Chapter VII: Mother-Myths and Child-Myths (1)

In all the myths we have learned about so far there has been very little of the purely human element of affection, yet it is true that reverence and love for the mother of all things was one of the earliest instincts in the mind of primitive man, as well as love and even reverence for children.

The idea of the earth as a mother is a very simple and natural one, and so we find everywhere that the earth has been personified as a mother.

Among the primitive people of America the Earth-Mother is a personage of much importance. The Peruvians worshipped her as Mama-Pacha or Mother Earth. The Caribs, when there was an earthquake said it was their Mother Earth dancing and signifying to them to dance and make merry likewise, which accordingly they did. Among the North American Indians, the Comanches call on the earth as their mother, while they regard the Great Spirit as their father.

In the mythology of the Finns, Lapps and Esths, the Earth-Mother is a divinely honored personage. One of the most primitive forms of the Earth-Mother is that of the Zulus. She is described as a very little animal about as large as a pole-cat, and is marked with little white and black stripes. The Zulus say of her that she is not commonly seen. We hear it said that primitive men knew her. No one existing at the present time ever saw her. In spite of this fact, however, they seem to have very definite ideas of her appearance, for upon one side of this little black and white animal there grow a bed of reeds, a forest, and grass. She always goes about followed by a large troop of children which resemble her, and in whose welfare she takes a great interest. The name of this goddess is Inkosa-za-na.

The oldest of all their gods in Polynesian mythology is a mother-goddess called Vari. She is the very beginning of things in the abyss. She is celebrated as the source of all from whom all beings claim descent. She sheltered the Earth-Mother, who in Polynesian mythology is called Papa, whose husband was Rangi, the Heaven. How these two came to be separated is told in the story of the “Children of Heaven and Earth.”

We see from this myth of Vari that the earth is not the only mother-goddess.

The very beginnings of things in night and chaos were frequently represented as mother goddesses. For example, the Egyptian Mother-goddess was Neith, the goddess of night. She is celebrated as the “Only One.” “Glory to thee! Thou art mightier than the Gods! The forms of the living souls which are in their places give glory to the terrors of thee, their mother; thou art their origin.” She is represented as self-existing. “I am all that was and is and is to be; no mortal hath lifted my veil.” In the Public Library in Boston the artist Sargent has made the vague, black figure of this goddess the background in his fresco, giving a symbolic representation of Egyptian religion. The face of Neith shows inscrutable calm, and she wears as a necklace the constellations of the Zodiac, and on her head the winged globe of the sun. She was said also to have been the mother of the sun.

The Hindoo, Aditi, mother of the gods, seems to have been a goddess of the same kind. She is said to represent free, unbounded infinity, and is the mother of twelve heavenly beings—sun-gods, called Adityas. Her kinship with other mother-goddesses is shown by the fact that she was invoked as the bestower of blessings on children and cattle.

In the naïve and poetical little myth of the Malayan Peninsula given later, the sun and moon both figure as mother-goddesses.

The worship of mother-goddesses among the ancient Mexican Indians was prominent. Hymns descriptive of two are given here. The first is to the goddess Teteoinan, the “Mother of the Gods.” She was also called Soci, “Our Mother,” and also by another name which signified “The Heart of the Earth.” This last name was given to her because she was believed to be the cause of earthquakes. She presided over the vegetable and animal world and her chief temple at Tepeyacac was one of the most renowned in ancient Mexico. The other goddess, Cihuacoatl, was the mythical mother of the human race, and was regarded with veneration on account of her antiquity. As well as being an Earth-Goddess, she was the Goddess of War.

It would be possible to give many illustrations of mother-tree goddesses, but we have space for only one, that of the Persian world-tree in whose midst dwelt the mother of all. “In Eridu a dark pine grew. It was planted in a holy place. Its crown was crystal white, which spread toward the deep vault above. The Abyss of Hea was its pasturage in Eridu, a canal full of waters. Its station was the center of the earth. Its shrine was the couch of Mother Zicam. The roof of its holy house like a forest spread its shade; there were none who entered within. It was the seat of the mighty mother, who passes athwart the heavens.”

The Norse earth-goddess, consort of Odin, appears in three forms—Jord, Frigg, and Rind. Jord is the original uninhabited earth, Frigg is the inhabited, cultivated earth, and Rind is the frozen earth of winter. The child of the first is Thor, the thunderer; of the second is Balder, the good or the beautiful; and of the third is Vale, who revenged the death of Balder. Of these, Frigg is more nearly like other mother-goddesses, though she seems to be somewhat withdrawn from active participation in the duties of the mother-goddess. These are handed over to her maid-servants, of whom she had seven—Fulla, Hlyn, Guaa, Snotra, Var, Lofu, and Syn. Fulla, with golden hair adorned with a ribbon, looks after harvests. Hlyn is the protectress who delivers people from peril. Guaa is the messenger who runs errands for Frigg. Var has charge of marriage, Lofu of love, and Syn of justice. The counterpart of Frigg in Greek mythology is Demeter (Roman name, Ceres), the daughter of another earth-goddess, Rhea. Like Frigg, she represents the bountiful life-giving aspects of nature. She is best described in the hymn written in her honor by Callimachus given later, and in which you will recognize another version of the story of Erisichthon.

