This is one of an edition of 500 copies printed October, 1902, of which this is number

The Legends of the Iroquois

Click on image to view larger size.

The Legends of the
Iroquois

TOLD BY "THE CORNPLANTER"

From Authoritative
Notes and Studies

By WILLIAM W. CANFIELD

York

A. Wessels Company

MCMII

Copyright, 1902
By
A. Wessels Company
New York

(Published October, 1902)

[Contents]

[About Indian Legends]

ABOUT INDIAN LEGENDS

THE Indians neither built monuments nor wrote books. The only records they made were those picture writings known in after years as wampum, which were mere symbols, recording feats of arms. Consequently, all that is known of them prior to the coming to America of Europeans is traditional or conjectural. Not a page of their history has ever been written by any save their foes, and the history thus written is so distorted and marred by prejudice that much of it is misleading.

In the veins of the red man ran the wild poetry and imagination of the hunt, the chase, the battle, the capture, the dance, the forests, the valleys, the mountains, the streams, lakes and rivers, for a thousand generations; and yet they were without accomplishment in letters or arts. Is it, therefore, strange that they held in great reverence the traditions and legends common in their tribes—revered them as the early Christians revered the first copies of the sacred writings? These legends were told over again and again for unknown years. They were transmitted from one to another, as the unwritten work of Freemasonry has been transmitted by frequent and careful repetition. They were not bandied about like ordinary stories, but, repeated with something of a religious or sacramental spirit, as though the tales imparted an especial virtue to those who learned them from reliable sources; were held as sacred as we hold the transactions of an honored secret society.

The legends common to one clan were known all over the continent wherever Indians of that clan lived, and there is little doubt that many of the legends of the Iroquois can be found in some form among those of the Western Indian tribes of the present time. Yet the traditions of the Iroquois herein contained are known positively to be two hundred years old, and are confidently believed to be the stories told by the red men thousands of years ago.

The Indians never explained anything by the science of natural philosophy. Every effect had to them a mysterious, supernatural cause. They could not comprehend how sound thrown against an obstructing surface would be repeated and form an echo. Instead they found supernatural reasons for the phenomenon, and certainly very pretty ones. Only the absurdity of their ideas may appear to some, for in the light of present intelligence they are absurd, but, none the less, they are beautiful. If our forefathers had taken more interest in the peoples they found on the Western Continent, spending less of their energies in devising plans for cheating the Indians out of their furs and lands—a policy their descendants have closely followed and admirably succeeded in—our libraries might contain volumes of fairy tales that would delight the youth of many generations.

It is not too much to ask the reader to remember that these stories were told in the homes of the red men many centuries ago, long before they learned from the whites the cruel, heartless, treacherous and vindictive characteristics that unfair history has fastened upon them as natural and inherent traits. If this is borne in mind, the perusal and study of these stories will, it is believed, give as much pleasure to the reader as the study of the Indian character, made necessary in order to properly clothe their almost forgotten legends with something like their original embellishment, has given the author.

The Authority

THE AUTHORITY

IT is not the purpose of this volume to deal to any considerable extent with the history of the Indians, but simply to present some of the legends of the Iroquois. To the reader or student, however, is due a brief statement as to the authority from which the folk-lore contained herein has been drawn, that there may remain no question as to its reliability.

A few years after the close of the war of the Revolution one of the pioneers of Western New York, who was in the service of the Holland Land Company, made the acquaintance and won the friendship of the Seneca chief, the Cornplanter, (Gy-ant-wah-chi, or, as written by some authorities, Gar-yan-wah-ga). The friendship continued as long as the two men lived and was marked by its cordiality. In their intercourse they were thrown together many winters, and the Cornplanter was led to talk freely of his people, their past, their present condition, and their future, and it was during these confidences that the Indian told his white friend many of the Iroquois legends. To the recollections of the Cornplanter was added the knowledge possessed upon the subject by the Nephew (Governor Blacksnake), who resided upon the same reservation and in the immediate vicinity, and that of "other old men and leaders of these Indians." The legends were preserved in outline notes upon the blank pages of some diaries and civil engineer field-books which the white man was accustomed to keep; and these outlines, with full oral explanations came finally into the possession of the present writer. About twenty-five years ago the work of their further verification by means of inquiries made of some of the most intelligent Indians in New York State was commenced. Many of those consulted had only imperfect knowledge of the legends, others knew one or more of the stories, and, by aid of the outlines referred to above, were able to assist in the work of their restoration. Among those who gave most valuable assistance was Simon Blackchief and his mother. The latter spoke only in the Indian tongue, and her version of such of the stories as she had heard in her girlhood was translated by her son. Chief John Mountpleasant, Harrison Halftown, Elias Johnson and John Kinjocity also gave valuable assistance. The late B. Giles Casler, who was the United States Indian Agent for New York State for a term of years, accompanied the author upon a number of visits to several of the reservations. Through these helps, and by a study pursued under the favoring circumstance of former residence in close proximity to the Allegany Reservation, the present writer believes that he has succeeded in bringing these legends to a point approximating their original beauty. In their elaboration care has been taken not to depart from the simplicity and directness of statement characteristic of the Indian, and only such additions that seemed to be warranted have been made. Whenever the primary authority for a legend is other than the Cornplanter, the fact is mentioned in the appended notes.

Although the Cornplanter was a half-breed, he was more thoroughly acquainted with the traditions of his people than any contemporary chief in the nations comprising the Iroquois. He was born in Conewangus, on the Genesee river, probably in the year 1732, and died on Cornplanter Island in the Allegany river, in the State of Pennsylvania, near the New York line, March 7, 1836, at the age of one hundred and four years. He was the son of John Abeel (also written O'Bail), a trader among the Indians. His mother was an Indian Princess of the Turtle Clan.

From his earliest recollection the Cornplanter had a pronounced hatred of the whites, caused, no doubt, by the remembrance of the cruel treatment to which his mother was subjected by his father, who seems to have taken an Indian wife in order that he might gain the friendship of the Indians, and thus secure good bargains in trade. The errors of history have led us to believe that love or respect for a mother were sentiments almost foreign to the Indian race. These feelings always existed among them, however, to a much greater degree than we are willing to concede, though their respect and love for women and children were greater before their simple natures were blunted and distorted by the vicious practices of the invading Europeans.

The Cornplanter spent his early years at the council-fires, and became one of the most celebrated orators in the Confederation of the Six Nations. He traveled from village to village and sought wisdom from the sages of the Iroquois. It was during this portion of his life that he listened to the traditions that had descended from chief to chief over a period of three centuries. When he had acquired a reputation for bravery and woodcraft second to none of his race, he was unanimously chosen Chief of the Senecas, and came at once into prominence as the leader of the war-parties of that nation in alliance with the French against the English. He was present at the defeat of Braddock, and, for a long time, by the most daring and cruel raids on the frontier settlements, spread destruction in the Mohawk Valley and in Western New York. He was at that time an implacable foe to all white people, and the names of Cornplanter, Brant, and Red Jacket were synonymous with capture, torture and massacre. They were the chief councilors and leaders of their people and fought against every overture made by the whites. In 1779, near the mouth of Redbank Creek, in Pennsylvania, the Cornplanter, with a large force of Indians, engaged in battle against a party of whites, led by Captain Samuel Brady. The engagement terminated in favor of the whites, and many of the Indians were killed or wounded. The survivors fled to the river, then swollen with the spring rains, and dashed into its current. Few succeeded in crossing; one by one they were swept down the stream or sank, pierced by the bullets of Brady's men. The Cornplanter reached the opposite shore almost alone. From that moment the high spirit of the daring chieftain began to falter and he sought peace, making, in 1791, a treaty with "The Great Chief of the Thirteen Fires." The medal and other mementos given him by Washington are still preserved by the descendants of the chief. He was put in possession of the island that bears his name, and ever afterwards devoted himself to farming and pursuits of peace. For many years he labored faithfully to eradicate the habits of intemperance into which his people had fallen, and, strange as it may seem, was the first temperance lecturer in the United States. He entertained the highest respect for Washington, and visited him several times in Philadelphia.

It was during the last twenty years of the Cornplanter's life that the legends herein contained were recalled and told. He did not speak of them generally, for he held them sacred, but reserved them for the ears of those in full sympathy with the people of which he was one of the last true representatives. He told them with an intensity of feeling that was pitiful, for it was plain he realized that the greatness of his people had disappeared, leaving neither monuments nor achievements to mark their place in the history of the world.

The Cornplanter died a strong believer in the religion of the red men, and looked forward with an eye of faith towards the Happy Hunting-Grounds, for which countless generations of his people had been taught to hope.

[The Legends]

[THE CONFEDERATION OF THE IROQUOIS]

THERE was peace in the land of the Senecas. The red men were away upon the chase, or busied themselves in fashioning the arrow-points and in shaping the mighty bows from which the shafts of death were sent forth when food was needed in the wigwam. The Indian women stooped among the blades of growing corn and tilled the soil between the thrifty stalks with sharp-pointed branches from the strong young hickory. The children ran and leaped in the sunshine and their laughter filled the air and mingled with the low, crooning songs of the old men and women who watched them, while dreams of their youth rose like phantoms from the past. Under the fresh verdure of a new-born summer, groups of the young men and maidens were plaiting the soft and flexible willows into baskets, mats and coverings. Abroad on the hills the medicine men roamed, marking the places where the prized and cherished herbs that drove away the bad spirits of suffering and sickness had put forth their vigorous shoots.

There was peace in the land of the Senecas, and for many moons they had waged no war against their brothers. Their villages were growing in strength; their numbers were increasing in greatness. The young men were taught to follow the chase, but their ears had drunk the stones of wars, and their hearts burned to be upon the trail, seeking conquest over the powerful tribes of the Mohawks, Onondagas or Oneidas. When the soft winds came, some of them said to their elders, "We will go into the country of the Mohawks and learn from our brothers there if the Manito gave them corn for the winter, and if the venison was sweet to their tongues."

Five suns they threaded the forests and sported along the pleasant streams. At last they came upon some young men and maidens of the Mohawk nation engaged in preparing the ground for the maize. Forgetting the counsels of their elders, or heedless of what they had said to them, and eager to show their cunning, they surprised and bound the young Mohawks and carried them away as captives toward the land of the Senecas.

When they had passed the homes of the Onondagas, which they did without discovery, they released one of the young men and told him to go back to the Mohawks and say to them that they would find their maidens in the wigwams of the Senecas, their young men slaves in the villages.

The wise men and sachems of the council shook, their heads gravely when the young warriors boasted of their conquest, for they knew that the peace of the Senecas was broken.

