Old Indian Legends

IYA, THE CAMP-EATER

FROM the tall grass came the voice of a crying babe. The huntsmen who were passing nigh heard and halted.

The tallest one among them hastened toward the high grass with long, cautious strides. He waded through the growth of green with just a head above it all. Suddenly exclaiming “Hunhe!” he dropped out of sight. In another instant he held up in both his hands a tiny little baby, wrapped in soft brown buckskins.

“Oh ho, a wood-child!” cried the men, for they were hunting along the wooded river bottom where this babe was found.

While the hunters were questioning whether or no they should carry it home, the wee Indian baby kept up his little howl.

“His voice is strong!” said one.

“At times it sounds like an old man’s voice!” whispered a superstitious fellow, who feared some bad spirit hid in the small child to cheat them by and by.

“Let us take it to our wise chieftain,” at length they said; and the moment they started toward the camp ground the strange wood-child ceased to cry.

Beside the chieftain’s teepee waited the hunters while the tall man entered with the child.

“How! how!” nodded the kind-faced chieftain, listening to the queer story. Then rising, he took the infant in his strong arms; gently he laid the black-eyed babe in his daughter’s lap. “This is to be your little son!” said he, smiling.

“Yes, father,” she replied. Pleased with the child, she smoothed the long black hair fringing his round brown face.

“Tell the people that I give a feast and dance this day for the naming of my daughter’s little son,” bade the chieftain.

In the meanwhile among the men waiting by the entrance way, one said in a low voice: “I have heard that bad spirits come as little children into a camp which they mean to destroy.”

“No! no! Let us not be overcautious. It would be cowardly to leave a baby in the wild wood where prowl the hungry wolves!” answered an elderly man.

The tall man now came out of the chieftain’s teepee. With a word he sent them to their dwellings half running with joy.

“A feast! a dance for the naming of the chieftain’s grandchild!” cried he in a loud voice to the village people.

“What? what?” asked they in great surprise, holding a hand to the ear to catch the words of the crier.

There was a momentary silence among the people while they listened to the ringing voice of the man walking in the center ground. Then broke forth a rippling, laughing babble among the cone-shaped teepees. All were glad to hear of the chieftain’s grandson. They were happy to attend the feast and dance for its naming. With excited fingers they twisted their hair into glossy braids and painted their cheeks with bright red paint. To and fro hurried the women, handsome in their gala-day dress. Men in loose deerskins, with long tinkling metal fringes, strode in small numbers toward the center of the round camp ground.

Here underneath a temporary shade-house of green leaves they were to dance and feast. The children in deerskins and paints, just like their elders, were jolly little men and women. Beside their eager parents they skipped along toward the green dance house.

Here seated in a large circle, the people were assembled, the proud chieftain rose with the little baby in his arms. The noisy hum of voices was hushed. Not a tinkling of a metal fringe broke the silence. The crier came forward to greet the chieftain, then bent attentively over the small babe, listening to the words of the chieftain. When he paused the crier spoke aloud to the people:

“This woodland child is adopted by the chieftain’s eldest daughter. His name is Chaske. He wears the title of the eldest son. In honor of Chaske the chieftain gives this feast and dance! These are the words of him you see holding a baby in his arms.”

“Yes! Yes! Hinnu! How!” came from the circle. At once the drummers beat softly and slowly their drum while the chosen singers hummed together to find the common pitch. The beat of the drum grew louder and faster. The singers burst forth in a lively tune. Then the drumbeats subsided and faintly marked the rhythm of the singing. Here and there bounced up men and women, both young and old. They danced and sang with merry light hearts. Then came the hour of feasting.

Late into the night the air of the camp ground was alive with the laughing voices of women and the singing in unison of young men. Within her father’s teepee sat the chieftain’s daughter. Proud of her little one, she watched over him asleep in her lap.

Gradually a deep quiet stole over the camp ground, as one by one the people fell into pleasant dreams. Now all the village was still. Alone sat the beautiful young mother watching the babe in her lap, asleep with a gaping little mouth. Amid the quiet of the night, her ear heard the far-off hum of many voices. The faint sound of murmuring people was in the air. Upward she glanced at the smoke hole of the wigwam and saw a bright star peeping down upon her. “Spirits in the air above?” she wondered. Yet there was no sign to tell her of their nearness. The fine small sound of voices grew larger and nearer.

“Father! rise! I hear the coming of some tribe. Hostile or friendly—I cannot tell. Rise and see!” whispered the young woman.

“Yes, my daughter!” answered the chieftain, springing to his feet.

Though asleep, his ear was ever alert. Thus rushing out into the open, he listened for strange sounds. With an eagle eye he scanned the camp ground for some sign.

