Chapter I: Part 1

THE JUNIOR CLASSICS

SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY

WILLIAM PATTEN,

MANAGING EDITOR OF THE HARVARD CLASSICS

INTRODUCTION BY CHARLES W. ELIOT, LL.D.,

PRESIDENT EMERITUS OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY

WITH A READING GUIDE BY WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON, Ph. D., PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, PRESIDENT SMITH COLLEGE, NORTHAMPTON, MASS., SINCE 1917

VOLUME ONE

Fairy and Wonder Tales

INTRODUCTION

The purpose of The Junior Classics is to provide, in ten volumes containing about five thousand pages, a classified collection of tales, stories, and poems, both ancient and modern, suitable for boys and girls of from six to sixteen years of age. Thoughtful parents and teachers, who realize the evils of indiscriminate reading on the part of children, will appreciate the educational value of such a collection. A child’s taste in reading is formed, as a rule, in the first ten or twelve years of its life, and experience has shown that the childish mind will prefer good literature to any other, if access to it is made easy, and will develop far better on literature of proved merit than on trivial or transitory material.

The boy or girl who becomes familiar with the charming tales and poems in this collection will have gained a knowledge of literature and history that will be of high value in other school and home work. Here are the real elements of imaginative narration, poetry, and ethics, which should enter into the education of every English-speaking child.

This collection, carefully used by parents and teachers with due reference to individual tastes and needs, will make many children enjoy good literature. It will inspire them with a love of good reading, which is the best possible result of any elementary education. The child himself should be encouraged to make his own selections from this large and varied collection, the child’s enjoyment being the object in view. A real and lasting interest in literature or in scholarship is only to be developed through the individual’s enjoyment of his mental occupations.

The most important change which has been made in American schools and colleges within my memory is the substitution of leading for driving, of inspiration for drill, of personal interest and love of work for compulsion and fear. The schools are learning to use methods and materials which interest and attract the children themselves. The Junior Classics will put into the home the means of using this happy method.

Committing to memory beautiful pieces of literature, either prose or poetry, for recitation before a friendly audience, acting charades or plays, and reading aloud with vivacity and sympathetic emotion, are good means of instruction at home or at school This collection contains numerous admirable pieces of literature for such use. In teaching English and English literature we should place more reliance upon processes and acts which awaken emotion, stimulate interest, prove to be enjoyable for the actors, and result in giving children the power of entertaining people, of blessing others with noble pleasures which the children create and share.

From the home training during childhood there should result in the child a taste for interesting and improving reading which will direct and inspire its subsequent intellectual life. The training which results in this taste for good reading, however unsystematic or eccentric it may have been, has achieved one principal aim of education; and any school or home training which does not result in implanting this permanent taste has failed in a very important respect. Guided and animated by this impulse to acquire knowledge and exercise the imagination through good reading, the adult will continue to educate him all through life.

The story of the human race through all its slow development should be gradually conveyed to the child’s mind from the time he begins to read, or to listen to his mother reading; and with description of facts and actual events should be mingled charming and uplifting products of the imagination. To try to feed the minds of children upon facts alone is undesirable and unwise. The immense product of the imagination in art and literature is a concrete fact with which every educated human being should be made somewhat familiar, that product being a very real part of every individual’s actual environment.

The right selection of reading matter for children is obviously of high importance. Some of the mythologies, Old Testament stories, fairy tales, and historical romances, on which earlier generations were accustomed to feed the childish mind, contain a great deal that is barbarous, perverse, or cruel; and to this infiltration into children’s minds, generation after generation, of immoral, cruel, or foolish ideas is probably to be attributed in part the slow ethical progress of the race. The commonest justification of this thoughtless practice is that children do not apprehend the evil in the bad mental pictures with which we foolishly supply them; but what should we think of a mother who gave her children dirty milk or porridge, on the theory that the children would not assimilate the dirt? Should we be less careful about mental and moral food materials? The Junior Classics have been selected with this principle in mind, without losing sight of the fact that every developing human being needs to have a vision of the rough and thorny road over which the human race has been slowly advancing during thousands of years.

Whoever has committed to memory in childhood such Bible extracts as Genesis i, the Ten Commandments, Psalm xxiii, Matthew v, 8-12, The Lord’s Prayer, and I Corinthians xiii, such English prose as Lincoln’s Gettysburg speech, Bacon’s “Essay on Truth,” and such poems as Bryant’s “Waterfowl,” Addison’s “Divine Ode,” Milton’s Sonnet on his Blindness, Wotton’s “How happy is he born or taught,” Emerson’s “Rhodora,” Holmes’s “Chambered Nautilus,” and Gray’s Elegy, and has stamped them on his brain by frequent repetition, will have set up in his mind high standards of noble thought and feeling, true patriotism, and pure religion. He will also have laid in an invaluable store of good English.

While the majority of the tales and poems are intended for children who have begun to do their own reading, there will be found in every volume selections fit for reading aloud to younger children. Throughout the collection the authors tell the stories in their own words; so that the salt which gave them savor is preserved. There are some condensations however, such as any good teller of borrowed stories would make; but as a rule condensation has been applied only in the case of long works which otherwise could not have been included. The notes which precede the condensations supply explanations, and answer questions which experience has shown boys and girls are apt to ask about the works condensed or their authors.