A few days had passed, when, one evening as the fires began to cast their red lights against the rough sides of the great trees, five Mohawk warriors appeared at the council village of the Senecas.

"Let the swift runners say to the chiefs of the Senecas that the warriors of the Mohawks have been long upon the trail and must not sleep. By the light of the council-fire they would tell the message that is sweet to the tongues of the Mohawks but which will burn the ears of the Senecas who listen." Thus spoke Orontadeka, the strong chief of the Mohawks, as he strode to the council-place of the Senecas, followed by the four solemn and determined sachems who accompanied him on the mission. They at once took seats upon the ground and in silence awaited the coming of the Senecas.

Soon the fire-keepers of the tribe came to the council-place, and with due ceremony started three fires. When the last was lighted, the Seneca chiefs, sachems and warriors took their stations in silence around the blazing resinous wood. Dark forms hurried from the well-beaten paths which led through the forest to the different villages of the Senecas, and, without a word or sign of recognition, the warriors who had been notified by the swift runners and had come from their distant homes, took their places by the council-fire. At length, when all had assembled, the Seneca chief, Kanyego, arose and said:

"Will the great chiefs of the Mohawks eat?"

"The Mohawks have heavy trouble on their hearts and the food of the Senecas would choke their voices," replied Orontadeka.

"Shall the bowl of the pipe be filled, that the Mohawks may be happy in its visions?" again asked Kanyego.

"The Mohawks would see clearly, and the clouds from the peacemaker might blind their eyes," was the reply.

"The Senecas have food for their brothers, the Mohawks, and the fire-keepers have in readiness the pipe that the Great Spirit gave to our fathers," said Kanyego. "The Senecas also have ears to hear what the Mohawks would say. Let Orontadeka speak."

Rising suddenly from his crouching position on the ground, Orontadeka walked rapidly around the council-fires several times and then addressed the assemblage:

"My Brothers: When the warm suns came and the death-sheets of snow that covered the ground were turned to leaping streams of laughing water, the Mohawks were happy in their homes, where Kanyego has many times smoked the pipe of peace and eaten the food given him by his brothers. The plague had not come from its home in the north during the winter, and the wigwams were fat with their store of corn and beans. The swift runners went away to the shining waters beyond the big mountains, and after many suns they returned to say that the enemies of the Mohawks had gone beyond the great pine trees and would plant and till new fields and follow the chase in strange forests.

"My Brothers: The Mohawks were happy, for their wigwams had need to be made greater, and there is much work for the men to do. The women and children sang because the warriors went not upon the trail, and the old men turned their thoughts to the passing of peaceful days in the villages. Suddenly an alarm came to our ears, and the hopes in our hearts fled in terror. As the red fox steals upon the nest of the partridge and carries her chickens away to his home in the rocks, so came those who should be our friends and took as prisoners three of our young men and their five sisters. When the great light drew within the door of his wigwam, the people in the village looked in vain for the coming of their children. The grief of the lonely parents whose children were lost went out to all our villages. After seven suns a party of our warriors came upon one of the young men wandering alone and without food in the forest. Then to our wondering ears came the story that his brothers were slaves in the land of the Senecas, and that his sisters had become the wives of the Seneca robbers.

"My Brothers: The council-fire was lighted at night, for the Mohawks must talk of war. Gwagonsha stood before his people and told them how he had heard the birds and the wind talking together in the tree-tops, and how they agreed between them that the Senecas had wandered away toward the warm lands, and the wolves now lived in their deserted lodges. Owennogon said that even the fishes knew that the Senecas were afraid to seek their slaves in the Cat Nation beyond the thundering waters, and for that reason they had sent out scouts to steal children. Kanentagoura stood before the council-fire and said that the women of the Senecas were no longer young, but came into the world with many moons upon their heads, while their backs were bent with age, and wrinkles were upon their faces. If the Seneca warriors would have wives they must steal them from the Mohawks, the Onondagas or the Oneidas, for they had no wampum or canoes with which to buy them. Kantaga told his people that their arrows must be made ready and the thongs of their bows must be strengthened. If the Senecas had gone away to the warm lands, and wolves had taken possession of their villages, the wolves must be killed, for they were dangerous animals. If the Senecas had become cowards and were afraid to seek their slaves in the Cat Nation, they should be killed, for the earth had no room upon it for cowards. Or, if the women of the Senecas were such monsters that they could not be taken as wives, and the Senecas had no wampum or canoes with which to buy maidens for their wigwams, then they must surely be killed, for the Great Spirit was displeased with them.

"My Brothers: The warriors of the Mohawks set out at once through the forest-paths for the land of the Senecas, and when they reached the village of the Onondagas they told them the cause of their journey, and the warriors of the Onondagas left their lodges to the care of the old men and women and followed the Mohawks on the trail. They remain beside the long waters while Orontadeka and his friends visit the council-fire of the Senecas. We look around us and we find that some of the stories told of the Senecas are not true. The Senecas still inhabit their own lodges, and have not been driven away by wolves. Upon your streams and lakes are plenty of canoes, and in the wigwams hang many strings of wampum. The women of the Senecas are not old and ugly, for we see maidens here whose eyes are like the fires lighted by the Great Spirit when the sun has gone in his wigwam, and whose forms are straight as the ash trees.

"But we know that the young men of the Mohawks were made slaves in the villages of the Senecas, and that the Mohawk maidens are now the wives of your young chiefs. We are full of sorrow. We have not sought war, and we know that much suffering must be the result, for the warriors of the Mohawks and the Onondagas are many and their arrows are long. They will burn your villages and send many of your warriors to their long journey. Your wives and little ones will be driven helpless into the forest, and your old men will speak wisdom only to the fishes. The Senecas are child-stealers and cowards, and the Mohawks and Onondagas will drive them to the warm lands, where they can wear the tobacco pouches of the women and become slaves."

A murmur of sharp anger ran through the crowd of listening Senecas when these bold words were spoken by Orontadeka. A sudden gesture of Kanyego, chief of the Senecas, suppressed it, however, and he rose to make his reply. For a long time he stood silent, with folded arms and bent head, and then he said:

"My Brothers: When Orontadeka, the Mohawk, has walked forth in the forest and has watched the young of the bear at play, he has seen that they are never still, but are full of life and daring deeds, even though their parents reprove them with harsh voices. So has my brother seen the fawns run like the wind across the plains, darting back and forth as though they could never tire, until their elders draw in a circle about them and will not let them out. My brother knows that the young men are as full of life as the young animals, and, like the storms, cannot be restrained in their course by those who look upon their destructive ways with fear.

"When the young men of the Senecas journeyed on the trail they were counseled by their elders to be wise, but their ears were stopped and their eyes were closed to the dangers that lay in their path. They forgot what had been told them, and from the homes of the Mohawks they brought maidens for their wigwams. They had fears that the young Mohawk braves would be lost in the forest without the maidens to guide them, and so they led them to the land of the Senecas, where they might be taught to fashion the bow and be of use to the women in keeping the birds from the corn. The chiefs and sachems of the Senecas were not pleased that their young warriors should have done this, but young men should never be punished for deeds of bravery, even when they have forgotten the wise counsel of the old men, lest they become cowards.

"My Brothers: If the Mohawks had come to the council-fire of the Senecas and asked that canoes and wampum and the warm furs of the bear and the beaver be given them for their maidens the council would have heeded their request, for have we not plenty? Even the young Mohawks would have been returned to the care of their fathers, so that they might be kept safe and not become wanderers where the wolves and panthers might harm them. But the Mohawks have not thought best to do this, and have come to the council-fire at night, when only war can be talked. They have refused to eat the food offered them by the Senecas, and when the fire-keepers would light the peace-pipe, they turned their heads. They come to tell us that the warriors of the Mohawks have aroused the warriors of the Onondagas, who are now upon the trail, ready and waiting to destroy the homes of the Senecas, and anxious to drive us from the land the Great Spirit gave us.

"When the red men of the valley have come to the council-fire of the Senecas without threats of war in their mouths they have always been welcome, and when they had talked they departed in peace. But now they come as spies and say that we are cowards, and bring the Mohawk and Onondaga warriors behind them to destroy our villages. For this reason let the Mohawk chiefs remain at our council-fire and the young Mohawk men and women will be brought to keep them company. If the warriors of the Mohawks and Onondagas come too close to the village of the Senecas they will see Orontadeka and his friends start forth on the long journey, and they will know that many will be sent to follow the same trail."

The Mohawks were wholly unprepared for this turn of affairs, which must have been agreed upon by the Senecas before the council opened. They were quickly bound as prisoners. When the dawn broke the five Mohawk chiefs, with the maidens and young men who had been stolen from their homes, were held under a strong guard on a slight eminence near the village, and the order had been given that if the invading warriors approached the village Orontadeka and his fellow-prisoners should at once be put to death. Scores of Seneca scouts were scouring the woods in every direction, and a young Seneca, fearless of the dangers to which he was exposed, had long ago started on his way to the camp of the superior force to inform them that the Mohawk chiefs were held as hostages. He fulfilled his mission and was at once made a prisoner.

In the Seneca village all was activity. The women and children were making ready to hurry away under guard, while the warriors were planning ambuscades, in order that they might hold back the attacking force as long as possible and cover the escape of their women and children toward the south.

The sun rose higher in the heavens and the scouts of the Senecas returned one by one from the forest, telling of the advance of a great war-party of Mohawks and Onondagas. Nearer and nearer they approached, evidently believing that their great numbers rendered caution unnecessary, and that the Senecas would either flee in panic or sue for peace at whatever terms the invaders might dictate. A short distance from the village a party of five Senecas came forward to meet them, and in loud voices warned their foes to approach no nearer if they would save the lives of their chiefs and of the Indian boys and girls held as prisoners with them. A halt was called and the attacking party was upon the point of parleying with the Senecas when the voice of Orontadeka was heard:

"The Senecas should be driven away by the warriors of the Mohawks and the Onondagas," he cried, "for not only are they child-stealers and cowards, but traitors, who have forgotten that the Great Spirit made the council-fire and commanded that it should not be violated. Orontadeka is ready to go on his long journey. Let the warriors advance and see the cowards run through the forest. Orontadeka and his friends will teach them how to die."

The guards over the captive Mohawks seized their victims and raised their heavy stone-hatchets to strike the death-blows. The Mohawks and Onondagas knew that advance on their part meant certain death to their chiefs and the other prisoners, but they prepared to go forward with a rush.

Then the voice of one of the young Mohawk girls rose in a cry that fastened the attention of the warriors of both parties. Her gaze was directed toward the sun, and from her lips came words that carried fear and consternation to all their hearts.