Returning he said: “My daughter, I hear nothing and see no sign of evil nigh.”

“Oh! the sound of many voices comes up from the earth about me!” exclaimed the young mother.

Bending low over her babe she gave ear to the ground. Horrified was she to find the mysterious sound came out of the open mouth of her sleeping child!

“Why so unlike other babes!” she cried within her heart as she slipped him gently from her lap to the ground. “Mother, listen and tell me if this child is an evil spirit come to destroy our camp!” she whispered loud.

Placing an ear close to the open baby mouth, the chieftain and his wife, each in turn heard the voices of a great camp. The singing of men and women, the beating of the drum, the rattling of deer-hoofs strung like bells on a string, these were the sounds they heard.

“We must go away,” said the chieftain, leading them into the night. Out in the open he whispered to the frightened young woman: “Iya, the camp-eater, has come in the guise of a babe. Had you gone to sleep, he would have jumped out into his own shape and would have devoured our camp. He is a giant with spindling legs. He cannot fight, for he cannot run. He is powerful only in the night with his tricks. We are safe as soon as day breaks.” Then moving closer to the woman, he whispered: “If he wakes now, he will swallow the whole tribe with one hideous gulp! Come, we must flee with our people.”

Thus creeping from teepee to teepee a secret alarm signal was given. At midnight the teepees were gone and there was left no sign of the village save heaps of dead ashes. So quietly had the people folded their wigwams and bundled their tent poles that they slipped away unheard by the sleeping Iya babe.

When the morning sun arose, the babe awoke. Seeing himself deserted, he threw off his baby form in a hot rage.

Wearing his own ugly shape, his huge body toppled to and fro, from side to side, on a pair of thin legs far too small for their burden. Though with every move he came dangerously nigh to falling, he followed in the trail of the fleeing people.

“I shall eat you in the sight of a noon-day sun!” cried Iya in his vain rage, when he spied them encamped beyond a river.

By some unknown cunning he swam the river and sought his way toward the teepees.

“Hin! hin!” he grunted and growled. With perspiration beading his brow he strove to wiggle his slender legs beneath his giant form.

“Ha! ha!” laughed all the village people to see Iya made foolish with anger. “Such spindle legs cannot stand to fight by daylight!” shouted the brave ones who were terror-struck the night before by the name “Iya.”

Warriors with long knives rushed forth and slew the camp-eater.

Lo! there rose out of the giant a whole Indian tribe: their camp ground, their teepees in a large circle, and the people laughing and dancing.

“We are glad to be free!” said these strange people.

Thus Iya was killed; and no more are the camp grounds in danger of being swallowed up in a single night time.

MANSTIN, THE RABBIT

MANSTIN was an adventurous brave, but very kind-hearted. Stamping a moccasined foot as he drew on his buckskin leggins, he said: “Grandmother, beware of Iktomi! Do not let him lure you into some cunning trap. I am going to the North country on a long hunt.”

With these words of caution to the bent old rabbit grandmother with whom he had lived since he was a tiny babe, Manstin started off toward the north. He was scarce over the great high hills when he heard the shrieking of a human child.

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

Muttering indistinct words, Manstin ran up the last hill and lo! in the ravine beyond stood the terrible monster with a face in front and one in the back of his head!

This brown giant was without clothes save for a wild-cat-skin about his loins. With a wicked gleaming eye, he watched the little black-haired baby he held in his strong arm. In a laughing voice he hummed an Indian mother’s lullaby, “A-boo! Aboo!” and at the same time he switched the naked baby with a thorny wild-rose bush.

Quickly Manstin jumped behind a large sage bush on the brow of the hill. He bent his bow and the sinewy string twanged. Now an arrow stuck above the ear of Double-Face. It was a poisoned arrow, and the giant fell dead. Then Manstin took the little brown baby and hurried away from the ravine. Soon he came to a teepee from whence loud wailing voices broke. It was the teepee of the stolen baby and the mourners were its heart-broken parents.

When gallant Manstin returned the child to the eager arms of the mother there came a sudden terror into the eyes of both the Dakotas. They feared lest it was Double-Face come in a new guise to torture them. The rabbit understood their fear and said: “I am Manstin, the kind-hearted,—Manstin, the noted huntsman. I am your friend. Do not fear.”

That night a strange thing happened. While the father and mother slept, Manstin took the wee baby. With his feet placed gently yet firmly upon the tiny toes of the little child, he drew upward by each small hand the sleeping child till he was a full-grown man. With a forefinger he traced a slit in the upper lip; and when on the morrow the man and woman awoke they could not distinguish their own son from Manstin, so much alike were the braves.

