enemy and never
returned.
THE END.
[1]The Fall Fish of Rock Creek is evidently identical with the Dace of Walton;
it is really a beautiful and sweet fish, and well deserves its local reputation.
[2]The unvarnished facts contained in this article were picked up by the writer in the autumn and winter of 1847, while he had charge of the city department of the New York Daily Express.
267
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