MALAYAN STORY OF THE SUN AND MOON

The Moon is a woman, and the Sun also. The stars are the Moon’s children, and the Sun had in olden times as many. Fearing, however, that mankind could not bear so much brightness and heat, they agreed each to devour her children. But the Moon instead of eating up her stars hid them from the Sun’s sight, who, believing them all devoured, ate up her own; no sooner had she done it than the Moon brought her family out of their hiding-place. When the Sun saw them, filled with rage, she chased the Moon to kill her. The chase has lasted ever since, and sometimes the Sun even comes near enough to bite the Moon, and that is an eclipse. The Sun, as men may see, still devours her stars at dawn, and the Moon hides hers all day while the Sun is near, and only brings them out at night when her pursuer is far away.

HYMN TO THE MOTHER OF THE GODS

(_Mexican Indian_)

Hail to our mother, who caused the yellow flowers to blossom, she who scattered the seeds of the maguey, as she came forth from Paradise.

Hail to our mother, who poured forth white flowers in abundance, who scattered the seeds of the maguey, as she came forth from Paradise.

Hail to the goddess who shines in the thorn-bush like a bright butterfly.

Ho! she is our mother, goddess of the earth; she supplies food in the desert to the wild beasts, and causes them to live.

Thus, thus, you see her to be an ever-fresh model of liberality toward all flesh.

And as you see the goddess of the earth do to the wild beasts, so also does she toward the green herbs and the fishes.

HYMN TO CIHUACOATL, THE MOTHER OF MORTALS

(_Mexican Indian_)

Quilaztli, plumed with eagle feathers, with the crest of eagles, painted with serpents’ blood, comes with her hoe, beating her drum, from Colhuacan.

She alone, who is our flesh, goddess of the fields and shrubs, is strong to support us.

With the hoe, with the hoe, with hands full, with the hoe, with hands full, the goddess of the fields is strong to support us.

With a broom in her hands the goddess of the fields strongly supports us.

Our mother is as twelve eagles, goddess of drum-beating, filling the fields of tzioac and maguey like our lord Mixcoatl.

She is our mother, a goddess of war, our mother, a goddess of war, an example and a companion from the home of our ancestors.

She comes forth, she appears when war is waged, she protects us in war that we shall not be destroyed, an example and companion from the home of our ancestors.

She comes adorned in the ancient manner with the eagle crest, in the ancient manner with the eagle crest.

THE CHILDREN OF HEAVEN AND EARTH

(_Polynesian_)

Men had but one pair of primitive ancestors; they sprang from the vast Heaven that exists above us, and from the Earth which lies beneath us. According to the traditions of our race, Rangi and Papa, or Heaven and Earth, were the source from which, in the beginning, all things originated. Darkness then rested upon the Heaven and upon the Earth, and they still both clave together, for they had not yet been rent apart, and their children were ever thinking among themselves what might be the difference between darkness and light.

At last, worn out by the continued darkness, the children of Heaven and Earth consulted amongst themselves, saying: “Let us now determine what we should do with Rangi and Papa, whether it would be better to slay them or to rend them apart.” Then spoke Tu-Matauenga, the fiercest of the children of Heaven and Earth: “It is well, let us slay them.”

Then spoke Tane-Mahuta, the father of forests and of all things that inhabit them, or that are constructed from trees: “Nay, not so. It is better to rend them apart, and to let the Heaven stand far above us, and the Earth lie under our feet. Let the Sky become as a stranger to us, but the Earth remain close to us as our nursing mother.”

The brothers all consented to this proposal, with the exception of Tawhiri-ma-tea, the father of winds and storms, and he, fearing that his kingdom was about to be overthrown, grieved greatly at the thought of his parents being torn apart.

Finally, however, having come to an agreement as to their plans, lo, Rongo-matane, the god and father of the cultivated food of man, rises up that he may rend apart Heaven and Earth; he struggles, but he cannot rend them apart. Lo, next, Tangawa, the god and father of fish and reptiles, rises up, that he may rend apart Heaven and Earth; he also struggles, but he cannot rend them apart. Lo, next, Haumia-tikitiki, the god and father of the food of man which springs without cultivation, rises up and struggles, but ineffectually. Lo, then, Tu-Matauenga, the god and father of fierce human beings, rises up and struggles, but he, too, fails in his efforts. Then, at last, slowly uprises Tane-Mahuta, the god and father of forests, of birds, and of insects, and he struggles with his parents; in vain he strives to rend them apart with his hands and arms. Lo, he pauses; his head is now firmly planted on his mother the Earth, his feet he raises up and rests against his father the Heaven, he strains his back and limbs with mighty effort. Now are rent apart Rangi and Papa, and with cries and groans of woe they shriek aloud: “Wherefore slay you thus your parents? Why commit you so dreadful a crime as to slay us, as to rend your parents apart?” But Tane-Mahuta pauses not; he regards not their shrieks and cries; far, far beneath him he presses down the Earth; far, far above him he thrusts up the Sky.

Then, also, there arose in the breast of Tawhiri-ma-tea, the god and father of winds and storms, a fierce desire to wage war with his brothers, because they had rent apart their common parents.