The Junior Classics constitute a set of books whose contents will delight children and at the same time satisfy the legitimate ethical requirements of those who have the children’s best interests at heart.

Charles W. Eliot

NOTE

Notices of copyright on material used in these volumes appear on the back of the title pages of the particular volumes in which the stories are printed. A complete list of acknowledgments to authors and publishers, for their kind permission to use copyrighted material, is given on pages 3 to 6 of Volume Ten.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION Charles, W. Eliot PREFACE William Patten

TALES OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS Manabozho H. R. Schoolcraft Why the Diver Duck Has So Few Tail Feathers H. R. Schoolcraft Manabozho Changed to Wolf H. R. Schoolcraft Why the Woodpecker has Red Feathers H. R. Schoolcraft Manabozho is Robbed H. R. Schoolcraft Manabozho and the Woodpeckers H. R. Schoolcraft The Boy and the Wolves Andrew Lang The Indian Who Lost His Wife Andrew Lang

TALES FROM INDIA Punchkin E. Frere The Sun, Moon and Wind E. Frere Why the Fish Laughed Joseph Jacob The Farmer and Money Lender Joseph Jacob Pride Goeth Before a Fall Joseph Jacob The Wicked Sons Joseph Jacob Tiger, Brahman, and Jackal Flora Annie Steel The Lambikin Flora Annie Steel The Rat’s Wedding Flora Annie Steel The Jackal and the Partridge Flora Annie Steel The Jackal and the Crocodile Flora Annie Steel The Jackal and the Iguana Flora Annie Steel The Bear’s Bad Bargain Flora Annie Steel The Thief and the Fox Ramaswami Raju The Farmer and the Fox Ramaswami Raju The Fools and the Drum Ramaswami Raju The Lion and the Goat Ramaswami Raju The Glowworm and Jackdaw Ramaswami Raju The Camel and the Pig Ramaswami Raju The Dog and the Dog Dealer Ramaswami Raju The Tiger, Fox, and Hunters Ramaswami Raju The Sea, the Fox, and the Wolf Ramaswami Raju The Fox in the Well Ramaswami Raju

TALES FROM THE NORSELAND Ashiepattle P. C. Asbjörnsen The Squire’s Bride P. C. Asbjörnsen The Doll in the Grass P. C. Asbjörnsen The Bear and the Fox P. C. Asbjörnsen The Lad Who Went to the North Wind Sir George W. Dasent The Husband Who Was to Mind the House Sir George W. Dasent How One Went Out to Woo Sir George W. Dasent Why the Bear is Stumpy-Tailed Sir George W. Dasent Boots and the Princess Sir George W. Dasent The Witch in the Stone Boat Andrew Lang

TALES FROM FRANCE, SPAIN, AND POLAND The Snuffbox Paul Sébillot The Golden Blackbird Paul Sébillot The Half-Chick Andrew Lang The Three Brothers Hermann R. Kletke The Glass Mountain Hermann R. Kletke

TALES FROM RUSSIA Huntsman the Unlucky John T. Naaké Story of Little Simpleton John T. Naaké The Golden Fish Lillian M. Gask

TALES FROM SERBIA The Wonderful Hair W.S. Karajich The Language of Animals W.S. Karajich The Emperor Trojan’s Ears W.S. Karajich The Maiden Who Was Wiser Than the King W.S. Karajich

AN IRISH TALE The Three Sons Lady Gregory

TALES FROM CHINA AND JAPAN Hok Lee and the Dwarfs Andrew Lang A Dreadful Boar Adele M. Fielde The Five Queer Brothers Adele M. Fielde The Accomplished Teakettle A.B. Mitford Adventures of Little Peachling A.B. Mitford

A TALE FROM NEW GUINEA The Two Lizards Annie Ker

A TALE FROM JAMAICA De King and De Peafowl Mary P. Milne-Horne

SOME OLD FAVORITES Hansel and Grethel W. and J. Grimm Thumbling W. and J. Grimm The Six Swans W. and J. Grimm Snow-White and Rose-Red W. and J. Grimm The Ugly Duckling Hans C. Andersen The Tinder-Box Hans C. Andersen The Constant Tin Soldier Hans C. Andersen The Fir Tree Hans C. Andersen The Flying Trunk Hans C. Andersen The Darning Needle Hans C. Andersen Pen and Inkstand Hans C. Andersen Cinderella Miss Mulock Little Red Riding-Hood Charles Perrault The Story of the Three Bears Robert Southey Puss in Boots Charles Perrault Jack the Giant-Killer Joseph Jacobs Tom Thumb Joseph Jacobs Blue Beard Charles Perrault The Brave Little Tailor Anonymous The Sleeping Beauty Charles Perrault The Fair One With Golden Locks Miss Mulock Beauty and the Beast Mme. d’Aulnoy Jack and the Beanstalk Anonymous Hop-o’-My-Thumb Joseph Jacobs The Goose-Girl Anonymous He Who Knew Not Fear Anonymous