“Henceforth we are friends, to help each other,” said Manstin, shaking a right hand in farewell. “The earth is our common ear, to carry from its uttermost extremes one’s slightest wish for the other!”

“Ho! Be it so!” answered the newly made man.

Upon leaving his friend, Manstin hurried away toward the North country whither he was bound for a long hunt. Suddenly he came upon the edge of a wide brook. His alert eye caught sight of a rawhide rope staked to the water’s brink, which led away toward a small round hut in the distance. The ground was trodden into a deep groove beneath the loosely drawn rawhide rope.

“Hun-he!” exclaimed Manstin, bending over the freshly made footprints in the moist bank of the brook. “A man’s footprints!” he said to himself. “A blind man lives in yonder hut! This rope is his guide by which he comes for his daily water!” surmised Manstin, who knew all the peculiar contrivances of the people. At once his eyes became fixed upon the solitary dwelling and hither he followed his curiosity,—a real blind man’s rope.

Quietly he lifted the door-flap and entered in. An old toothless grandfather, blind and shaky with age, sat upon the ground. He was not deaf however. He heard the entrance and felt the presence of some stranger.

“How, grandchild,” he mumbled, for he was old enough to be grandparent to every living thing, “how! I cannot see you. Pray, speak your name!”

“Grandfather, I am Manstin,” answered the rabbit, all the while looking with curious eyes about the wigwam.

“Grandfather, what is it so tightly packed in all these buckskin bags placed against the tent poles?” he asked.

“My grandchild, those are dried buffalo meat and venison. These are magic bags which never grow empty. I am blind and cannot go on a hunt. Hence a kind Maker has given me these magic bags of choicest foods.”

Then the old, bent man pulled at a rope which lay by his right hand. “This leads me to the brook where I drink! and this,” said he, turning to the one on his left, “and this takes me into the forest, where I feel about for dry sticks for my fire.”

“Grandfather, I wish I lived in such sure luxury! I would lean back against a tent pole, and with crossed feet I would smoke sweet willow bark the rest of my days,” sighed Manstin.

“My grandchild, your eyes are your luxury! you would be unhappy without them!” the old man replied.

“Grandfather, I would give you my two eyes for your place!” cried Manstin.

“How! you have said it. Arise. Take out your eyes and give them to me. Henceforth you are at home here in my stead.”

At once Manstin took out both his eyes and the old man put them on! Rejoicing, the old grandfather started away with his young eyes while the blind rabbit filled his dream pipe, leaning lazily against the tent pole. For a short time it was a most pleasant pastime to smoke willow bark and to eat from the magic bags.

Manstin grew thirsty, but there was no water in the small dwelling. Taking one of the rawhide ropes he started toward the brook to quench his thirst. He was young and unwilling to trudge slowly in the old man’s footpath. He was full of glee, for it had been many long moons since he had tasted such good food. Thus he skipped confidently along jerking the old weather-eaten rawhide spasmodically till all of a sudden it gave way and Manstin fell headlong into the water.

“En! En!” he grunted kicking frantically amid stream. All along the slippery bank he vainly tried to climb, till at last he chanced upon the old stake and the deeply worn footpath. Exhausted and inwardly disgusted with his mishaps, he crawled more cautiously on all fours to his wigwam door. Dripping with his recent plunge he sat with chattering teeth within his unfired wigwam.

The sun had set and the night air was chilly, but there was no fire-wood in the dwelling. “Hin!” murmured Manstin and bravely tried the other rope. “I go for some fire-wood!” he said, following the rawhide rope which led into the forest. Soon he stumbled upon thickly strewn dry willow sticks. Eagerly with both hands he gathered the wood into his outspread blanket. Manstin was naturally an energetic fellow.

When he had a large heap, he tied two opposite ends of blanket together and lifted the bundle of wood upon his back, but alas! he had unconsciously dropped the end of the rope and now he was lost in the wood!

“Hin! hin!” he groaned. Then pausing a moment, he set his fan-like ears to catch any sound of approaching footsteps. There was none. Not even a night bird twittered to help him out of his predicament.

With a bold face, he made a start at random.

He fell into some tangled wood where he was held fast. Manstin let go his bundle and began to lament having given away his two eyes.

“Friend, my friend, I have need of you! The old oak tree grandfather has gone off with my eyes and I am lost in the woods!” he cried with his lips close to the earth.

Scarcely had he spoken when the sound of voices was audible on the outer edge of the forest. Nearer and louder grew the voices—one was the clear flute tones of a young brave and the other the tremulous squeaks of an old grandfather.

It was Manstin’s friend with the Earth Ear and the old grandfather. “Here Manstin, take back your eyes,” said the old man, “I knew you would not be content in my stead, but I wanted you to learn your lesson. I have had pleasure seeing with your eyes and trying your bow and arrows, but since I am old and feeble I much prefer my own teepee and my magic bags!”