The god of hurricanes and storms dreads also that the world should become too fair and beautiful, so he rises, follows his father to the realms above, and hurries to the sheltered hollows in the boundless skies; there he hides and clings, and nestling in this place of rest he consults long with his parent, and as the vast Heaven listens to the suggestions of Tawhiri-ma-tea, thoughts and plans are formed in his breast, and Tawhiri-ma-tea also understands what he must do.

He sends forth fierce squalls, whirlwinds, dense clouds, massy clouds, dark clouds, gloomy thick clouds, fiery clouds, clouds which precede hurricanes, clouds of fiery black, clouds reflecting glowing red light, clouds wildly drifting from all quarters and wildly bursting, clouds of thunder-storms, and clouds hurriedly flying. In the midst of these Tawhiri-ma-tea himself sweeps wildly on. Alas! Alas! then rages the fierce hurricane; and whilst Tane-Mahuta and his gigantic forests still stand, unconscious and unsuspecting, the blast of the breath of the mouth of Tawhiri-ma-tea smites them, the gigantic trees are snapped off right in the middle; alas! alas! they are rent to atoms, dashed to the earth, with boughs and branches torn and scattered, and lying on the earth, trees and branches all alike left for the insect, for the grub, and for loathsome rottenness.

From the forests and their inhabitants Tawhiri-ma-tea next swoops down upon the seas, and lashes in his wrath the ocean. Ah! ah! waves steep as cliffs arise, whose summits are so lofty that to look from them would make the beholder giddy; these soon eddy in whirlpools, and Tangawa, the god of ocean, and father of all that dwell therein, flies affrighted through his seas.

Tawhiri-ma-tea next rushed on to attack his brothers Rongo-matane and Haumia-tikitiki, the gods and progenitors of cultivated and uncultivated food; but Papa, to save these for her other children, caught them up, and hid them in a place of safety; and so well were these children of hers concealed by their Mother Earth, that Tawhiri-ma-tea sought for them in vain.

Tawhiri-ma-tea having thus vanquished all his other brothers, next rushed against Tu-Matauenga, to try his strength against his; he exerted all his force against him, but he could neither shake him nor prevail against him. What did Tu-Matauenga care for his brother’s wrath? he was the only one of the whole party of brothers who had planned the destruction of their parents, and had shown himself brave and fierce in war. Tu-Matauenga, or man, still stood erect and unshaken upon the breast of his Mother Earth; and now at length the hearts of Heaven and of the god of storms became tranquil, and their passions were assuaged.

Up to this time the vast Heaven has still ever remained separated from his spouse the Earth. Yet their mutual love still continues—the soft warm sighs of her loving bosom still ever rise up to him, ascending from the woody mountains and valleys, and men call these mists; and the vast Heaven, as he mourns through the long nights his separation from his beloved, drops frequent tears upon her bosom, and men seeing these, term them dewdrops.

STORY OF DEMETER

(_Greek: From the Hymn of Callimachus_)

He sings how Demeter was the first to cut off wheat, straw, and handfuls of ears, and introduced oxen to tread out the corn. He tells also how she punishes those who are guilty of disrespect to her power. She made the son of Triopus pitiable by hunger. Not yet were the Pelasgians inhabiting the Cnidian land, but sacred Dotium; but to thyself had raised a beautiful enclosure, thickly grown with trees; scarce would an arrow have penetrated it. In it was the pine, in it tall elms, and pear-trees also, and beautiful, sweet apples, whilst the water, like as amber, was bursting forth from springs. Then the son of Triopus hastened forth with twenty servants, all in their prime, all giant men, having armed them in both respects with hatchets and axes, so they rushed without shame into the grove of Demeter.

Now there was a poplar, a large tree reaching to heaven, and under it the nymphs were wont to disport themselves in the noontide, which, stricken first, sounded an evil melody for the rest. Demeter became aware that her sacred grove was in danger, and said in anger, “Who is hewing down my beautiful trees?”

Forthwith she likened herself to Nicippe, whom the state had appointed as her public priestess, and she grasped in her hand the fillets and poppies and kept her key on her shoulders. Then said she, soothing the sad and shameless man: “My son who fellest the sacred trees which are consecrated to gods, stay, my son, child, much beloved by thy parents, forbear and turn away thy servants, lest anywise our Lady Demeter be wroth with thee; Demeter, whose holy precinct thou art pillaging.”

At her then, looking askance more fiercely than a lioness with savage brood: “Give way, lest I fasten this great axe in thy flesh. These trees thou shalt behold my well-roofed house, wherein I shall ever and anon hold pleasant banquets to my heart’s content with my companions.” So spake the youth, and Nemesis recorded the wicked speech.

Demeter was wroth in an unspeakable degree, and she became the goddess. Her steps, indeed, trod the ground, but her head touched Olympus. Then were they half dead, I wot, when they had seen the awful goddess, and on a sudden rushed away, having left the axe among the oaks. The rest she left alone, for by constraint they followed beneath their lord’s hands, but she replied to the king that vexed her: “So, so; build thy hall, thou dog, thou dog, wherein thou mayst hold banquets, for frequent festivals thou shalt have hereafter.” Forthwith she sent upon him a grievous, fierce hunger, burning and violent. So terrible was his appetite that he ate up everything his mother had, causing her to call on Neptune:

“Either remove thou from him his sad disorder or thyself take and maintain him, for my tables have fallen short. Reft are my folds, and my stalls now void of beasts; and at length my cooks have declined the task. Nay, more, they have unyoked the mules from the great wains, and he ate the heifer which his mother was feeding for Vesta, and the prize-gaining steed and war horse, and the cat which lesser animals dread.”