THE FABLES OF ÆSOP The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse Æsop The Man, Boy, and Donkey Æsop The Shepherd’s Boy Æsop Androcles Æsop The Fox and the Stork Æsop The Crow and the Pitcher Æsop The Frogs Desiring a King Æsop The Frog and the Ox Æsop The Cock and the Pearl Æsop The Fox Without a Tail Æsop The Fox and the Cat Æsop The Dog in the Manger Æsop The Fox and the Goat Æsop Belling the Cat Æsop The Jay and the Peacock Æsop The Ass and the Lap-Dog Æsop The Ant and the Grasshopper Æsop The Woodman and the Serpent Æsop The Milkmaid and Her Pail Æsop The Lion and the Mouse Æsop Hercules and the Waggoner Æsop The Lion’s Share Æsop The Fox and the Crow Æsop The Dog and the Shadow Æsop The Wolf and the Lamb Æsop The Bat, Birds, and Beasts Æsop The Belly and the Members Æsop The Fox and the Grapes Æsop The Swallow and the Birds Æsop

ILLUSTRATIONS

HE OFTEN TREMBLED AT WHAT HE HEARD AND SAW, Manabozho the Mischief-Maker, Frontispiece illustration in color from the painting by Dan Sayre Groesbeck

WHILE THEY WERE STUPIDLY STARING, THE KETTLE BEGAN FLYING ABOUT THE ROOM, The Accomplished and Lucky Teakettle, From the painting by Warwick Goble

A VERY OLD WOMAN, WALKING UPON CRUTCHES, CAME OUT, Hansel and Grethel, From the painting by Arthur Rackham

THEN BLUE BEARD BAWLED OUT SO LOUD THAT HE MADE THE WHOLE HOUSE TREMBLE, Blue Beard, From the painting by Edmund Dulac

BEING INFORMED OF EVERYTHING BY A LITTLE DWARF WHO WORE SEVEN-LEAGUE BOOTS, Sleeping Beauty, From the painting by Edmund Dulac

PREFACE

There are some things in this world we can get along without, but, the experience of many thousand years has shown us that the fairy tale is not one of them. There must have been fairy tales (or fables, or folk tales, or myths, or whatever name we choose to give them) ever since the world began. They are not exclusively French, German, Greek, Russian, Indian or Chinese, but are the common property of the whole human family and are as universal as human speech.

All the world over, fairy tales are found to be pretty much the same. The story of Cinderella is found in all countries. Japan has a Rip Van Winkle, China has a Beauty and the Beast, Egypt has a Puss in Boots, and Persia has a Jack and the Beanstalk.

Those wise people who have made a careful study of literature, and especially of what we call folk tales or fairy tales or fables or myths, tell us that they all typify in some way the constant struggle that is going on in every department of life. It may be the struggle of Summer against Winter, the bright Day against dark Night, Innocence against Cruelty, of Knowledge against Ignorance. We are not obliged to think of these delightful stories as each having a meaning. Our enjoyment of them will not be less if we overlook that side, but it may help us to understand and appreciate good books if we remember that the literature of the world is the story of man’s struggle against nature; that the beginnings of literature came out of the mouths of story-tellers, and that the stories they told were fairy tales—imaginative stories based on truth.

There is one important fact to remember in connection with the old fairy tales, and that is that they were repeated aloud from memory, not read from a book or manuscript.

The printing of books from type may be said to date from the year 1470, when Caxton introduced printing into England. It is said that the first book printed in English which had the pages numbered was a book of tales, “Æsop’s Fables.”

As late as 1600 printed books were still so rare that only rich men could own them. There was one other way of printing a story—on sheepskin (split and made into parchment) with a pen—but that was a long and laborious art that could only be practiced by educated men who had been taught to write. The monks were about the only men who had the necessary education and time, and they cared more for making copies of the Bible and Lives of the Saints than they did of fairy tales. The common people, and even kings and queens, were therefore obliged to depend upon the professional story-teller.

Fairy tales were very popular in the Middle Ages. In the long winter months fields could not be cultivated, traveling had to be abandoned, and all were kept within doors by the cold and snow. We know what the knight’s house looked like in those days. The large beamed hall or living room was the principal room. At one end of it, on a low platform, was a table for the knight, his family, and any visiting knights and ladies. At the other tables on the main floor were the armed men, like squires and retainers, who helped defend the castle from attack, and the maids of the household.

The story-teller, who was sometimes called a bard or skald or minstrel, had his place of honor in the center of the room, and when the meal was over he was called upon for a story. These story-tellers became very expert in the practice of their art, and some of them could arouse their audiences to a great pitch of excitement. In the note that precedes the story “The Treason of Ganelon,” in the volume “Heroes and Heroines of Chivalry,” you can see how one of these story-tellers, or minstrels, sang aloud a story to the soldiers of William the Conqueror to encourage them as he led them into battle.

The fairy tales collected by the Brothers Grimm were first published in 1812. They spent thirteen years collecting them, writing them down as they were told by the peasants in Hesse, a mountainous province of Germany lying far removed from the great main roads.

Their friends helped them, but their best friend was the wife of a cowherd, a strong, intelligent woman of fifty, who had a perfect genius for storytelling. She knew she told the stories well, and that not many had her gift. The Grimms said that though she repeated a story for them three times, the variations were so slight as to be hardly apparent.

The American Indian stories of Manabozho the Mischief-Maker and his adventures with the Wolf and the Woodpeckers and the Ducks were collected in very much the same way by Henry R. Schoolcraft (1793–1864), the explorer and traveler, who lived among the Indian tribes for thirty years.

Mrs. Steel has told us how she collected her Hindu stories, often listening over and over to poor story-tellers who would spoil a story in trying to tell it, until one day her patience would be rewarded by hearing it from the lips of the best storyteller in the village, who was generally a boy.