"See, see, my Brothers! The Great Spirit hides his smiling face and will not look upon the battle of the red men. He will go away and leave them in darkness if they burn the villages and with their poisoned arrows send the hunters and the women and the children on their long journey before they have been called. Look thou, my brothers, he has seen the Mohawk maidens happy in the lodges of the Senecas, and he will not look upon them in misery and death. He hides his face, my brothers! He hides his face!"

A moan of terrible fear went up from the warriors men who could meet death on the chase or in the battle with a smile were unnerved by that awful spectacle. They saw a black disc moving forward over the face of an unclouded sun.

The guards released their prisoners and fell at their feet. Mohawks, Senecas and Onondagas mingled, imploring each other for pardon and protesting the most profound friendship. The Seneca women and children hurried from the woods, where they had been in hiding, and lent their voices to the general clamor of fear. The wild, savage faces, streaked with the various colored earths and pigments, were turned in fearful apprehension toward the fast-darkening heavens, becoming wilder and more savage by the terrible fear that filled them. The sachems and wise men hid their faces in their fur robes, and the warriors groveled in terror upon the ground. The eagle, the hawk and flocks of smaller birds darted blindly among the branches of the trees, while strange cries of alarm and distress came from every side. The panther and the bear ran whimpering and whining with the rabbit; the fox and other denizens of the forest sought the frightened red men for protection, or lay trembling and panting under the cover of some prostrate giant of the forest.

On, on crept that fearful black shadow, eating its way into the disc of the beautiful sun, like a mighty demon that had come to blot out of existence the source of light and warmth and life, while over the fresh and budding earth spread the ghostly gloom that never fails to inspire the most careless observer with awe. The flowers that filled the woods with such profusion closed as though night had suddenly fallen upon them; the warmth and fragrance of the day that had opened with such glory gave way to the damps of evening, while the stars and planets appeared again in the heavens. Over the whole face of nature was thrown an unearthly, cadaverous hue, and in the sudden chill everything was cold and sodden with the falling dew.

At last, through that awful gloom, the frightened and trembling red men saw the once tall and erect, but now bent and tottering, form of Sagoyountha, the aged sachem of the Senecas, creeping forth from his wigwam. Reaching the center of the terror-stricken assemblage, the aged man appeared to be suddenly endowed with the vigor of youth, and stood before them like a mighty warrior, while his scarred and wrinkled face, upon which had beaten the storms of more than a hundred winters, was turned toward the dread spectacle in the heavens, the like of which even Sagoyountha had never looked upon. His voice rang once more with the clear tones that had awakened the echoes of the forests long before any of his listeners were born, and it sounded strangely sharp and loud in the awesome silence that prevailed.

"My children, Sagoyountha speaks to you in the voice of the past, but his eyes are looking into the future. The Great Spirit is angry with his children, for he would have them live in peace. He has drawn the door of his wigwam before his smiling face, and his children will see him no more, unless they smoke the pipe that he gave their fathers when he sent them forth from the Happy Hunting-Grounds. Sagoyountha has spoken. Will his children hear his voice?"

Kanyego sprang from the ground as though stung by an adder, and, crouching low, ran rapidly to the village. He was absent but a few moments, and came running once more to the circle of chiefs, bearing in his hands the sacred pipe, in which was glowing the fragrant tobacco. From one to another it was hastily passed, while the anxious faces were upturned in mute appeal towards the darkened sun.

Look! ah, look! The aged Sagoyountha reaches out his arms in supplication, and the bright and dazzling edge of the beautiful orb of day once more appears!

Shouts of joy arise from the red men, while the women and children cry aloud with gladness, as hope once more comes to their hearts. The aged Sagoyountha sinks to the ground, and, with feeble voice and trembling lips, commences the chanting of his death-song. Fainter and fainter are the words borne upon the air as the light of the sun increases, and, finally, the breathless throng lose the tones wafted back from the journeying spirit as it reaches the very portals of the Happy Hunting-Grounds.

In the light of the twice-dawned day, and in the presence of the sacred dead, who had pointed out to the red men the path by which to escape the displeasure of their Father, the Confederacy of the Iroquois was formed.

[BIRTH OF THE ARBUTUS]

MANY, many moons ago there lived an old man alone in his lodge beside a frozen stream in the great forest beyond the wide waters of the northern lakes. His locks were long and white with age and frost. The fur of the bear and cunning beaver covered his body, but none too warmly, for snow and ice were everywhere. Over all the earth there was winter. The winds came down the bleak mountain sides and wildly hurried through the branches of the trees and bushes, looking for song-birds that they might chill to the heart. Even the evil spirits shivered in the desolation and sought to dig for themselves sheltering caves in the deep snow and ice. Lonely and halting the old man went abroad in the forest, looking for the broken branches that had fallen from the trees that he might keep alive the fire in his lodge. Few fagots could he find, and in despair he again sought his lodge, where, hovering over the fading embers on his hearth, he cried in anguish to the Great Spirit that he might not perish.

Then the wind moaned in the tree-tops and circling through the forests came back and blew aside the skin of the great bear hanging over his lodge door, and, lo! a beautiful maiden entered. Her cheeks were red like the leaves of wild roses; her eyes were large and glowed like the eyes of the fawn at night; her hair was black as the wing of the crow, and so long that it brushed the ground as she walked. Her hands were clad in willow buds; over her head was a crown of flowers; her mantle was woven with sweet grasses and ferns, and her moccasins were white lilies, laced and embroidered with the petals of honeysuckle. When she breathed, the air of the lodge became warm, and the cold winds rushed back in affright.

The old man looked in wonder at his strange visitor, and then opened his lips and said: "My daughter, thou art welcome to the poor shelter of my cheerless lodge. It is lonely and desolate, and the Great Spirit has covered the fallen branches of the trees with his death-cloth that I may not find them and light again the fire of my lodge. Come, sit thou here and tell me whom thou art that thou dost wander like the deer in the forest. Tell me also of thy country and what people gave thee such beauty and grace, and then I, the desolate Manito, will tell thee of my victories till thou dost weary of my greatness."

The maiden smiled, and the sunlight streamed forth and shot its warmth through the roof of the lodge. The desolate Manito filled his pipe of friendship, and when he had drawn of the fragrant tobacco, he said: "When I, the Manito, blow the breath from my nostrils the waters of the river stand still, the great waves on the lakes rest, and the murmurings of the streams die away in silence."

Then the maiden said: "The Manito is great and strong and the waters know the touch of his breath; but when I, the loved of the birds, smile, the flowers spring up over all the forest and the plains are covered with a carpet of green."

Then said the Manito: "I shake my locks, and lo! the earth is wrapped in the death-cloth of snow."

Then the maiden replied: "I breathe into the air and the warm rains come and the death-cloth vanishes like the darkness when the great fire awakens from its bed in the morning."

Then the Manito said: "When I walk about, the leaves die on the trees and fall to the ground; the birds desert their nests and fly away beyond the lakes; the animals bury themselves in holes in the earth or in caves in the mountain side, and the winds wail the death-chant over all the land."

"Ah, great is the Manito," said the maiden, "and his mighty name is feared by all living things in the land. 'Great is the Manito,' says all the world, and his fame has spread among the children of the Great Spirit till they crouch with fear and say: 'Mighty and cruel is the Manito! Terrible is the Manito, and more cruel and cunning in his tortures than the red men. His strength is greater than the strength of the giant trees of the forest, for does he not rend them with his mighty hands?' But when I, the gentle maiden, walk forth, the trees cover with many leaves the nakedness which thou, the great Manito, hath caused; the birds sing in the branches and build again the nests from which thou drivest them; the animals seek their mates and rear their young; the wind sings soft and pleasant music to the ears of the red man, while his wives and papooses sport in the warm sunshine near his wigwam."

As the maiden spoke, the lodge grew warm and bright, but the boasting Manito heeded it not, for his head drooped forward on his breast, and he slept.

Then the maiden passed her hands above the Manito's head and he began to grow small. The blue birds came and filled the trees about the lodge and sang, while the rivers lifted up their waters and boiled with freedom. Streams of water poured from the Manito's mouth, and the garments that covered his shrunken and vanishing form turned into bright and glistening leaves.

Then the maiden knelt upon the ground and took from her bosom most precious and beautiful rose-white flowers. She hid them under the leaves all about her, and as she breathed with love upon them, said:

"I give to you, oh! precious jewels, all my virtues and my sweetest breath, and men shall pluck thee with bowed head and on bended knee."

Then the maiden moved over the plains, the hills and the mountains. The birds and the winds sang together in joyous chorus, while the flowers lifted up their heads and greeted her with fragrance.

Wherever she stepped, and nowhere else, grows the arbutus.

[A LEGEND OF THE RIVER]

MANY hundred moons ago there dwelt among the Senecas a maiden named Tonadahwa, whom every young chief coveted to grace his wigwam. One of the young braves of her tribe had won her heart by imperiling his life to save her from impending danger, and to none other would she listen. Her smiles were all for her hero, and her eyes lighted like the sunbeams when he was near.

One day the maiden was urging her canoe swiftly along the river, little thinking that great danger awaited her and threatened her life and happiness. Darting along the bank of the stream, unseen by Tonadahwa, was a young Seneca warrior, who had been a suitor for her hand, but whom she had spurned and avoided. Her light canoe had borne her far from the village of the Senecas, when she suddenly heard what she supposed was the call of her lover on the shore. Resting on her paddle, Tonadahwa listened and again heard the welcome call that deepened the rich color in her rounded cheeks. Answering with a cry of joy, she headed the canoe toward the bank, and with a few strokes sent it gliding underneath the overhanging branches.

But it was not the form of Tonadahwa's lover that sprang suddenly into the canoe. It was that of the dark and angry rival, and she saw in his face a look of evil triumph.

The maiden uttered no shriek, gave expression to no surprise, though her eyes darkened and her cheeks assumed a duskier hue. With an exclamation that almost drove hope from Tonadahwa's heart, the hated lover caught the paddle from her hands and sent the light craft rapidly towards the middle of the stream.

Suddenly a bright object cleft the air and an arrow sped from the bank of the river and buried itself between the shoulders of the cowardly abductor as he bent forward to clasp the shrinking maiden in his arms. With a cry, the defeated rival leaped into the river, hurling the paddle from him as he sprang, and with his last remaining effort pushed the canoe and its occupant far out into the rapid current. The whirling, seething rapids caught the helpless craft and bore it onward with terrific speed. Tonadahwa waved a farewell to her lover, and, chanting her death-song, which the pines along the shore caught and whispered, the canoe went flying amid the mist and spray of that roaring tide.