O Demeter, may he be no friend to me who is hated by you.... Sing ye virgins, and ye mothers join the acclaim. All hail, Demeter, many nurturing of many measures. And as the four white-maned steeds carry the basket, so shall the great goddess, wide ruling, come, bringing to us fair spring, fair summer, winter and autumn, and shall keep them for us to another year.

Hail, goddess, and preserve this city in harmony and prosperity, and bring all things home ripe from the fields. Feed our cattle; support our fruit trees; bring forth the ear, produce the harvest; nurse also peace; that he who has sowed, that same may reap. Be propitious at my bidding, O thou, thrice-prayed-for, widely ruling among goddesses.

THE STORY OF DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE

(_Greek_)

Once upon a time, when the giants had all been imprisoned by Zeus under Mount Ætna, Pluto, the ruler over the lower regions, or Hades, became very much alarmed lest the shock of their fall might expose his kingdom to the light of day. Under this apprehension, he mounted his chariot, drawn by black horses, and made a journey of inspection to satisfy himself of the extent of the damage. While he was thus engaged, he was espied by the Goddess of Love, Aphrodite (Venus), who was sitting on Mount Eryx, playing with her little boy Eros (Cupid).

He is one of the children in mythology who never grows up and never grows any wiser. He carries about with him always a bow and a quiver full of arrows, which he shoots right into the hearts of people and fills them with a love so overwhelming for some one they have seen that they will even carry that person off against his or her will, as this present story shows. As soon as Aphrodite saw Pluto, she exclaimed: “My son, take thy darts which subdue all, even Zeus himself, and send one into the breast of yonder dark monarch, who rules the realm of Tartarus. Dost thou not see that even in heaven some despise our power? Athēne and Artemis defy us; and there is that daughter of Demeter, who threatens to follow their example. Now, if thou regardest thine own interest or mine, join these two in one.” The boy selected his sharpest and truest arrow, and sped it right to the heart of Pluto.

Now in the vale of Enna is a lake embowered in woods, where Spring reigns perpetual. Here Persephone (Roman, Proserpina) was playing with her companions, gathering lilies and violets, when the god Pluto saw her. He immediately loved her, and, without waiting to find out whether she returned his love or not, he caught her up and carried her off. She screamed for help to her mother and her companions, but Pluto urged on his steeds and outdistanced pursuit. When he reached the river Cyane, it opposed his passage; whereupon he struck the bank with his trident, and the earth opened and gave him a passage to Tartarus.

Then Demeter, overwhelmed with grief, sought her daughter through the whole world. Bright-haired Aurora, when she came forth in the morning, and Hesperus, when he led out the stars in the evening, found her still busy in the search. At length, weary and sad, she sat down upon a stone, and remained nine days and nine nights, in the open air, under the sunlight and moonlight and falling showers. It was where the city of Eleusis now stands, near the home of an old man named Celeus. His little girl, pitying the old woman, said to her: “Mother”—and the name was sweet to the ears of Demeter—“why sittest thou here alone upon the rocks?” The old man begged her to come into his cottage. She declined. He urged her. “Go in peace,” she replied, “and be happy in thy daughter; I have lost mine.” But their compassion finally prevailed. Demeter rose from the stone and went with them. As they walked, Celeus said that his only son lay sick of a fever. The goddess stooped and gathered some poppies. Then, entering the cottage where all was in distress—for the boy, Triptolemus, seemed past recovery—she restored the child to life and health with a kiss. In grateful happiness the family spread the table, and put upon it curds and cream, apples, and honey in the comb. While they ate, Demeter mingled poppy juice in the milk of the boy. When night came, she arose and, taking the sleeping boy, moulded his limbs with her hands, and uttered over him three times a solemn charm, then went and laid him in the ashes. His mother, who had been watching what her guest was doing, sprang forward with a cry and snatched the child from the fire. Then Demeter assumed her own form, and a divine splendor shone all around. While they were overcome with astonishment, she said: “Mother, thou hast been cruel in thy fondness; for I would have made thy son immortal. Nevertheless, he shall be great and useful. He shall teach men the use of the plough, and the rewards which labor can win from the soil.” So saying, she wrapped a cloud about her, and, mounting her chariot, rode away.

Demeter continued her search for her daughter, until at last she returned to Sicily, whence she had at first set out, and stood by the banks of the river Cyane. The river nymph would have told the goddess all she had witnessed, but dared not for fear of Pluto; so she ventured merely to take up the girdle which Persephone had dropped in her flight, and float it to the feet of her mother. Demeter, seeing this, laid her curse upon the innocent earth in which her daughter had disappeared. Then succeeded drought and famine, flood and plague, until at last the fountain Arethusa made intercession for the land. For she had observed that it had opened all unwillingly to the might of Pluto, and she had also, in her flight from Alpheus through the lower regions of the earth, beheld the missing Persephone. She reported that the daughter of Demeter seemed sad, but no longer showed alarm in her countenance. Her look was such as became a queen—the queen of Erebus, the powerful bride of the monarch of the realm of the dead.