As all nations have their fairy tales, you will find in this collection examples of English, Irish, French, German, Scandinavian, Icelandic, Russian, Polish, Serbian, Spanish, Arabian, Hindu, Chinese, and Japanese fairy tales, as well as those recited around the lodge fires at night by American Indians for the entertainment of the red children of the West.

I hope the work may prove for many a boy and girl (of any age up to a hundred) the Golden Bridge over which they can plunge into that marvelous world of fairies, elves, goblins, kobolds, trolls, afreets, jinns, ogres, and giants that fascinates us all, lost to this world till some one wakes us up to say “Bedtime!”

Such excursions fill the mind with beautiful fancies and help to develop that most precious of our faculties, the imagination.

WILLIAM PATTEN.

MANABOZHO, THE MISCHIEF-MAKER

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

There was never in the whole world a more mischievous busybody than that notorious giant Manabozho. He was everywhere, in season and out of season, running about, and putting his hand in whatever was going forward.

To carry on his game he could take almost any shape he pleased. He could be very foolish or very wise, very weak or very strong, very rich or very poor—just as happened to suit his humor best. Whatever anyone else could do, he would attempt without a moment’s reflection. He was a match for any man he met, and there were few manitoes* (*good spirits or evil spirits) that could get the better of him. By turns he would be very kind or very cruel, an animal or a bird, a man or a spirit, and yet, in spite of all these gifts, Manabozho was always getting himself involved in all sorts of troubles. More than once, in the course of his adventures, was this great maker of mischief driven to his wits’ ends to come off with his life.

To begin at the beginning, Manabozho, while yet a youngster, was living with his grandmother near the edge of a great prairie. It was on this prairie that he first saw animals and birds of every kind; he also there made first acquaintance with thunder and lightning. He would sit by the hour watching the clouds as they rolled by, musing on the shades of light and darkness as the day rose and fell.

For a stripling, Manabozho was uncommonly wide-awake. Every sight he beheld in the heavens was a subject of remark, every new animal or bird an object of deep interest, and every sound was like a new lesson which he was expected to learn. He often trembled at what he heard and saw.

The first sound he heard was that of the owl, at which he was greatly terrified, and, quickly descending the tree he had climbed, he ran with alarm to the lodge. “Noko! noko! grandmother!” he cried. “I have heard a monedo.”

She laughed at his fears, and asked him what kind of a noise it made. He answered. “It makes a noise like this: ko-ko-ko-ho!”

His grandmother told him he was young and foolish; that what he heard was only a bird which derived its name from the peculiar noise it made.

He returned to the prairie and continued his watch. As he stood there looking at the clouds he thought to himself, “It is singular that I am so simple and my grandmother so wise; and that I have neither father nor mother. I have never heard a word about them. I must ask and find out.”

He went home and sat down, silent and dejected. Finding that this did not attract the notice of his grandmother, he began a loud lamentation, which he kept increasing, louder and louder, till it shook the lodge and nearly deafened the old grandmother.

“Manabozho, what is the matter with you?” she said, “you are making a great deal of noise.”

Manabozho started off again with his doleful hubbub, but succeeded in jerking out between his big sobs, “I haven’t got any father nor mother, I haven’t.”

Knowing that he was of a wicked and revengeful nature, his grandmother dreaded to tell him the story of his parentage, as she knew he would make trouble of it.

Manabozho renewed his cries and managed to throw out for a third or fourth time, his sorrowful lament that he was a poor unfortunate who had no parents or relatives.

At last she said to him, to quiet him, “Yes, you have a father and three brothers living. Your mother is dead. She was taken for a wife by your father, the West, without the consent of her parents. Your brothers are the North, East, and South; and being older than you your father has given them great power with the winds, according to their names. You are the youngest of his children. I have nursed you from your infancy, for your mother died when you were born.”

“I am glad my father is living,” said Manabozho, “I shall set out in the morning to visit him.”

His grandmother would have discouraged him, saying it was a long distance to the place where his father, Ningabinn, or the West, lived.

This information seemed rather to please than to discourage Manabozho, for by this time he had grown to such a size and strength that he had been compelled to leave the narrow shelter of his grandmother’s lodge and live out of doors. He was so tall that, if he had been so disposed, he could have snapped off the heads of the birds roosting on the topmost branches of the highest trees, as he stood up, without being at the trouble to climb. And if he had at any time taken a fancy to one of the same trees for a walking stick, he would have had no more to do than to pluck it up with his thumb and finger and strip down the leaves and twigs with the palm of his hand.

Bidding good-by to his old grandmother, who pulled a very long face over his departure, Manabozho set out at a great pace, for he was able to stride from one side of a prairie to the other at a single step.

He found his father on a high mountain far in the west. His father espied his approach at a great distance, and bounded down the mountainside several miles to give him welcome. Apparently delighted with each other, they reached in two or three of their giant paces the lodge of the West which stood high up near the clouds.

They spent some days in talking with each other—for these two great persons did nothing on a small scale, and a whole day to deliver a single sentence, such was the immensity of their discourse, was quite an ordinary affair.

One evening Manabozho asked his father what he was most afraid of on earth.

He replied—“Nothing.”

“But is there nothing you dread here—nothing that would hurt you if you took too much of it? Come, tell me.”