Green as the emerald, save where whipped into white foam or enshrouded in mist, the river rushed on, and the frail canoe, tossed as a plaything at the sport of the current, was whirled onward until lost in the roar and tumult of the impetuous flood.

Like the wind the despairing lover flew along the shore to the high banks overlooking the falls. There he paused a moment until the canoe and its precious freight were lost to view. Then, raising his arms a moment toward the Happy Hunting-Grounds, he leaped into the fearful abyss.

But amid the pelting spray and beating flood appeared myriads of shadowy forms—spirits of the mighty braves who long before had found the land of pleasant forests. Swiftly, yet gently, they lowered the form of the hero until he stood unharmed beneath the fall of roaring water, and received in his arms the unconscious form of Tonadahwa, which was held by the braves to await his coming.

Clinging to the broken rocks, buffeted and blinded by the awful flood, the daring and triumphant Seneca bore his loved burden to a place of safety and watched with thankfulness her return to consciousness and life.

The pine trees ever after gently murmured Tonadahwa's song, and, mingled with the roar of waters, listening lovers through all succeeding time can often hear the strange, weird cry of Tonadahwa's lover as he plunged headlong after the beloved maiden.

[LEGENDS OF THE CORN]

AN old and honored chief went alone to the top of a high mountain to meet the Great Spirit. The chief told the Great Spirit that the red men were tired of the roots and herbs which, with the fruits that grew on the trees and the bushes, made up their food, and he asked the Father to send them some of the food used in the Happy Hunting-Grounds. The Great Spirit told the chief to take his wives and papooses and go forth in the moon of rains and stand on one of the plains, not moving from the place where they stopped for the space of three suns. Then the Great Spirit would come and give the Indians food. The chief went back to his people and told them what he had heard from the Great Spirit. When the moon of rains came they did as the chief had been directed. In three suns all had fallen asleep. They were left undisturbed by the Indians, for this peculiar manifestation was regarded as a mark of especial favor. In a few weeks the old chief and the members of his family had changed into luxuriant green plants. The council assembled, sent the wise men to visit the field, and what they found there was corn.

* * * * *

Long and earnestly a young brave wooed a beautiful maiden, and at last gained her consent to live with him in his wigwam. But the days and nights were lonely without her and the young brave could not remain away from her lodge. Fearing that she might be stolen by one of her many admirers, or that danger might come to her, he slept at night in the forest that he might be near to protect her. One night he was awakened by a light footstep and, starting up, saw his loved one stealing out of her lodge as a sleep-walker. He pursued her, but, as if fleeing in her dreams from a danger that threatened her life, she ran from him, speeding through the paths like the fleet-footed hare. On and on he followed, and finally drew so near that he could hear her quick breath and the rapid beating of her heart. With all his remaining strength the lover sprang forward and clasped the maiden's form to his breast. What was his grief and astonishment when he found that his arms clasped, not the maiden he loved, but a strange plant the like of which he had never seen before. The maiden had awakened just as her lover overtook her, and had been so frightened at her surroundings that she was transformed. She had raised her arms to her head just as her lover caught her, and her uplifted hands were changed into ears of corn, and where her fingers caught her hair the maize bears beautiful silken threads.

[THE FIRST WINTER]

THERE was a time when the days were always of the same length, and it was always summer. The red men lived continually in the smile of the Great Spirit, and they were happy. But there arose a chief who was so powerful that he at last declared himself mightier than the Great Spirit, and taught his brothers to go forth to the plains and mock the Great Spirit. They would call upon the Great Spirit to come and fight with them, or would challenge him to take away the crop of growing corn, or drive the game from the woods; they would say he was an unkind father to keep to himself and their dead brothers the Happy Hunting-Grounds, where the red men could hunt forever without weariness. They laughed at their old men, who had feared for so many moons to reproach the Great Spirit for his unfair treatment of the Indians, who were compelled to hunt and fish for game for their wives and children, while their women had to plant the corn and harvest it. "In the Happy Hunting-Grounds," they said, "the Great Spirit feeds our brothers and their wives and does not let any foes or dangers come upon them, but here he lets us go hungry many times. If he is as great as you have said, why does he not take care of his children here?"

Then the Great Spirit told them he would turn his smiling face away from them, so that they should have no more light and warmth, and must build fires in the forests if they would see.

But the red men laughed and taunted him, telling him that he had followed one trail so long that he could not get out of it, but would have to come every day and give them light and heat. Then they would dance and make faces at him and taunt him with his helplessness.

In a few days the quick eyes of some of the red men saw in the morning the face of the Great Spirit appear where it was not wont to appear, but they were silent, fearing the jibes of their brothers. Finally duller eyes noticed the change, and alarm and consternation spread among the people. Each day brought less and less of the Great Spirit's smile and his countenance was often hidden by dark clouds, while terrible storms beat upon the frightened faces turned in appeal toward the heavens. The strong braves and warriors became as women; the old men covered their heads with skins and starved in the forests; while the women in their lodges crooned the low, mournful wail of the death-song, and the papooses crawled among the caves in the rocks and mountains and died unheeded. Frosts and snows came upon an unsheltered and stricken race, and many of them perished.

Then the Great Spirit, who had almost removed his face from the sight of the red men, had pity, and told them he would come back. Day after day the few that remained alive watched with joy the return of the sun. They sang in praise of the approaching summer, and once more hailed with thankfulness the first blades of growing corn as it burst from the ground. The Great Spirit told his children that every year, as a punishment for the insults they had given their Father, they should feel for a season the might of the power they had mocked; and they murmured not, but bowed their heads in meekness.

From the bodies of those who had perished of cold and hunger sprang all manner of poisonous plants, which spread themselves over the earth to vex and endanger the lives of the Indians of all generations; and in after years when any of the Indians from any reason "ate of the fatal root," it was said of them that they had "eaten of the bodies of their brothers who had defied the Great Spirit."

[THE GREAT MOSQUITO]

AN immense bird preyed upon the red men in all parts of the country. Their homes were at no time safe from its ravages. Often it would carry away children playing beside the wigwams, or, like a bolt of lightning, dart from the sky and strike a woman or man bleeding and dying to the earth. Whole fields of corn had been destroyed in a single night by its ravages, and its coming was so swift and terrible that the Indians hardly dared stir from the shelter of their houses. A strong party of Cayugas and Onondagas finally determined upon its death, no matter at what cost to themselves. A young warrior offered himself for the sacrifice. He was provided with a quantity of raw-hide thongs, and repaired to one of the open spaces, where it was believed the dreaded monster would discover and descend upon him. The young brave was to bind one of the thongs upon the bird's feet or upon some portion of its body, if possible, before he killed him, and then his companions, rushing from their place of concealment, would try to slay the enemy that had been snared with such difficulty. The preparations were elaborately made, and the young brave went forth on his dangerous mission. I Three days he sat, chanting his death-song and awaiting the coming of his terrible fate. On the morning of the fourth day the sky was suddenly darkened and the watchers saw that the great bird was slowly circling above the heroic young Cayuga. He ceased his chanting, and, standing upright, shouted defiance to the almost certain death that awaited him.

With a scream that turned the hearts of the waiting Indians cold with terror, the bird dropped upon its victim like a panther on his prey. A short and terrible struggle took place and then the concealed warriors rushed forth to finish the work of their brave young companion, who had succeeded in throwing one of the thongs over the great mosquito's neck. They brought willing and ready hands to the battle, and the arrows poured upon the struggling mass like a storm of hail. After a long encounter the bird was killed, and the young Cayuga smiled in triumph as his last glance rested upon the dead body of the monster.

Runners were at once dispatched to the villages to inform the Indians of the victory, and soon vast numbers of them came to look upon their long-dreaded enemy that had been slain at such cost. Its body was larger than that of the largest bear they had ever seen, and the breadth of its outstretched wings was as great as the height of three men. Its talons were as long as arrows, and its monstrous beak was lined with sharp teeth. There was much rejoicing over the great mosquito's death, and for several days feasting and dancing were held in honor of the bravery of those who had rid the country of such a terrible scourge. Soon, however, swarms of the poisonous little flies that have been the pests of all nations since that time, infested the woods, and the Indians discovered that they came from the body of the dead bird. Too late they realized that the body of the great mosquito should have been burned when it was first slain, for fire is ever the destroyer of evil spirits.

[THE STORY OF ONIATA]

A MAIDEN more beautiful than had ever before been seen came into the house of a great chief and grew to womanhood by his fireside. All the tribes within a distance of many long journeys paid her homage, for, though her eyes were as dark as the depths of the pool in the rocks, her skin was as fair as that of the palefaces who came thousands of years afterwards, and her hair was borrowed from the rays of the sun.

The great chief was honored above all his people on account of his beautiful daughter, for she could work charms that drove away the evil spirits of sickness, and when her father went to battle or followed the chase he was ever successful, for he carried with him the maiden's smiles to daze and blind his enemies, or to aid in his search for the hidden trail. Her songs were so full of music that when she sang the wild birds were silent in the branches of the trees, and listened that they might catch the tones of her voice. When she laughed the waters in the mountain streams sought the deep pools and for very shame stopped their noisy clamor. Her feet were so small and delicate that only the skins of fawns were used to make her moccasins. The snow that lay over the earth in winter was no whiter than her skin, and her cheeks were like the first coming of the sun on the mornings when the corn is ripe. Never before had the Indians seen one so beautiful, and the wise men whispered that she had been sent by the Great Spirit from the Happy Hunting-Grounds to teach the Indians what beauties awaited them when they had journeyed to their long home.

Over all the land spread the story of this wondrous maiden, like the tidings of a bountiful harvest or the boastings of a successful chase. From the villages far away came the young chiefs and warriors, and when they had looked upon this lily of the forest and heard the music of her voice they no longer had hearts for the hunt, but spent their days in trying to win approving glances from the dark eyes of Oniata, the daughter of Tiogaughwa. They brought for her the most gorgeous and elaborate head-dresses of wampum, in which were woven the quills and feathers of the birds their cunning had been able to ensnare. They performed the most wonderful feats of agility and endurance, often vying with each other until even their rugged natures could not withstand the terrible self-imposed ordeals, and some sank exhausted or dying, while the more fortunate ones shouted cries of triumph and victory, loudly boasting of their own powers and strength.

Tiogaughwa, the father of Oniata, was filled with pride at the attention shown his daughter. His lodge was rich with presents of rare furs and strings of wampum that had been laid at her feet; the medicine of the wisest chiefs was freely placed at his disposal; he could have allied his tribe with the most powerful—for the greatest chiefs and the most renowned warriors sought to wed the beautiful Oniata.