When Demeter heard this she stood a while like one stupefied; then she implored Zeus to interfere to procure the restitution of her daughter. Zeus consented on condition that Persephone should not, during her stay in the lower world, have taken any food; otherwise, the Fates forbade her release. Accordingly, Hermes was sent, accompanied by Spring, to demand Persephone of Pluto. The wily monarch consented; but, alas! the maiden had taken a pomegranate which Pluto offered her, and had sucked the sweet pulp from a few of the seeds. A compromise, however, was effected by which she was to pass half the time with her mother and the rest with the lord of Hades—so the flowers bloom upon the earth for half the year, and for the other half are buried underground, out of sight.

Demeter, pacified with this arrangement, restored the earth to her favor. She remembered, also, about Celeus and his family, and her promise to his infant son, Triptolemus. She taught the boy the use of the plough and how to sow the seed. She took him in her chariot, drawn by winged dragons, through all the countries of the earth; and under her guidance he imparted to mankind valuable grains, and the knowledge of agriculture. After his return, Triptolemus built a temple to Demeter in Eleusis, and established the worship of the goddess under the name of the Eleusinian mysteries, which, in the splendor and solemnity of their observance, surpassed all other religious celebrations among the Greeks.

* * * * *

Myths in which children figure are so numerous that it will be possible to give but a few of the most important ones. There are sun and moon children, and star children, and children of the wind; strong children and clever children and tricksy children, and even children who are worshipped as ancestors. A charming tale of the Zuni Indians tells how they came to worship children. Once some mothers were crossing a river with their children. By some magical means the children were changed into such ugly and mischievous shapes that many of the mothers, in their fright, let them fall into the water. Some of them held fast to their children, and these were restored to their natural shapes on the other side of the river, but those who had lost their children grieved deeply, and nothing could comfort them. Thereupon, two little twin brothers, who were called Sons of the Sun, went downward beneath the waters of a lake to the dwelling of the children, who as soon as they saw the twins inquired lovingly how it fared with their mothers. Their visitors told them of the grief and sorrow of their parents, whereupon the children said: “Tell our mothers we are not dead, but live and sing in this beautiful place, which is the home for them when they sleep. One day they will wake here and be happy always. And we are here to intercede with the Sun, our father, that he may give to our people rain and the fruits of the earth, and all that is good for them.” Ever since these children have been worshipped as ancestral gods.

We have already had a little story in which the stars appear as the children of the sun and moon. In another one, of the Indians of British Columbia, the dark spots which we see on the moon are supposed to be a child and her little basket. According to this legend, one night a child of the chief class awoke and cried for water. Its cries were very affecting—“Mother, give me a drink!”—but the mother heeded not. The Moon was touched, and came down, entered the house, and approached the child, saying: “Here is water from heaven; drink.” The child eagerly took hold of the jar and drank the water, and was then enticed to go away with its benefactor, the Moon. They took an underground passage until they got quite clear of the village, and then ascended to heaven. And still we see in the moon the figure of that very child, carrying the little round basket it had in its hand when it went to sleep.

The Indians of Mt. Shasta have a little wind child, who also became the ancestress of the grizzly-bear people. They tell how once a terrific storm came up from the sea and shook to its base the wigwam—Mt. Shasta itself—in which lived the Great Spirit and his family. Then the Great Spirit commanded his daughter, little more than an infant, to go up and command the wind to be still; but he cautioned her at the same time, in a tender, fatherly manner, to be sure and not put her head out into the blast, but to thrust out her little red arm and make a sign before she delivered her message. But she could not withstand the temptation to look out upon the world, and of course, being such a little thing, she was caught up by the storm and blown down the mountain into the land of the grizzly-bear people. She married one of them, and became the ancestress of a new race of men. When the Great Spirit heard that his daughter still lived, he ran down the mountain for joy, but when he found out that his daughter had married one of the grizzly-bear people, he was so angry that he cursed the grizzly people and turned them into the present race of bears of that name. Then he drove them and the new race of men out of their wigwam, shut to the door, and passed away to his mountains, carrying his daughter with him; and her or him no eye has since seen.

A very important mythical being in Polynesian mythology is a little boy called Maui-tiki-tiki-o-Taranga, and how he caught the Sun is told in the story of him in this chapter.

The Egyptians called the sun itself a child when it was rising. The name of this Child-Sun was Horus, and he was sometimes regarded as the god of silence and represented as a child with his finger held up to his lip. The principal children in Greek myths are Heracles and Hermes, who, although they figure in many stories after they had become full-grown gods, were both very remarkable when they were babies. Heracles was the God of Strength, but it is very probable that there are some cosmic elements in the conception of this god. His struggle with the serpents in his babyhood resembles very closely other battles in mythology between the sun and the powers of darkness, Ra and Anapef or Apollo and the Python. Hermes, who is a roguish little imp, is full of such tricks as the wind plays, and he has become the model of many a mediæval tale of tricksy thieves and wonder-workers.