Manabozho was very urgent, so at last his father said: “Yes, there is a black stone to be found a couple of hundred miles from here, over that way,” pointing as he spoke. “It is the only thing on earth I am afraid of, for if it should happen to hit me on any part of my body it would hurt me very much.” The West made this important circumstance known to Manabozho in the strictest confidence.

“Now you will not tell anyone, Manabozho, that the black stone is bad medicine for your father, will you?” he added. “You are a good son, and I know you will keep it to yourself. Now tell me, my darling boy, is there not something that you don’t like?”

Manabozho answered promptly—“Nothing.”

His father, who was of a steady and persevering nature, put the same question to him seventeen times, and each time Manabozho made the same answer—“Nothing.”

But the West insisted—“There must be something you are afraid of.”

“Well, I will tell you,” said Manabozho, “what it is.”

He made an effort to speak, but it seemed to be too much for him.

“Out with it,” said the West, fetching Manabozho such a blow on the back as shook the mountain with its echo.

“Je-ee, je-ee—it is,” said Manabozho, apparently in great pain. “Yes, yes! I cannot name it, I tremble so.”

The West told him to banish his fears, and to speak up; no one would hurt him.

Manabozho began again, and he would have gone over the same make-believe of pain, had not his father, whose strength he knew was more than a match for his own, threatened to pitch him into a river about five miles off. At last he cried out:

“Father, since you will know, it is the root of the bulrush.” He who could with perfect ease spin a sentence a whole day long, seemed to be exhausted by the effort of pronouncing that one word, “bulrush.”

Some time after Manabozho observed: “I will get some of the black rock, merely to see how it looks.”

“Well,” said the father, “I will also get a little of the bulrush root, to learn how it tastes.”

They were both double-dealing with each other, and in their hearts getting ready for some desperate work. They had no sooner separated for the evening than Manabozho was striding off the couple of hundred miles necessary to bring him to the place where the black rock was to be procured, while down the other side of the mountain hurried Ningabinn, the West.

At the break of day they each appeared at the great level on the mountain-top, Manabozho with twenty loads, at least, of the black stone, on one side, and on the other the West, with a whole meadow of bulrush in his arms.

Manabozho was the first to strike—hurling a great piece of the black rock, which struck the West directly between the eyes, and he returned the favor with a blow of bulrush that rung over the shoulders of Manabozho, far and wide, like the long lash of the lightning among the clouds.

First one and then the other, Manabozho poured in a tempest of black rock, while the West discharged a shower of bulrush. Blow upon blow, thwack upon thwack—they fought hand to hand until black rock and bulrush were all gone. Then they betook themselves to hurling crags at each other, cudgeling with huge oak trees, and defying each other from one mountain top to another; while at times they shot enormous boulders of granite across at each other’s heads, as though they had been mere jackstones. The battle, which had commenced on the mountains, had extended far west. The West was forced to give ground. Manabozho pressing on, drove him across rivers and mountains, ridges and lakes, till at last he got him to the very brink of the world.

“Hold!” cried the West. “My son, you know my power, and although I allow I am now fairly out of breath, it is impossible to kill me. Stop where you are, and I will also portion you out with as much power as your brothers. The four quarters of the globe are already occupied, but you can go and do a great deal of good to the people of the earth, which is beset with serpents, beasts and monsters, who make great havoc of human life. Go and do good, and if you put forth half the strength you have to-day, you will acquire a name that will last forever. When you have finished your work I will have a place provided for you. You will then go and sit with your brother, Kabinocca, in the north.”

Manabozho gave his father his hand upon this agreement. And parting from. him, he returned to his own grounds, where he lay for some time sore of his wounds.

WHY THE DIVER DUCK HAS SO FEW TAIL FEATHERS

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

Having overcome the powerful Pearl Feather, killed his serpents and escaped all is wiles and charms, the heart of Manabozho welled within him. An unconquerable desire for further adventures seized upon him. He had won in a great fight on land, so he determined his next success should come to him from the water.

He tried his luck as a fisherman and with such success that he captured an enormous fish, a fish so rich in fat that with the oil Manabozho was able to form a small lake. Wishing to be generous, and at the same time having a cunning plan of his own, he invited all the birds and beasts of his acquaintance to come and feast upon the oil, telling them that the order in which they partook of the banquet would decide how fat each was to be for all time to come.

As fast as they arrived he told them to plunge in and help themselves.

The first to make his appearance was the bear, who took a long and steady draft; then came the deer, the opossum, and such others of the family as are noted for their comfortable covering. The moose and the buffalo were late in arriving on the scene, and the partridge, always lean in flesh, looked on till the supply was nearly gone. There was not a drop left by the time the hare and the marten appeared on the shore of the lake, and they are, in consequence, the slenderest of all creatures.

When this ceremony was over Manabozho suggested to his friends, the assembled birds and animals, that the occasion was proper for a little merrymaking; and taking up his drum he cried out:

“New songs from the South! Come, brothers, dance!”

They all fell in and commenced their rounds. Whenever Manabozho, as he stood in the circle, saw a fat fowl which he fancied pass him, he adroitly wrung its neck and slipped it under his belt, at the same time beating his drum and singing at the top of his lungs to drown the noise of the fluttering, crying out in a tone of admiration:

“That’s the way, my brothers; that’s the way.” At last a small duck of the diver family, thinking there was something wrong, opened one eye and saw what Manabozho was doing. Giving a spring, and crying: “Ha-ha-a! Manabozho is killing us!” he made a dash for the water.