But there came a change to these happy days of the old chief, Tiogaughwa. One day the chiefs and warriors were surprised to see the council-place filled with the women and maidens from all the country around. They deserted their lodges, left the fires to the care of the old men and children, and, without heeding the dark looks of their husbands, sons or brothers, took the places usually occupied by the wise men of the nation. When all were assembled, the wives of five of the principal chiefs were sent to ask Tiogaughwa and the chiefs and wise men to come to the council-fires.

When the chiefs and wise men were seated a silence fell on the assemblage. At last it was broken by the first faint notes of the mourning song of an Indian maiden for a lover who had been slain in battle. Others joined the chant and the weird chorus was caught up by the hundreds of women assembled, and filled the forests with notes of sorrow. The song ceased, but its last note had scarcely died away before another took its place. The Indian wives commenced chanting the sorrowful story it was the custom of a deserted wife to sing in her lonely lodge when her husband had left her to join another more congenial to his fancy. When their complaint had ended, the women sat a long time with bowed heads. Finally the wife of one of the chiefs—a tall, lithe, beautiful young princess—stepped before the chiefs and sachems and said:

"We have come to the council-fires, oh! my brothers, that we might together tell the Great Spirit that the lovers of the Indian maidens are dead, and to ask him to meet them at the borders of the Happy Hunting-Grounds. We have come, too, oh! my brothers, to tell the Great Spirit that the bad spirits have caught the ears of our husbands and have told them tales that have led them from our lodges, and their wives and papooses are sick with hunger. No longer is the smile of the dark maiden sought by the young braves. She plaits her hair with flowers and wampum and sits in the forests to await the coming of her mate; but the young braves come no more to woo her, nor can they be found on the track of the bear or the panther. They loll with the dogs in the shadow of Oniata's wigwam and glare like the hard-wounded boar at the dark maidens who approach them. They are dead, and the hearts of the Indian maidens are full of sorrow.

"The wives cover their heads with wolf skins and tell the Great Spirit that their husbands have deserted them. Day after day they have kept the lodge fires burning, but the hunters come not to sit in the light and tell the stories of the chase. The feeble old men and boys have tried to follow the hunt that they might provide the women with food. The papooses have sickened and died, and the death-song has been raised many times. But the warriors come not. They have forgotten their homes, as they lie in their camps near the lodge of the white lily, where they are held in sleep by the smiles of the Oniata.

"Have the dark maidens lost their beauty, that their glances can never again bring life to the hearts of the young braves? Have the dark wives refused to do the bidding of their husbands that they should be deserted like sick and wounded dogs fallen in the chase?

"My brothers, Waunopeta, the wife of Torwauquanda, has spoken, and her sisters have told her to say that if they no longer please the hearts of the red men they ask to be sent on the long journey to the Happy Hunting-Grounds."

As Waunopeta ceased speaking and took her place among the crouching forms of the women, there was a movement on the outer edge of the circle, and in an instant Oniata stood in the centre of the council-place. There was an exclamation of interest as this vision of wonderful beauty burst upon them. Many had never seen her, and they were almost blinded by a loveliness that was previous to that time unknown to the race. She was clothed in the richest of skins, and her hair fell like a cloud of sun-kissed mist over her beautiful shoulders. Her cheeks burned with tints that betrayed her common ancestry with her dark sisters whom she had unwittingly troubled.

"Oniata is here!" she cried, as she looked around at the dark faces before her, with eyes like those of the hunted fawn. "Oniata is here to say that she has not asked for the smiles of the young braves. They came around her wigwam and drove away the dream-god with their cries and love-songs; but she covered her ears with the skins of the beaver and would not listen to them. When Oniata went forth to the forest they appeared before her like the thunder clouds, and she went back to her wigwam and could not look at her father, the sun. The warriors came to the lodge of the white lily and with shouts and cries told the Oniata that their wives and children should be the white lily's slaves if she would look out of her lodge upon them. But the Oniata called the women of her wigwam about her and they laughed in the faces of the warriors. Oniata loves her sisters, but they are angry at the white lily and ask that she be sent away to the long home where she shall be seen no more by the braves and warriors. She will go from the home of the red men and her dark sisters—far away beyond the mountains and the great lakes—and the braves will return to life for the dark maidens and seek them with love-songs in the forests, while the warriors will once more go to their wigwams where their wives and papooses await them. But her people will remember the Oniata, for she will kiss the flowers in the forests as she goes.

"My sisters, the Oniata, daughter of the sun and the great chief Tiogaughwa, has spoken."

She waved her hand, and the circle of listening men and women parted that she might walk through. The chief, Torwauquanda, started forward to follow her, but the dark princess, Waunopeta, stood in his pathway, and he knew by the looks of the menacing faces about him that the white lily would go alone.

Tiogaughwa rose as his daughter moved rapidly away, and said: "Oniata has spoken well. She will go in peace. The scalp-lock of the warrior that follows her will hang in Tiogaughwa's wigwam."

The old chief turned and folded his arms over his breast, watching with pathetic love the fast disappearing form of his daughter.

Out into the forest went the Oniata—the loved of the sunshine, the dream of the Indian—and the solemn council sat in silence as the beautiful vision faded forever from their view.

Far away from her people she wandered, never stopping to look back toward the home she had loved. The sun warmed her pathway for many days, and at night the sister of the sun smiled through the branches of the trees and lighted the forest so the Oniata would not miss her lodge-fire as she slept. When she rested beside the clear streams she caught to her bosom the blossoms that covered the banks and breathed into their faces the love she had borne for her dark sisters and her home. The fragrance of her love filled their hearts and from that time they have freely given their love to others, as Oniata bade them when she pressed them to her lips and kissed them in her loneliness. When the clouds came and the rain fell, Oniata was sheltered by the thick branches of the trees, and when the rain had ceased she pulled the branches down, and pressing her cheeks against them, thanked them for their kindness. The trees learned gentleness from the maiden, and their blossoms have ever since spread their grateful perfume on the air.

Many moons passed. The dark maidens were again wooed by the young braves, and the wives of the warriors were happy in the return of their husbands. The winter came and cast its white cloud over the land, and the frosts locked the rivers in prison houses of ice. But Oniata came not to the home of her people.

The great Tiogaughwa mourned his daughter in his lonely wigwam, and his heart sang her death-song as he sat before the fire-place, in which no fire was lighted, and bowed his head in mournful silence.

The warm winds came again, and the young men and maidens were once more filling the forests with their love-songs, while with laughter they chanted the praises of their mates. Tiogaughwa saw all this, but his heart was heavy and he had no words for the council-fire, no strength for the chase. He left his people and walked away in the path that had been taken by Oniata. Wherever he went the wild flowers raised their heads and told him they had been kissed by Oniata, and the great Tiogaughwa fell down beside them and caught the fragrance of her breath. When the dew and the rain were upon them he could see once more the beauty of her eyes, and the gentle songs of the soft winds through the trees that had sheltered Oniata and had felt the loving touch of her caresses, told the great Tiogaughwa that the light of his wigwam awaited his coming in the long home.

[THE MIRROR IN THE WATER]

WHEN the Great Spirit made the earth and put the water in the deep valleys to form lakes, and built the springs in the mountains to form streams and rivers, he did not give to the water the power to show within its surface his children's faces or to make the trees appear to grow with their branches pointing deep into the ground. For many thousands of summers the younger sister of the sun was never seen far down in the bosom of the lake at night, and many times young men grew old and died before the sun could see himself in the river, the warriors could put on their war-paint by the deep pool in the woods, or the maidens plait their braids with their smiling faces reflected from the laughing stream that flowed beside the wigwams.

The red men lived together peacefully and happily then beside a great river. One day the young hunters came home in haste from the chase and reported the coming of many strange people from beyond the river. They said the strange men carried bows twice the height of the tallest chief known in the peaceful tribes, or held in their hands branches of trees to which were attached sharpened stones of great size. The chiefs and wise men assembled, and scouts and runners were sent forth to see if the young hunters had not been deceived by the evil spirits of the woods. But the young hunters had not looked with double eyes, and the strange warriors were as many as the pebbles on the bank of the river. The hearts of the red men were filled with fear, for they knew not then how to fight against such numbers, and the sachems arose from the council-fire and went forth to the cave in the rocks where the Great Spirit talked with them. The Great Spirit told his children that he would care for them and protect them from the strange warriors, and he told the people to fear not, but to obey the three fathers and fire-keepers of the nation. When the night came the fathers told the men and women to build many fires on the shore of the river, and when the fires were built the red men were filled with fear to see burning, deep down in the water, a fire for each fire on the shore.

The strange warriors also saw these fires in the water, and they were frightened and dared not cross the river in the night to destroy them. But with the morning the strange warriors once more took courage and plunged into the river to swim to the shore where the children of the Great Spirit dwelt. Then the Great Spirit loosed the spirits of the storm and they rushed down the mountain and out upon the river, and when he called them back the strange warriors were not to be seen. Then the red men went forth in their canoes and the water of the river was clear and white. They looked down and saw first their own faces and above them the smiling face of the Great Spirit; and then, down deep in the water, they saw the bodies of the strange men who had come to destroy them.

The water never changed again, for the Great Spirit saw it gave his children pleasure, and he loved his children then.

[THE BUZZARD'S COVERING]

IN the beginning, the birds were created naked, but because of their ill-shaped bodies and long legs they were ashamed and remained in hiding. At that time their throats had not been so arranged that they could sing. A long time afterwards they learned their music from the falling rain and the whistling wind. But they could talk, and with loud voices they bewailed their fate. Finally, with one accord, they began to cry and shout as loud as they could, asking that they be provided with coverings. The Great Spirit thereupon sent them word that their dresses were all ready, but that he did not have time to come and see that they were properly fitted. If they were in need of their raiment they must either go or send to a particular place a long way off, where they would find the coverings.

A vote for a messenger was taken and the turkey buzzard was chosen because he was so strong and hardy. He started proudly on his mission, but the distance was so great that he became nearly famished before reaching his destination, and, contrary to his habits in those days, he was compelled to eat carrion to sustain life. At last he came to the appointed place and found the coverings ready. As a reward for making the journey, the buzzard had been given first choice of the garments. He at once selected the most beautiful of the lot, but upon trying it discovered that he could not fly well with so many long feathers to manage, and so he laid the dress aside and tried others. One he feared would soil too easily; another was not warm enough to satisfy his taste; a third was too light-colored and would render him too conspicuous; a fourth was composed of too many pieces and would require too much of his time to care for it. So he went from one to another, finding some fault with each, until there was but one suit left the plainest of all. As the buzzard had been expressly forbidden to try on any of the coverings more than once, he had but one choice left, and must either accept the plain, homely, coarse suit he has since worn or go naked.