Other stories to be given in this chapter show how important little human children were among primitive people—so important in one story that all the animals in the world assembled and tried to save two little boys who went sound asleep upon a rock that gradually rose higher and higher until their faces touched the moon; and so important in another that even the great god of the Algonquins, Glooskap himself, was conquered by the baby; and in still another Indian myth so important that if it had not been for the wishes of the little son of a Manito, there would never have been any summer; but this last, if he really were the son of a Manito, was, of course, a little more than human.

LEGEND OF TU-TOK-A-NU-LA

(_Indians of the Yosemite Valley_)

There were once two little boys living in the valley, who went down to the river to swim. After paddling and splashing about to their hearts’ content, they went on shore and crept upon a huge bowlder that stood beside the water, on which they lay down in the warm sunshine to dry themselves. Very soon they fell asleep, and slept so soundly that they never wakened more. Through moons and snows, winter and summer, they slumbered on. Meantime the great rock whereon they slept was treacherously rising day and night, little by little, until it soon lifted them up beyond the sight of their friends, who sought them everywhere, weeping. Thus they were borne up at last beyond all human help or reach of human voice; lifted up into the blue heavens, far up, far up, until their faces touched the moon; and still they slumbered and slept, year after year, safe among the clouds.

Then, upon a time, all the animals assembled together to bring down the little boys from the top of the great rock. Every animal made a spring up the face of the wall as far as he could leap. The little mouse could only jump up a hand-breadth; the rat, two hand-breadths; the raccoon, a little farther; and so on—the grizzly bear making a mighty leap far up the wall, but falling back like all the others. Last of all the lion tried, and he jumped up farther than any other animal, but he, too, fell down flat on his back.

Then came along an insignificant measuring-worm, which even the mouse could have crushed by treading on it, and began to creep up the rock. Step by step, a little at a time, he measured his way up, until he presently was above the lion’s jump, then pretty soon out of sight. So he crawled up and up, through many sleeps, for about one whole snow, and at last he reached the top. Then he took the little boys and came downward as he went up, so bringing them safely to ground.

And the rock is called the measuring-worm—Tutokanula.

NEZHIK-E-WA-WA-SUN; OR, THE LONE LIGHTNING

(_Odjibwa_)

A little orphan boy, who had no one to care for him, was once living with his uncle, who treated him very badly, making him do hard things and giving him very little to eat; so that the boy pined away, he never grew much, and became, through hard usage, very thin and light. At last the uncle felt ashamed of this treatment, and determined to make amends for it by fattening him up, but his real object was to kill him by over-feeding. He told his wife to give the boy plenty of bear’s meat, and let him have the fat, which is thought to be the best part. They were both very assiduous in cramming him, and one day came near choking him to death by forcing the fat down his throat. The boy escaped and fled from the lodge. He knew not where to go, but wandered about. When night came on, he was afraid the wild beasts would eat him; so he climbed up into the forks of a huge pine tree, and there he fell asleep in the branches, and had an _aupoway_, or ominous dream.

A person appeared to him from the upper sky and said: “My poor little lad, I pity you, and the bad usage you have received from your uncle has led me to visit you; follow me, and step in my tracks.” Immediately his sleep left him, and he rose up and followed his guide, mounting up higher and higher into the air, until he reached the upper sky. Here twelve arrows were put into his hands, and he was told that there were a great many Manitoes in the northern sky, against whom he must go to war, and try to waylay and shoot them. Accordingly, he went to that part of the sky, and at long intervals shot arrow after arrow until he had expended eleven, in vain attempts to kill the Manitoes. At the flight of each arrow there was a long and solitary streak of lightning in the sky—then all was clear again, and not a cloud or spot could be seen. The twelfth arrow he held a long time in his hands, and looked around keenly on every side to spy the Manitoes he was after. But these Manitoes were very cunning, and could change their form in a moment. All they feared was the boy’s arrows, for these were magic arrows, which had been given to him by a good spirit, and had power to kill them if aimed aright. At length the boy drew up his last arrow, settled in his aim, and let fly, as he thought, into the very heart of the chief of the Manitoes; but before the arrow reached him, the Manito changed himself into a rock. Into this rock the head of the arrow sank deep and stuck fast.

“Now your gifts are all expended,” cried the enraged Manito, “and I will make an example of your audacity and pride of heart for lifting your bow against me.” And so saying, he transformed the boy into the Nezhik-e-wa-wa-sun, or Lone Lightning, which may be observed in the northern sky to this day.

WASIS, THE BABY

HOW THE LORD OF MEN AND BEASTS STROVE WITH THE MIGHTY WASIS, AND WAS SHAMEFULLY DEFEATED

(_Penobscot_)

Now it came to pass when Glooskap had conquered all his enemies, even the Kewahqu’, who were giants and sorcerers, and the M’téoulin, who were magicians, and the Pamola, who is the evil spirit of the night air, and all manner of ghosts, witches, devils, cannibals, and goblins, that he thought upon what he had done, and wondered if his work was at an end.

And he said this to a certain woman. But she replied: “Not so fast, Master, for there yet remains One whom no one has ever conquered or got the better of in any way, and who will remain unconquered to the end of time.”

“And who is he?” inquired the Master.