Manabozho was so angry that the creature should have played the spy that he gave chase, and just as the Diver Duck was getting into the water he gave him a kick, which is the reason that the diver’s tail feathers are few, his back flattened, and his legs straightened out, so that when he is seen walking on land he makes a sorry looking figure.

The other birds, having no ambition to be thrust in Manabozho’s belt, flew off, and the animals scampered into the woods.

MANAIBOZHO IS CHANGED INTO A WOLF

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

One evening, as Manabozho was walking along the shore of a great lake, weary and hungry, he met a great magician in the form of an Old Wolf, with six young ones, coming toward him.

The Wolf no Sooner caught sight of him than he told his whelps, who were close beside him, to keep out of the way of Manabozho, “For I know,” he said, “that it is that mischievous fellow whom we see yonder.”

The young wolves were in the act of running off when Manabozho cried out, “My grandchildren, where are you going? Stop and I will go with you. I wish to have a little chat with your excellent father.”

Saying which, he advanced and greeted the Old Wolf, expressing himself as delighted at seeing him looking so well. “Whither do you journey?” he asked.

“We are looking for a good hunting-ground to pass the winter,” the Old Wolf answered. “What brings you here?”

“I was looking for you,” said Manabozho. “For I have a passion for the chase, brother. I always admired your family; are you willing to change me into a wolf?”

The Wolf gave him a favorable answer, and he was forthwith changed into a wolf.

“Well, that will do,” said Manabozho. “But,” he said, looking at his tail, “could you oblige me by making my tail a little longer and more bushy, just a little more bushy?”

“Certainly,” said the Old Wolf; and he straightway gave Manabozho such a length and spread of tail that it was continually getting between his legs, and it was so heavy that it was as much as he could do to carry it. But, having asked for it, he was ashamed to say a word, and they all started off in company, dashing up the ravine.

After getting into the woods for some distance they ran across the tracks of moose. The young ones scampered off in pursuit, the Old Wolf and Manabozho following at their leisure.

“Well,” said the Old Wolf, by way of starting the conversation, “who do you think is the fastest of the boys? Can you tell by the jumps they take?”

“Why,” he replied, “that one that takes such long jumps, he is surely the fastest.”

“Ha! ha! you are mistaken,” said the Old Wolf. “He makes a good start, but he will be the first to tire out; this one who appears to be behind will be the one to kill the game.”

By this time they had come to the spot where the boys had started in chase. One had dropped what seemed to be a small medicine-sack, which he carried for the use of the hunting party.

“Take that, Manabozho,” said the Old Wolf.

“Why, what will I do with a dirty dog skin?”

The Old Wolf took it up; it was a beautiful robe.

“Oh, I will carry it now,” cried Manabozho.

“Oh, no,” said the Wolf, who had used his magical powers, “it is a robe of pearls. Come along!” And away he sped at a great rate of speed.

“Not so fast,” called Manabozho after him; and then he added to himself as he panted after, “Oh, this tail!”

Coming to a place where the moose had lain down, they saw that the young wolves had made a fresh start after their prey. “Why,” said the Old Wolf, “this moose is thin. I know by the tracks. I can always tell whether they are fat or not.” A little farther on, one of the young wolves, in dashing at the moose, had broken a tooth on a tree.

“Manabozho,” said the Old Wolf, “one of your grandchildren has shot at the game. Take his arrow; there it is.”

“No,” replied Manabozho, “what will I do with a dirty dog’s tooth?”

The Old Wolf took it up, and behold it was a beautiful silver arrow.

When they at last overtook them, they found that the youngsters had killed a very fat moose. Manabozho was very hungry, but the Old Wolf just then again exerted his magical powers, and Manabozho saw nothing but the bones picked quite clean. He thought to himself, “Just as I expected; dirty, greedy fellows. If it had not been for this log at my back I should have been in time to have got a mouthful”; and he cursed the bushy tail which he carried to the bottom of his heart.

The Old Wolf finally called out to one of the young ones, “Give some meat to your grandfather.”

One of them obeyed, and coming near to Manabozho he presented him the end of his own bushy tail, which was now nicely seasoned with burs gathered in the course of the hunt. Manabozho jumped up and called out: “You dog, do you think I am going to eat you?” And he walked off in anger.

“Come back brother,” cried the Wolf. “You are losing your eyes. You do the child injustice. Look there!” and behold a heap of fresh meat was lying on the spot, all prepared.

Manabozho turned back, and at the sight of so much good food put on a smiling face. “Wonderful!” he said, “how fine the meat is!”

“Yes,” replied the Old Wolf, “it is always so with us; we know our work and always get the best. It is not a long tail that makes the hunter.”

Manabozho bit his lip.

WHY THE WOODPECKER HAS RED HEAD FEATHERS

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

When his wounds had all been cured by his grandmother’s skill in medicine, Manabozho, as big and sturdy as ever, was ripe for new adventures. He set his thoughts immediately upon a war excursion against the Pearl Feather, a wicked old manito, living on the other side of the great lake, who had killed his grandfather.

He began his preparations by making huge bows and arrows without number, but he had no arrow heads. At last his grandmother, Noko, told him that an old man who lived at some distance could furnish him with some, and he sent her to get them. Though she returned with her wrapper full, he told her that he had not enough and sent her again for more.