Often when the birds hold councils in the woods they talk quite sharply to the buzzard for his uncleanly habits. He never fails to retort that his ancestor acquired them while doing a great service for others, and he closes the discussion by reminding them that they have no special reason to be vain, as he had choice of all the bird coverings and took the one that pleased him best.

[ORIGIN OF THE VIOLET]

THERE was a brave Indian many moons before the white man came to the land of his fathers who was the pride of all the men of the east. Though he was young, yet among his people his word was law and his counsels were listened to by the older chiefs with much attention. Three times had he done his people service they could never forget. Once, the great heron, that had preyed upon the children of the tribe for a long time, had fallen pierced to the heart by the arrow from his bow. He had gone alone and unarmed many days' journey without food to the mountain where dwelt the witches, and brought from the medicine caves the roots that cured his people of the plague. The third great service was when he had led a band of warriors against their enemies over the mountains and returned victorious. But on this journey the young warrior had seen a maiden whom he loved, and he wanted her for his wigwam. The maiden dwelt among the tribe that had felt the weight of the young chief's blow, and the warfare between them prevented his buying her with the quills of the wampum bird, as he could have done had she been one of his own people. And yet, the young chief thought, unless he could light his wigwam with the brightness of the maiden's eyes, his heart would no longer be brave and he could not lead his young men to battle. For many moons he was in hiding in the woods near the village of his foes, patiently watching for the maiden whose eyes had softened his heart. He sang the praises of his loved one so often to the birds as he crouched near their nests in the branches of the trees that they took up his song and bore it with them in their flight over I the plains and valleys. So often did the bear, the fox and the beaver hear the praise of the maiden murmured by the young chief in his sleep that they thought the forests had brought forth a new flower of more radiant beauty than any they had seen.

At last the young chief's vigils and waiting were rewarded, for one day the maiden wandered into the forest. With the calls of the song-birds and by singing her praises he lured her far from her home, and then he seized and bore her away toward the hunting-grounds and village of his people. The maiden had been watched by the jealous eyes of a young brave who was her suitor, but he was cowardly, and when he saw her borne swiftly away on the shoulders of the dreaded chief, he dared not follow, but ran swiftly back to the village to give the alarm. The braves placed him in the hands of the women because he was a coward, and started quickly in pursuit of the girl and her captor. All night they followed them over the rugged mountains and through the dark forests. In the morning they overtook them and were filled with rage when they saw that the maiden was a willing captive, for she had given her heart to the strong young chief, knowing that he was brave and loved her. To signify her willingness to go with him she had plaited the braids of her hair about his neck, as was the customary way among them to indicate a marriage. Enraged at their foe for his daring and at the girl for deserting her people, the pursuing warriors killed them both on the spot and left their bodies where they fell—the great braids of the maiden's hair encircling her lover's neck.

From this spot sprang the violets; and the winds and birds carried the seeds of the little flowers over all the world, into all countries where men dare and maidens love, so that the Indians of all ages might know that the Great Spirit would always raise a monument to true love and bravery.

[THE TURTLE CLAN]

THEN the Great Spirit created the turtles he gave them a vast lake in and about which they could reside, and where they would never be molested by either animals or people. But the turtles were not satisfied with the shape of the lake, and found fault with the hard, gravelly bottom and clear water. So they set to work to bring all the mud they could find on the plains surrounding it, and spread the loads of loose soil over the bottom of the lake where they were accustomed to lie. So many of them carried on the work that the lake was finally filled with the mud, and became so shallow that during one particularly hot summer it was entirely dry. Then the turtles held council and decided that the only way left to them was to set out to find a place where there was good water. One, a particularly wise and intelligent old fellow, urged his brethren to decide first upon some fixed course to follow and then by all means to remain together. Said he: "If we do this we will not only know exactly where we are going, but we can help each other. There are a great many of us, and if any foe attacks us we can together repel the attack, for with our stone backs and sharp jaws we are well equipped for battle. Let me tell you, my brothers, that the world is full of dangers, and unless we are banded together and stand by each other, we will be scattered and lose our standing as a nation."

To this wise counsel the turtles apparently agreed, but each one wanted the honor of presenting the plan that was to be followed, and each also wanted the distinction of being chosen to lead his fellows. The wise old turtle made every effort at conciliation and proposed several plans, any one of which if accepted would have made the turtles a great and powerful nation, but they could come to no agreement. At last the commotion became so great that the voice of the wise turtle was drowned in the clamor, and he was powerless to counsel his fellows any further. Finally each turtle started off by himself, bound to follow his own inclinations, as the turtles have done ever since. At this foolish course the wise turtle became very angry. "Fools!" he cried, "I am ashamed to be counted as one of the turtle race, and although in memory of the forefathers whom I honor, I will always bear on my breast the form of a turtle, henceforth I will not be a turtle."

With a tremendous effort he threw the shell from his back and leaped forth, a fully armed and painted warrior. The turtles were terribly frightened and made off as fast as they could. From that day they have been wanderers.

The wise turtle became the progenitor of the turtle clan. He taught his children to deliberate carefully upon all matters of importance; to give attention and careful consideration to the counsels of their elders; and to work in unity in whatever they undertook.

[THE HEALING WATERS]

NEKUMONTA, the strongest and bravest chief of the Mohawks, wandered alone in silence through the primeval forest. The giant pines looked down upon him with frowns; the moss, dark and sodden on the maples with rain, gave only a gloomy greeting; the low beeches brushed against his anxious face, and as he passed beneath them chilling showers fell from their icy branches. Across his path the snarling panther crept in sullen anger; the frightened rabbit sped away to its nest under the prostrate log; his brother the bear turned aside and looked with sadness upon the troubled face of Nekumonta as he hurried forward in the fast gathering darkness. In all the forest no kindly sight came to comfort the strong and brave chief of the Mohawks, whose footsteps were heavy with fatigue and whose heart was burdened with sorrow.

Through the cheerless, awful moons of snows and frosts the plague had raged in the village of the Mohawks. Many days and nights had the death-song been chanted for men, and women, and children. Few were untouched by the terrible sickness, and the medicine men of the tribe had long since seen the last of hoarded stores of herbs which they used to put to flight the bad spirits. The strong and brave Nekumonta and the light of his wigwam, Shanewis, had watched the fires of life go out many times. They knew that the Happy Hunting-Grounds rang with the shouts and laughter of their brothers and sisters; they sent them messages by the echoing spirits and told them to watch for their coming; but they were saddened because their brothers and sisters had gone on the long journey. The home of the Mohawks was full of pleasure when the hunters and the women, the young men, the maidens and the children worked together in the fields of growing corn, or gathered at night around the lodge-fire and listened to the legends told by the aged.

At last the soft winds came, and their mellow songs drove the cold and darkness from the valley. With their first notes came hope—hope that when the awful winter had gone to his home in the north the plague would also take its flight from the village.

Then Nekumonta's heart died, for Shanewis, the light of his wigwam, was stricken, and from her couch of furs smiled sadly as she whispered: "Shanewis must fight with the bad spirits. She would not leave Nekumonta, the strong and brave one of the Mohawks, but her brothers and sisters call to her from their long home."

For a moment Nekumonta stood erect, while upon his face came the shadows of despair. As the weary hunter loses control of his canoe and sees below him the rapids that in terrible fury play with their victim ere they hurl it over the precipice of death; or, as the warrior who with rising hopes has long withstood his foes, would see their reinforcements come when his arm has lost its power, so upon Nekumonta came the realization of the struggle yet to come. But his brave heart failed not, and bending over the shivering form of his loved Shanewis, he said:

"Shanewis shall live. Let her fight the bad spirits, and tell her brothers and sisters who call to her that she cannot go to her long home for many moons. Nekumonta has said it. He will find the healing vines of the Great Spirit, and Shanewis shall live."

The robe that covered the entrance of the lodge was pushed aside, and the chief of the Mohawks hurried away into the forest.

In many places the snows were not melted. The roots were locked in their beds by the frost, and the medicine herbs had not yet awakened from their sleep. Running through the open fields, looking anxiously among the rocks, crawling under the fallen trees, hurrying with despair over the barren hills, swimming the swollen streams and rivers, darting along the shores of the half-frozen lakes, penetrating the gloom of the forbidding forests, stopping neither for rest nor for food, Nekumonta searched, repeating again and again, until the woods and fields were burdened with the words: "Shanewis shall live! Nekumonta will find the healing vines of the Great Spirit, and Shanewis shall live!"

Three suns had passed since he left his lodge, and still his weary quest was in vain. Wherever he looked only dead leaves and withered vines were to be found. When darkness came and he could no longer see, the anxious searcher had, on his hands and knees, crept onward all the night, hoping that his keen scent would discover what his sight had failed to disclose during the day. At the decline of the third sun, stumbling forward in the gathering darkness, Nekumonta fell exhausted to the earth and the Great Spirit touched his eyes with sleep.

Then the dream-god came and Nekumonta saw Shanewis lying sleepless on her couch of furs and heard her calling his name gently and with tenderness. He saw that the plague ran through her veins like the fires that swept the forest when the rustling leaves lay thick upon the ground. Then he saw her creep to the door of the lodge and push aside the robe that shut out the cold winds. Long and earnestly she looked into the darkness, calling him to hasten to her side. He reached forward to clasp her in his arms, and the vision faded. Now he was in his canoe, which the taunting spirits of the plague were pushing down the river, and they laughed and shouted in derision as he tried to catch the medicine plants that grew in great abundance along the shores. Again, he was with his loved Shanewis in the cornfields, filling the great baskets with roasting ears to be taken to the fires where danced and sang the red men in honor of the ripening harvest. Then the voices of the singers changed into low and murmuring sounds, which finally grew more distinct until Nekumonta heard the words:

"Strong and brave chief of the Mohawks, we are the healing waters of the Great Spirit. Take us from our prison and thy loved Shanewis shall live."

Starting from his slumbers like an arrow from the bow, Nekumonta cast off the dream-god and stood in the first light of the smiling face of the Great Spirit as he came from his wigwam to open the new day. Swiftly his glance darted from side to side, searching in vain every tree and bush, every rock and stone for evidence of the presence of some one who could have uttered the words that had come so distinctly that they must be more than the echo of a dream. The practiced eye and ear of the hunter could discover nothing unusual in the forest, though every faculty was awake, every nerve strung to its greatest tension. With sadness and loss of hope his attitude relaxed, and with heavy footsteps he turned toward the hills.

And yet he could not go away. Something sent him back to the little opening in the forest, and when he reached the spot where he had fallen in the darkness the night before he bent suddenly and placed his ear to the ground.