“It is the mighty Wasis,” she replied, “and there he sits; and I warn you that if you meddle with him you will be in sore trouble.”

Now Wasis was the Baby. And he sat on the floor sucking a piece of maple-sugar, greatly contented, troubling no one.

As the Lord of Men and Beasts had never married or had a child, he knew naught of the way of managing children. Therefore he was quite certain, as is the wont of such people, that he knew all about it. So he turned to Baby with a bewitching smile and bade him come to him.

Then Baby smiled again, but did not budge. And the Master spake sweetly and made his voice like that of the summer bird, but it was of no avail, for Wasis sat still and sucked his maple-sugar.

Then the Master frowned and spoke terribly, and ordered Wasis to come crawling to him immediately. And Baby burst out into crying and yelling, but did not move for all that.

Then, since he could do but one thing more, the Master had recourse to magic. He used his most awful spells, and sang the songs which raise the dead and scare the devils. And Wasis sat and looked on admiringly, and seemed to find it very interesting, but all the same he never moved an inch.

So Glooskap gave it up in despair, and Wasis, sitting on the floor in the sunshine, went _goo! goo!_ and crowed.

And to this day when you see a babe well contented, going _goo! goo!_ and crowing, and no one can tell why, know that it is because he remembers the time when he overcame the Master who had conquered all the world. For of all the beings that have ever been since the beginning, Baby is alone the only invincible one.

OJEEG ANNUNG; OR, THE SUMMER-MAKER

(_North American Indian_)

There lived a celebrated hunter on the southern shores of Lake Superior, who was considered a Manito by some, for there was nothing but what he could accomplish. He lived off the path, in a wild, lonesome place, with a wife whom he loved, and they were blessed with a son, who had attained his thirteenth year. The hunter’s name was Ojeeg, or the Fisher, which is the name of an expert, sprightly little animal common to the region. He was so successful in the chase that he seldom returned without bringing his wife and son a plentiful supply of venison, or other dainties of the woods. As hunting formed his constant occupation, his son began early to emulate his father in the same employment, and would take his bow and arrows, and exert his skill in trying to kill birds and squirrels. The greatest impediment he met with was the coldness and severity of the climate. He often returned home, his little fingers benumbed with cold, and crying with vexation at his disappointment. Days and months and years passed away, but still the same perpetual depth of snow was seen, covering all the country as with a white cloak.

One day, after a fruitless trial of his forest skill, the little boy was returning homeward with a heavy heart, when he saw a small red squirrel gnawing the top of a pine bur. He had approached within a proper distance to shoot, when the squirrel sat up on its hind legs and thus addressed him:

“My grandchild, put up your arrows, and listen to what I have to tell you.” The boy complied rather reluctantly, when the squirrel continued: “My son, I see you pass frequently, with your fingers benumbed with cold, and crying with vexation for not having killed any birds. Now, if you will follow my advice we will see if you cannot accomplish your wishes. If you will strictly pursue my advice, we will have perpetual summer, and you will then have the pleasure of killing as many birds as you please; and I will also have something to eat, as I am now myself on the point of starvation.

“Listen to me. As soon as you get home you must commence crying. You must throw away your bow and arrows in discontent. If your mother asks you what is the matter, you must not answer her, but continue crying and sobbing. If she offers you anything to eat, you must push it away with apparent discontent, and continue crying. In the evening, when your father returns from hunting, he will inquire of your mother what is the matter with you. She will answer that you came home crying, and would not so much as mention the cause to her. All this while you must not leave off sobbing. At last your father will say: ‘My son, why is this unnecessary grief? Tell me the cause. You know I am a spirit, and that nothing is impossible for me to perform.’ You must then answer him, and say that you are sorry to see the snow continually on the ground, and ask him if he could not cause it to melt, so that we might have perpetual summer. Say it in a supplicating way and tell him this is the cause of your grief. Your father will reply: ‘It is very hard to accomplish your request, but for your sake, and on account of my love for you, I will use my utmost endeavors.’ He will tell you to be still, and cease crying. He will try to bring summer with all its loveliness. You must then be quiet, and eat that which is set before you.”

The squirrel ceased. The boy promised obedience to his advice, and departed. When he reached home, he did as he had been instructed, and all was exactly fulfilled, as it had been predicted by the squirrel.

Ojeeg told him that it was a great undertaking. He must first make a feast, and invite some of his friends to accompany him on a journey. Next day he had a bear roasted whole. All who had been invited to the feast came punctually to the appointment. There were the Otter, Beaver, Lynx, Badger, and Wolverine. After the feast, they arranged it among themselves to set out on the contemplated journey in three days. When the time arrived, the Fisher took leave of his wife and son, as he foresaw that it was for the last time. He and his companions travelled in company day after day, meeting with nothing but the ordinary incidents. On the twentieth day they arrived at the foot of a high mountain, where they saw the tracks of some person who had recently killed an animal, which they knew by the blood that marked the way. The Fisher told his friends that they ought to follow the track, and see if they could not procure something to eat. They followed it for some time; at last they arrived at a lodge, which had been hidden from their view by a hollow in the mountain. Ojeeg told his friends to be very sedate, and not to laugh on any account. The first object that they saw was a man standing at the door of the lodge, but of so deformed a shape that they could not possibly make out who or what sort of a man it could be. His head was enormously large; he had such a queer set of teeth, and no arms. They wondered how he could kill animals. But the secret was soon revealed. He was a great Manito. He invited them to pass the night, to which they consented.