In the meanwhile he thought to himself, “I must find out the way of making these heads.”

Instead of directly asking how it was done, he preferred—just like Manabozho—to deceive his grandmother, in order to learn what he wanted by a trick. “Noko,” said he, “while I take my drum and rattle, and sing my war songs, do you go and try to get me some larger heads, for these you have brought me are all of the same size. Go and see whether the old man is not willing to make some a little larger.”

He followed her at a distance as she went, having left his drum at the lodge, with a great bird tied at the top, whose fluttering wings should keep up the drumbeat, the same as if he were standing there beating the drum himself. He saw the old workman busy, and learned how he prepared the heads; he also beheld the old man’s daughter, who was very beautiful. Manabozho discovered for the first time that he had a heart of his own, and the sigh he heaved passed through the arrow maker’s lodge like a young gale of wind.

“My how it blows!” said the old man.

“It must be from the south, though,” said the daughter, “it is so fragrant.”

Manabozho slipped away, and in two strides he was at home, shouting forth his songs as though he had never left the lodge. He had just time to untie the bird which had been beating the drum when his grandmother came in and gave him the big arrowheads.

In the evening the grandmother said, “My son, you ought to fast before you go to war, as your brothers do, to find out whether you will be successful or not.”

He said he had no objection. Having privately stored away in a shady place in the forest two or three dozen juicy bears, a moose, and twenty strings of the tenderest birds, he would retire from the lodge so far as to be entirely out of view of his grandmother and fall to and enjoy himself heartily. At nightfall, having dispatched a dozen birds and half a bear or so, he would return, tottering and forlorn, as if quite famished, so as to make his grandmother feel sorry for him.

When he had finished his term of fasting, in the course of which he slyly dispatched twenty fat bears, six dozen birds, and two fine moose, Manabozho sung his war song and embarked in his canoe, fully prepared for war.

Besides his weapons he took along a large supply of oil.

He traveled rapidly night and day, for he had only to will or speak, and the canoe went. At length he arrived in sight of the fiery serpents, and stopped to study them. He noticed that they were of enormous length and of a bright color, that they were some distance apart, and that the flames which poured forth from the mouths reached across the pass, so he said good morning and began talking with them in a very friendly way. They were not to be deceived, however.

“We know you, Manabozho,” they said, “you cannot pass.”

Turning his canoe as if about to go back, he suddenly cried out with a loud and terrified voice: “WHAT IS THAT BEHIND YOU?”

The serpents thrown off their guard, instantly turned their heads, and in a moment Manabozho glided silently past them.

“Well,” said he, softly, after he had got by, “how about it?”

He then took up his bow and arrows, and with deliberate aim shot every one of them easily, for the serpents were fixed to one spot and could not even turn around.

Having thus escaped the sentinel serpents, Manabozho pushed on in his canoe until he came to a part of the lake called Pitch-Water, as whatever touched it was sure to stick fast.

But Manabozho was prepared with his oil and, rubbing his canoe freely with it, from end to end, he slipped through with ease—and he was the first person who had ever succeeded in passing through the Pitch-Water.

“Nothing like a little oil,” said Manabozho to himself.

Having by this time come in view of land, he could see the lodge of the Shining Manito, high upon a distant hill. At the dawn of day he put his clubs and arrows in order and began his attack, yelling and shouting and beating his drum, and calling out so as to make it appear that he had many followers:

“Surround him! surround him! run up! run up!”

He stalked bravely forward, shouting aloud, “It was you that killed my grandfather,” and shot off a whole forest of arrows.

The Pearl Feather appeared on the height, blazing like the sun, and paid back Manabozho with a tempest of bolts which rattled like hail.

All day long the fight was kept up, and Manabozho had fired all of his arrows but three without effect, for the Shining Manito was clothed in pure wampum. It was only by immense leaps to right and left that Manabozho could save his head from the sturdy blows which fell about him on every side, like pine.trees, from the hands of the Manito. He was badly bruised, and at his very wits’ end, when a large Woodpecker flew past and lit on a tree. It was a bird he had known on the prairie, near his grandmother’s lodge.

“Manabozho,” called out the Woodpecker, “your enemy has a weak point; shoot at the lock of hair on the crown of his head.”

The first arrow he shot only drew a few drops of blood. The Manito made one or two unsteady steps, but recovered himself. He began to parley, but Manabozho, now that he had discovered a way to reach him, was in no humor to trifle, and he let slip another arrow which brought the Shining Manito to his knees. Having the crown of his head within good range Manabozho shot his third arrow, and the Manito fell forward upon the ground, dead.

Manabozho called the Woodpecker to come and receive a reward for the timely hint he had given him, and he rubbed the blood of the Shining Manito on the Woodpecker’s head, the feathers of which are red to this day.

Full of his victory, Manabozho returned home, beating his war drum furiously and shouting aloud his song of triumph. His grandmother was on the shore to welcome him with the war dance, which she performed with wonderful skill for one so far advanced in years.

MANABOZHO IS ROBBED BY THE WOLVES

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

Shortly after this the Old Wolf suggested to Manabozho that he should go out and try his luck in hunting by himself. When he chose to put his mind to it he was quite expert, and this time he succeeded in killing a fine fat moose which he thought he would take aside slyly and devour alone.

He was very hungry and he sat down to eat, but as he never could go to work in a straightforward way, he immediately fell into great doubts as to the proper point at which to begin.