What caused Nekumonta to leap to his feet with a cry of triumph that rang over the hills like the shout of many warriors? What changed in an instant the hopeless, dejected being who bent to the earth, to a creature alert, with his hardened sinews standing out upon his body in eagerness to expend its stifled strength? Faintly, yet distinctly, he had again heard the murmuring voices:

"Strong and brave chief of the Mohawks, here are the healing waters of the Great Spirit. Take us from our prison and thy loved Shanewis shall live."

With a bound like that of the panther Nekumonta sprang to the hillside, and from the trunk of a hardy ash that had been felled by the lightning's bolt he tore the toughened branches, bearing them in triumph to the valley. Back he ran like the wind and from the yielding soil dug armfuls of sharp-edged stones, which he bore with hurrying steps to the place where a promise had been opened to him greater than the one of the Happy Hunting-Grounds. Not a moment did he pause, but the cry of "Shanewis! Shanewis! Shanewis!" was almost constantly on his lips.

The smiling face of the Great Spirit rose higher in the path it followed for the day, and looked down over the hill tops at the toiling Nekumonta. Forcing the toughened limbs of the ash tree deep into the ground he wrested from their beds the huge bowlders that impeded his progress and formed the prison of the healing waters. With the sharp-edged stones he cut the hard earth, and with torn and bleeding hands he hurled the rough soil from the excavation. Like a very god incarnate the dauntless spirit toiled—never resting, never tiring, never stopping except at long intervals, when he bent his ear to the earth. Each time he heard the voices, swelling louder and louder, and repeating over and over again the promise that lent him an energy that could have torn the earth asunder had it refused to yield its life-giving treasure for the light of his wigwam.

When the smiling face of the Great Spirit had reached the middle of its trail and turned once more to the door of his great lodge, the tireless Nekumonta leaped to the edge of the excavation with renewed shouts of joy and triumph, and the woods resounded with the laughter and songs proclaiming that the imprisoning barrier had been broken open. The sparkling, healing waters heard the welcome voices in the woods, and rising from their dark prison filled all the place the toiler had torn open in the earth, and then ran merrily down the valley in the sunlight.

Nekumonta bathed his bruised hands and burning face in the grateful waters and then hurried away in the forest. On and on he ran, with a step so light that the dead leaves scarcely felt its touch, and with a strength that laughed the wind to scorn. His path was straight through the forest to the clay banks where his people came in the moon of the falling leaves and made the vessels in which they cooked their corn and venison. Here his energy was born anew, and with a skill that was marvelous in its dexterity he fashioned a jar to contain the healing waters. From its hiding place he brought the fire stone, and the store of branches collected by the old men and children at the last moon of falling leaves furnished him a supply of fuel. When the smiling face of the Great Spirit entered the door of his wigwam in the west Nekumonta took from the dying embers the perfected result of his handiwork.

* * * * *

The warm winds, laden with hope and comfort, stole gently through the forest and sang with gladness of the death of winter. Life came once more to the swaying branches of the trees, and the first notes of the robins and blue birds thrilled the listening air with a sweetness for which it had long hungered. The second day of spring had dawned on the home of the Mohawks the village where the gaunt figure of the awful plague had reveled in a dance of death throughout the weary moons of winter.

Suddenly a triumphant shout filled the air. The hearts of weary watchers stood still with suspense, fearing that the evil witches had once more returned to taunt them of their helplessness. The plague-stricken woke from their fitful sleep and called piteously to the Manito. Once more the shout arose—louder, clearer, more triumphant—a pealing cry of victory from the strong and brave Nekumonta.

Bearing aloft in his arms the vessel containing the healing waters, Nekumonta burst from the deeper gray of the forest like a flood of sunshine and ran with steps as light as the warm winds themselves to the darkened lodge of his loved Shanewis. With the soft mosses he had caught from the banks of the streams he soothed her fevered form, and with draughts of the grateful healing waters she was lured to returning health.

Thus the loved Shanewis came back from the very borderland of the Happy Hunting-Grounds to her home with the Mohawks.

[THE SACRIFICE OF ALIQUIPISO]

TROUBLE came to a village of the Oneidas. From the north a band of red men who had listened to the bad spirits came upon the peaceful village, and, with murder and plunder in their hearts, spread destruction around them like the wild chase of the forest fires. The homes of the Oneidas were deserted and made desolate, and the women and children were hurried away to the rocks and hills for refuge and were guarded by the warriors. For many days and nights the attacking party vainly tried to find the trail of the people they had driven from their homes. The Great Spirit had passed his hands over the forest and the trail of the Oneidas was not discovered by the savage Mingoes.

But the Oneidas were almost without food, and over the tops of the trees and along the face of the almost inaccessible cliff came hunger and death to their hiding place. The warriors and sachems sat long at the council, but their eyes were heavy and they could find no path that would lead them from their trouble. To try to escape from their refuge would expose them to capture and slavery at the hands of their foes. To remain where they were meant starvation and death.

Then the little maiden, Aliquipiso, came to the warriors and sachems and told how the good spirits had come to her sleeping under the trees, and had shown her where from the side of the high bluff on which her people were hiding huge rocks could be rolled into the valley below in such a manner as to strike down the very trees there. The good spirits also told her to lead the foes of the Oneidas to the spot and bade her go upon the mission that she might deliver her people from their danger. The warriors and sachems listened to the unfolding of the plan with wonder, and when Aliquipiso had finished, the chief brought forth rich strings of white wampum and put them about her neck, saying that she was the princess of all the nation and beloved of the Great Spirit. When the night came the little maiden left her people quietly and without faltering, and disappeared in the darkness.

In the morning watchful scouts of the Mingoes found a little girl wandering as if lost in the forest. They hurried away with her to the dismantled village where she had been so happy with her fellows and at once commenced to torture her, hoping to extort the secret of the hiding place of her people. With a fortitude that won the admiration of her captors, Aliquipiso resisted the torture for a long time, but finally told the cruel tormentors that when the darkness came she would lead them to the hiding place of the Oneidas.

Night came again, and the exultant Mingoes started on the trail they believed would lead them to the camp of the Oneidas. Aliquipiso led the way, but she was in the grasp of strong warriors who were ready with poised weapons to take her life at the first evidence of a betrayal. Through many paths and windings, slowly and craftily, crept the Mingoes until they were near the overhanging precipice of granite. Then Aliquipiso signaled to the warriors to come close around her, as though she were about to roll back the huge mountain wall and disclose to them those whom they pursued. When they had crowded to her side she suddenly lifted her voice in a piercing cry of warning—a signal of death. She knew that above them the sleepless sentries of the starving Oneidas were holding great bowlders poised upon the brink of the precipice.

Her captors had scarcely time to strike her lifeless to the ground before the rocks rushed with terrible force down the side of the mountain, catching and crushing the entrapped warriors like worms under the foot of a mighty giant.

Aliquipiso, brave maiden of the Oneidas, was mourned by her people many suns. The Great Spirit changed her hair into woodbine, which the red men called "running hairs," and sent it over the earth as a protector to old trees. From her body sprang the honeysuckle, which was known to the Indians as "the blood of brave women."

[WHY THE ANIMALS DO NOT TALK]

IT was long ago, so long that the books of the white men cannot tell the time, that all the animals in the forest could talk with the red men. There was a time when the animals came to the great council-fires and lent to the Indians the knowledge they possessed of the woods and streams. The wise beaver taught the Indian women and children where to snare the pike and salmon, and how to build houses that would keep out the rain and frosts. The bear and the wolf led the braves out on the plains and through the forests and imparted to them their skill in following the trail. The dog, by patient example, gave to the red men the tact and power to watch for many suns without weariness. From the raccoon the red men learned to mount the trunks of the largest trees. The horse consorted with the Indians on the plains and showed them the secret of swift running. The panther taught them how to conceal themselves in the thicket, on the branches of an overhanging tree or behind the ledge of rocks, and to rush forth upon their enemies like the sudden burst of the whirlwind.

Thus from every beast of the forest the red men took lessons in the craft of the woods and plains, and when they had finished all the other lessons, the fox led them far away into the forest and taught them the cunning necessary to make use of each. In this way they lived while the summer and the winter came many times, and they were happy.

But there came a time when the animals saw that the red man was their master. He had the wisdom of the beaver, the keen scent of the bear and the wolf, the patience and fidelity of the dog, the agility of the raccoon, the speed and endurance of the horse, the spring of the panther and the cunning of the fox.

Often the beaver would be surprised to find that the Indian boys and women had not been content with fishing in the places he had pointed out to them, but had wandered away to streams which he had hoped to keep for himself. Furthermore, they were looking with envious eyes upon his warm coat of fur, and he feared that they might want it for a covering. Their houses were built with even more skill than his own, and as they had learned to fashion boats out of the trees he had felled for them and had made for their use paddles shaped like his tail, they could dart across the lake or along the river faster than he could ever hope to. And the beaver was saddened because he had taught the Indians wisdom.

The bear and the wolf, wandering in the woods, often saw the Indians following the trail far into the forest. At the same time the Indians so cunningly disguised their own trail that the wolf howled with anger when he tried to follow the red men, and the bear grew surly and retired to his den in the rocks. With the keen scent the bear had trained, the Indians sought out the trees where the bees stored their honey, and thus he was robbed of much of the food he loved best. The wolf heard a young brave promise a maiden that if she would live in his wigwam she should rest on a couch made of wolf skins and be covered with the warm fur of the bear. So the wolf and the bear took their little ones into dark caves and kept away from the homes of the red men.

The dog, too, found that he no longer held first honors for faithfulness at the watch. But he was not angered at the knowledge that his brother could rival him, but lay with him many nights on guard in the wilderness, vying with him in vigilance. When their long vigils were ended the dog and the Indian would play together and make merry with each other over the result of their friendly contest.

The panther was jealous and raged through the forests with fury. Sometimes, to his surprise and wrath, when he had taken every precaution to conceal himself from his brother, the red man, the branches of the young trees would part as silently as if swayed by the breath of summer, and between them would appear his red brother, laughing at him for hiding himself so ill.

When the raccoon reached the highest point to which he dared climb, the Indian boys would follow him with shouts of laughter, and go still further toward the ends of the swaying and bending branches, hanging from them in such a dangerous and reckless manner that it made the old raccoon's head turn dizzy, and he went away to the hills by himself.

The Indians learned their lessons so thoroughly of the horse and practiced them with so much patience that finally that animal found he could no longer play when they had races on the plains. But he enjoyed the contests with his red brothers, and when they returned to the village he would follow and the Indian maidens would mount his back and ride proudly to the council-fire.