He boiled his meat in a hollow vessel made of wood, and took it out of this singular kettle in some way unknown to his guests. He carefully gave each their portion to eat, but made so many odd movements that the Otter could not refrain from laughing, for he is the only one who is spoken of as a jester. The Manito looked at him with a terrible look, and then made a spring at him, and got on him to smother him, for that was his mode of killing animals. But the Otter, when he felt him on his neck, slipped his head back and made for the door, which he passed in safety; but went out with the curse of the Manito. The others passed the night, and they conversed on different subjects. The Manito told the Fisher that he would accomplish his object, but that it would probably cost him his life. He gave them his advice, directed them how to act, and described a certain road which they must follow, and they would thereby be led to the place of action.

They set off in the morning, and met their friend, the Otter, shivering with cold; but Ojeeg had taken care to bring along some of the meat that had been given him, which he presented to his friend. They pursued their way, and travelled twenty days more before they got to the place of which the Manito had told them. It was a most lofty mountain. They rested on its highest peak to fill their pipes and refresh themselves. Before smoking, they made the customary ceremony, pointing to the heavens, the four winds, the earth, and the zenith; in the meantime, speaking in a loud voice, they addressed the Great Spirit, hoping that their object would be accomplished. They then commenced smoking.

They gazed on the sky in silent admiration and astonishment, for they were on so elevated a point that it appeared to be only a short distance above their heads. After they had finished smoking, they prepared themselves. Ojeeg told the Otter to make the first attempt to try and make a hole in the sky. He consented with a grin. He made a leap, but fell down the hill stunned by the force of his fall; and the snow being moist, and falling on his back, he slid with velocity down the side of the mountain. When he found himself at the bottom, he thought to himself: “It is the last time I shall attempt such a jump, so I will make the best of my way home.” Then it was the turn of the Beaver, who made the attempt, but fell down senseless; then of the Lynx and Badger, who had no better success.

“Now,” says Fisher to the Wolverine, “try your skill; your ancestors were celebrated for their activity, hardihood, and perseverance, and I depend on you for success. Now make the attempt.” He did so, but also without success. He leaped the second time, but now they could see that the sky was giving way to their repeated attempts. Mustering strength, he made the third leap, and went in. The Fisher nimbly followed him.

They found themselves in a beautiful plain, extending as far as the eye could reach, covered with flowers of a thousand different hues and fragrance. Here and there were clusters of tall, shady trees, separated by innumerable streams of the purest water, which wound around their courses under the cooling shades, and filled the plain with countless beautiful lakes, whose banks and bosom were covered with water-fowl, basking and sporting in the sun. The trees were alive with birds of different plumage, warbling their sweet notes, and delighted with perpetual spring.

The Fisher and his friend beheld very long lodges, and the celestial inhabitants amusing themselves at a distance. Words cannot express the beauty and charm of the place. The lodges were empty of inhabitants, but they saw them lined with _mocuks_, of different sizes, filled with birds and fowls of different plumage. Ojeeg thought of his son, and immediately commenced cutting open the mocuks and letting out the birds, who descended in whole flocks through the opening which they had made. The warm air of those regions also rushed down through the opening, and spread its genial influence over the north.

When the celestial inhabitants saw the birds let loose, and the warm gales descending, they raised a shout like thunder, and ran for their lodges. But it was too late. Spring, summer, and autumn had gone; even perpetual summer had almost all gone; but they separated it with a blow, and only a part descended; but the ends were so mangled that, wherever it prevails among the lower inhabitants, it is always sickly.

When the Wolverine heard the noise, he made for the opening and safely descended. Not so the Fisher. Anxious to fulfil his son’s wishes, he continued to break open the _mocuks_. He was, at last, obliged to run also, but the opening was now closed by the inhabitants. He ran with all his might over the plains of heaven, and, it would appear, took a northerly direction. He saw his pursuers so close that he had to climb the first large tree that he came to. They commenced shooting at him with their arrows, but without effect, for all his body was invulnerable except the space of about an inch near the tip of his tail. At last one of the arrows hit the spot, for he had in this chase assumed the shape of the Fisher after whom he was named.

He looked down from the tree, and saw some among his assailants with the totems of his ancestors. He claimed relationship, and told them to desist, which they only did at the approach of night. He then came down to try and find an opening in the celestial plain, by which he might descend to the earth. But he could find none. At last, becoming faint from the loss of blood from the wound on his tail, he laid himself down toward the north of the plain, and, stretching out his limbs, said: “I have fulfilled my promise to my son, though it has cost me my life; but I die satisfied in the idea that I have done so much good, not only for him, but for my fellow-beings. Hereafter I will be a sign to the inhabitants below for ages to come, who will venerate my name for having succeeded in procuring the varying seasons. They will now have from eight to ten moons without snow.”

He was found dead next morning, but they left him as they found him, with the arrow sticking in his tail, as it can be plainly seen, at this time, in the heavens.

THE LEGEND OF MAUI

(_Polynesian_)