Thus talking the three returned to the hut. The old grandfather crept into his wigwam, which is often mistaken for a mere oak tree by little Indian girls and boys.

Manstin, with his own bright eyes fitted into his head again, went on happily to hunt in the North country.

THE WARLIKE SEVEN

ONCE seven people went out to make war,—the Ashes, the Fire, the Bladder, the Grasshopper, the Dragon Fly, the Fish, and the Turtle. As they were talking excitedly, waving their fists in violent gestures, a wind came and blew the Ashes away. “Ho!” cried the others, “he could not fight, this one!”

The six went on running to make war more quickly. They descended a deep valley, the Fire going foremost until they came to a river. The Fire said “Hsss—tchu!” and was gone. “Ho!” hooted the others, “he could not fight, this one!”

Therefore the five went on the more quickly to make war. They came to a great wood. While they were going through it, the Bladder was heard to sneer and to say, “He! you should rise above these, brothers.” With these words he went upward among the tree-tops; and the thorn apple pricked him. He fell through the branches and was nothing! “You see this!” said the four, “this one could not fight.”

Still the remaining warriors would not turn back. The four went boldly on to make war. The Grasshopper with his cousin, the Dragon Fly, went foremost. They reached a marshy place, and the mire was very deep. As they waded through the mud, the Grasshopper’s legs stuck, and he pulled them off! He crawled upon a log and wept, “You see me, brothers, I cannot go!”

The Dragon Fly went on, weeping for his cousin. He would not be comforted, for he loved his cousin dearly. The more he grieved, the louder he cried, till his body shook with great violence. He blew his red swollen nose with a loud noise so that his head came off his slender neck, and he was fallen upon the grass.

“You see how it is,” said the Fish, lashing his tail impatiently, “these people were not warriors!”

“Come!” he said, “let us go on to make war.”

Thus the Fish and the Turtle came to a large camp ground.

“Ho!” exclaimed the people of this round village of teepees, “Who are these little ones? What do they seek?”

Neither of the warriors carried weapons with them, and their unimposing stature misled the curious people.

The Fish was spokesman. With a peculiar omission of syllables, he said: “Shu… hi pi!”

“Wan! what? what?” clamored eager voices of men and women.

Again the Fish said: “Shu… hi pi!” Everywhere stood young and old with a palm to an ear. Still no one guessed what the Fish had mumbled!

From the bewildered crowd witty old Iktomi came forward. “He, listen!” he shouted, rubbing his mischievous palms together, for where there was any trouble brewing, he was always in the midst of it.

“This little strange man says, ‘Zuya unhipi! We come to make war!’”

“Uun!” resented the people, suddenly stricken glum. “Let us kill the silly pair! They can do nothing! They do not know the meaning of the phrase. Let us build a fire and boil them both!”

“If you put us on to boil,” said the Fish, “there will be trouble.”

“Ho ho!” laughed the village folk. “We shall see.”

And so they made a fire.

“I have never been so angered!” said the Fish. The Turtle in a whispered reply said: “We shall die!”

When a pair of strong hands lifted the Fish over the sputtering water, he put his mouth downward. “Whssh!” he said. He blew the water all over the people, so that many were burned and could not see. Screaming with pain, they ran away.

“Oh, what shall we do with these dreadful ones?” they said.

Others exclaimed: “Let us carry them to the lake of muddy water and drown them!”

Instantly they ran with them. They threw the Fish and the Turtle into the lake. Toward the center of the large lake the Turtle dived. There he peeped up out of the water and, waving a hand at the crowd, sang out, “This is where I live!”

The Fish swam hither and thither with such frolicsome darts that his back fin made the water fly. “E han!” whooped the Fish, “this is where I live!”

“Oh, what have we done!” said the frightened people, “this will be our undoing.”

Then a wise chief said: “Iya, the Eater, shall come and swallow the lake!”

So one went running. He brought Iya, the Eater; and Iya drank all day at the lake till his belly was like the earth. Then the Fish and the Turtle dived into the mud; and Iya said: “They are not in me.” Hearing this the people cried greatly.

Iktomi wading in the lake had been swallowed like a gnat in the water. Within the great Iya he was looking skyward. So deep was the water in the Eater’s stomach that the surface of the swallowed lake almost touched the sky.

“I will go that way,” said Iktomi, looking at the concave within arm’s reach.

He struck his knife upward in the Eater’s stomach, and the water falling out drowned those people of the village.

Now when the great water fell into its own bed, the Fish and the Turtle came to the shore. They went home painted victors and loud-voiced singers.