The fox was greatly chagrined to find that his cunning and tricks were matched on the part of his red brothers with others equally shrewd. No matter how carefully he concealed his trail—though he walked in the beds of the streams or circled the mountains till he had almost lost his own pathway—the Indians would track him through all his windings. When he tried to lead them astray by subtle tales they laughed at his deceptions and put him to shame before his friends and neighbors.

So it came to pass that the Indians possessed the knowledge of all the animals. They could follow the trail with the scent of the bear or the wolf; build more wisely than the beaver; climb more daringly than the raccoon; watch more faithfully than the dog; crouch more closely and spring more surely than the panther; race the plains as swiftly as the horse, and outwit the cunning of the fox.

Then the animals held a council, but the fire was not lighted in its accustomed place and the red men were in heavy slumbers while their brothers of the forest talked.

The jealous wolf opened the discussion and declared that when he had carefully looked on all sides of the existing state of affairs he saw but one course for the animals to pursue. They ought to rush in upon the villages and kill all the Indians and their women and papooses.

The bear was more noble, and said that he thought this proposition was unfair. He declared, however, that the animals could not stand still any longer and look without fear upon the dangers which confronted them. It was their duty to challenge the Indians to an open war.

The beaver argued that the better way would be to wait till the chilling blasts should come and then in the night tear away the houses the Indians had built to protect themselves and their little ones from the cold. The storms of winter, the beaver said, would very soon put these smart fellows in a condition that would make them anxious enough to come to some terms advantageous to the animals.

The horse said it would not be right to cause the Indians pain or death. The Indians were not bad neighbors, though perhaps a trifle too apt and smart for the rest of them. For a great many years, said the horse, his ancestors and the red men had been on the best of terms—not so much as a ripple of trouble having disturbed their relations. He could not for a moment think of entering into any plan whereby he would be called upon to help take his brother's life or cause him pain. He had heard that away over beyond the great mountains there was a pleasant country—not as pleasant and fertile as the one in which they now lived, but a fairly good place to live in. He would therefore propose that the animals invite the Indians to go there on a great harvest expedition, and when once the red men were safely over the mountains the animals could steal away in the night and return to their loved homes. The panther scoffed at the horse for advancing what he was pleased to call a silly and senseless plan. The beaver, too, the panther said, was much too leniently inclined. The Indians were to be feared, and if the animals were to retain any of their freedom and independence they must follow the advice of the wolf. Only total extermination of the Indian race could be depended upon to warrant them from further molestation from the red men. What good would it do, forsooth, to lure the red men over the mountains and then run away from them? Did the horse think the Indians sick nurslings or women to lie down on the big plains over the mountains and make no effort to return to their loved streams, lakes and forests? Why, the Indians would come back as quickly as could the horse himself, and then the very ground would be made red with the blood of those who had decoyed them away from homes that had for generations been held in such high reverence by the Indians. He advocated an immediate advance upon the villages and would give quarter to none.

All eyes were turned toward the raccoon as he rose to speak, for his was a very old family and had long been held in high respect by all the inhabitants of the forest. He said he could not exactly side with the panther, for the Indians had never done him any great harm. He was convinced, however, that the country ought to be rid of them, for they were becoming altogether too well skilled in the craft of the woods. Too much power in the hands of one individual, said the raccoon, was apt to make it unpleasant for those with whom he lived. He favored the plan advanced by the beaver. They could lay their plans carefully, and in this manner bring about a treaty that would keep the Indians within proper bounds.

The fox felt sure that the better plan would be for the animals to put themselves under his training. He would teach them how to cheat and steal while pretending friendship. They could then easily strip the red men's fields of the corn that had been planted for the winter. They could take from their moorings on the river banks the boats and fishing nets of bark and float them far away down the stream where they would be lost in the rapids. In this manner they could soon have the Indians at their mercy and bring about a treaty on the plan proposed by the beaver and seconded by the raccoon. The plan, he continued, offered no danger to them, as did the contests proposed by the panther and the wolf; and he thought that mature deliberation would convince all that it was the best one to adopt.

The dog said that not until the present time had he ever realized what it was to be a beast. He felt ashamed to think he had been weak enough to be prevailed upon to attend a council to which their red brothers were not bidden. It was contrary to the custom that had existed since the Great Spirit first sent them to this fair and beautiful country. He expected that they would all be punished for such treachery, and indeed they ought to be. The Indians had as yet treated them only with kindness and respect. Many times in winter, when the snows lay so deep on the ground that no food could be found the Indians had opened their homes to the animals who had not made suitable provision for food, and had fed them and kept them from perishing with hunger. There had never been a time, said the dog, as he looked around the circle of listeners and waited for a denial of his assertion, when any Indian had refused shelter, food or aid to a needy, sick or suffering animal. To be sure the Indians had acquired all the knowledge that the animals possessed, but their doing this had in no manner impoverished the animals. As they had lost nothing by this, he saw no reason why they should be jealous and fault-finding about it. Would it not be far wiser for the animals to profit by the example set by the Indians and teach each other the various traits and characteristics each possessed than to be consumed by jealousy and revenge, and in the heat of passion break a peace that had existed for so many years? He could not, and would not be a party to any of the plans proposed, and if the other animals persisted in following out any of those cruel and treacherous schemes he should consider it his duty to leave the council and go to the village to warn his sleeping brothers of their danger. More than that, he would fight on the side of the red men if it became necessary, and help them defend their lives and homes from the attack of any force that might be brought against them.

When the dog had ceased speaking the wolf and the panther were in a terrible rage. They accused the dog of cowardice, bad faith, bribe-taking, desertion and treachery. They said he had been made foolish and silly by the praise that had been lavished upon him by the Indian maidens. They reviled him and stuck out their tongues at him for being lovesick after the Indian women. They said he had turned nurse for the papooses and hereafter would better stay in the villages of his new-found friends and lie in the sun with the old men. They dared him to go to the village and expose the proceedings of the council, saying that if he attempted it they would set upon and kill him. "For a poor and meagre crust of maize-cake, too hard for the teeth of the red men to crush," said the panther; "you have been bought, and you give up all claim to the rights that have been held sacred by the dogs of all times. We should think that the memory of your forefathers and the long line of noble dogs who have lived before you came on earth to disgrace them would stir you to action for the honor of your race."

"No," said the wolf; "he can remember nothing but the soft caresses of the Indian girls upon his head. I saw him the other day lying at the feet of Garewiis, the daughter of the chief Teganagen, and when he raised his eyes and looked at her she took his head in her arms and laid her cheek against him, all the time stroking his back and singing to him as she will sing to her papooses when they come to her wigwam. Not only has he sold himself to be the friend of the Indians and sit quietly by while we are enslaved, but he is lovesick and his head is turned."

This warm and intemperate language caused much confusion and something of a sensation, though the dog remained calm and dignified. He showed by no outward sign that the uncivil and untruthful charges of the panther and the wolf had even been heard, much less heeded.

The horse instantly sprang into the open place before the fire and hurled at the two false accusers his most powerful eloquence. "I come as a champion of my friend, the dog," he said. "You have insulted and maligned him in a manner that calls for the condemnation of all honorable beasts. He is my brother. Because there is some difference in our tastes and I am his superior in size, it makes him none the less my brother. I love him, for he is gentle, affectionate, trustworthy, noble and brave. You, the panther, and you, the wolf, boast of your bravery; yet which of you dared rush into the burning forests as did my brother, the dog, and lead the blind doe to a place of safety? Which of you dared plunge into the river, made deep and dangerous by the melting snows as winter died and the warm winds came to bury—him when the waters boiled and foamed to the very tops of the high banks and spread out over the plains like a great lake—and from the midst of that angry flood bring safely to the shore a weak and drowning companion who had stumbled and fallen over the bank? I have heretofore loved you all, but henceforth I shall be ashamed to acknowledge the wolf and panther as my brothers. They seem to think that bravery consists in cruel attack and glistening teeth, but I can tell them that it is more surely found in noble deeds. I will follow the dog to the homes of the red men, and together we will fight against the cruel practices you design to put in force."

As the horse ceased speaking the Great Spirit came suddenly to the council-fire and said that the loud voices of the disputants had been borne to his ears by the message-bearers and he had listened in sorrow to all that had been said. He had therefore left the Happy Hunting-Grounds and come to their council. He was grieved that the pleasant relations heretofore existing between the Indians and the animals would now have to be broken and disturbed. When they had been given life the intention was formed that eventually all would dwell together in the Happy Hunting-Grounds. Now he would be compelled to alter his plans. He would change the language of his red children so that the beasts could never talk with them again. He would go to his children in the villages and tell them all that had been said at this clandestine council in the woods. For all time the wolf and panther should be hunted and killed by the Indians. They should be looked upon and warred against as the most dangerous of foes. The bear might be counted as an honorable antagonist, and the red men would be ready to fight him in open battle whenever the opportunity offered. The red men would not disturb or molest him, but if he should come and demand a battle the Indians would not refuse. The beaver and raccoon, on account of the heartless plan they had set forth for the vanquishing of their brethren, should be considered the prey of the Indian and should yield their thick furs to keep his children warm. The fox would be looked upon as a thief. He had proposed to steal the food of the Indians and bring them to want; now he might practice his desire. But the Indians would be warned and would set traps and snares for him. When caught his fur would be used like the fur of the beaver and raccoon. The horse and the dog might still retain their understanding of speech of I the Indians, but as they had been guilty of breaking an ancient treaty by attending a council to which all the parties of the treaty had not been bidden, they must receive some punishment, and would no longer be permitted to speak the Indian language. But they should always be the champions and friends of the red men; they should live in the Indians' homes, be present at the great feasts and festivals, share the products of their hunt, be loved and petted by the maidens and papooses, fight with the Indians when they fought and be partakers and sharers in the victories or defeats. In a word, they should be the companions and brothers of the Indians forever, here and in the Happy Hunting-Grounds.

[THE MESSAGE-BEARERS]

WHEN the Great Spirit brought the red men from the Happy Hunting-Grounds and left them upon the earth, they were filled with fear lest they could never make him hear their wants and could not reach his ears when they desired to tell him of their joys and sorrows. The sachems went before him and said: "Oh, our Father, how will thy children tell thee of the deeds they have performed that will please thine ear? How will they ask thee to their homes to help them drive away the bad spirits; and how will they invite thee to their feasts and dances? Oh, our Father, thou canst not at all times be awake and watching thy children, and they will not know when thou art sleeping. Thy children do not know the trail to the Happy Hunting-Grounds by which to send their wise men and sachems to talk with thee, for thou hast covered it with thy hands and thy children cannot discover it. How will the words of thy children reach thee, oh, our Father, the Manito; how will what they say come to thine ears?"