“Well,” said he, “I do not know where to commence. At the head? No, people will laugh, and say, ‘He ate him backward.’”

He went to the side. “No,” said he, “they will say I ate him sideways.”

He then went to the hind quarter. “No, that will not do, either; they will say I ate him forward. I will begin here, say what they will.”

He took a delicate piece from the small of the back, and was just on the point of putting it to his mouth when a tree close by made a creaking noise. He seemed vexed at the sound. He raised the morsel to his mouth the second time, when the tree creaked again.

“Why,” he exclaimed, “I cannot eat when I hear such a noise. “Stop, stop!” he cried to the tree. He put down the morsel of meat, exclaiming. “I CANNOT eat with such a noise,” and starting away he climbed the tree and was actually pulling at the limb which had bothered him, when his forepaw was caught between the branches so that he could not free himself.

While thus held fast he saw a pack of wolves advancing through the wood in the direction of his meat. He suspected them to be the Old Wolf and his cubs, but night was coming on and he could not make them out. “Go the other way, go the other Way!” he cried out; “what do you expect to get here?”

The Wolves stopped for a while and talked among themselves, and said: “Manabozho must have something there, or he would not tell us to go another way.”

“I begin to know know him,” said the Old Wolf, “and all his tricks. Let us go forward and see.” They came on and, finding the moose soon made away with it.

Manabozho looked wistfully on while they ate until they were fully satisfied, when off they scampered in high spirits. A heavy blast of wind opened the branches finally, and released him. The wolves had left nothing but bare bones. He made for home.

When he related his mishap, the Old Wolf, taking him by the forepaw, condoled with him deeply on his ill luck. A tear even started to his eye as he added: “My brother, this should teach us not to meddle with points of ceremony when we have good meat to eat.”

MANABOZHO AND THE WOODPECKERS

Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft

Manabozho lost the greater part of his magical power through letting his young wolf grandson fall through the thin ice and drown. No one knew where his grandmother had gone to. He married the arrow maker’s daughter, and became the father of several children, but he was very poor and scarcely able to procure a living. His lodge was pitched in a distant part of the country, where he could get no game, and it was winter time. One day he said to his wife, “I will go out walking and see if I can find some lodges.”

After walking some time he finally discovered a lodge at a distance. There were children playing at the door, and when they saw him approaching they ran in and told their parents Manabozho was coming.

It was the home of the large Red-Headed Woodpecker. He came to the door and asked Manabozho to enter, and the invitation was promptly accepted. After some time the Woodpecker, who was a magician, said to his wife: “Have you nothing to give Manabozho? he must be hungry.”

She answered, “No.”

“He ought not to go without his supper,” said the Woodpecker. “I will see what I can do.”

In the center of the lodge stood a large tamarack tree. Upon this the Woodpecker flew, and commenced going up, turning his head on each side of the tree, and every now and then driving in his bill. At last he pulled something out of the tree and threw it down, when, behold, a fine fat raccoon lay on the ground. He drew out six or seven more, and then came down and told his wife to prepare them.

“Manabozho,” he said, “this is the only thing we eat; what else can we give you?”

“It is very good,” replied Manabozho.

They smoked their pipes and conversed, and after a while Manabozho got ready to go home, so the Woodpecker said to his wife, “Give him the Other raccoons to take home for his children.”

In the act of leaving the lodge Manabozho on purpose dropped one of his mittens, which was soon after observed upon the ground. “Run,” said the Woodpecker to his eldest son, “and give it to him; but mind that you do not give it into his hand; throw it at him, for there is no knowing what he may do, he acts so curiously.”

The boy did as he was directed. “Grandfather,” he said, as he came up to him, “you have left one of your mittens, and here it is.”

“Yes,” he said, making believe he did not know he had dropped it, “so I did; but don’t throw it, you will get it wet on the snow.”

The lad, however, threw it, and was about to return when Manabozho cried out, “Bakah! Bakah! Stop, stop; is that all you eat? Do you eat nothing else with your raccoon? Tell me!”

“Yes, that is all, answered the Young Woodpecker; “we have nothing else.”

“Tell your father,” continued Manabozho, “to come and visit me, and let him bring a sack. I will give him what he shall eat with his raccoon meat.”

When the young one returned and reported this message to his father the Old Woodpecker turned up his nose at the invitation. “I wonder,” he said “what he thinks he has got, poor fellow!” He was bound, however, to answer the offer of hospitality, and he went accordingly, taking along a cedar-sack, to pay a visit to Manabozho.

Manabozho received the Old Red-Headed Woodpecker with great ceremony. He had stood at the door awaiting his arrival, and as soon as he came in sight Manabozho commenced, while he was yet far off, bowing and opening wide his arms, in token of welcome; all of which the Woodpecker returned in due form, by ducking his bill and hopping to right and left, extending his wings to their full length and fluttering them back to his breast.

When the Woodpecker at last reached the lodge Manabozho made several remarks upon the weather, the appearance of the country, and especially spoke of the scarcity of game. “But we,” he added—“we always have enough. Come in, and you shall not go away hungry, my noble birds!”

Manabozho had always prided himself on being able to give as good as he had received; and to be up with the Woodpecker he had shifted his lodge so as to inclose a large dry tamarack tree.

“What can I give you?” said he to the Woodpecker; “as we eat so shall you eat.”