Chapter IV: Through Flood and Fire (12)

“Sire,” began the Hare, “an ambassador speaks the truth safely by reason of his position. Thus saith the Moon then: “These Hares were the guardians of my pool, and thine Elephants in coming here have scared them away. This is not well. Am I not “S’às’anka” whose banner bears a hare, and are not these Hares my followers?” “Please your worship,” said the Elephant King with much fear, “we knew nothing of this; we will go there no more.”

“It were well,” said the make-believe ambassador, “that you first make your apologies to the God, who is quaking with rage in his pool, and then went about your business.”

“We will do so,” replied the Elephant with meekness; and being led by night to the pool, in the ripples of which the image of the Moon was quivering, the herd made their prostrations; the Hare explaining to the Moon that their fault was committed in ignorance, and therefore they got their dismissal.

THE ELEPHANT HAS A BET WITH THE TIGER

By Walter Skeat, M.R.A.S., F.A.L.

In the beginning Gajah the Elephant and Rimau the Tiger were sworn friends. But one day they came to a clearing and presently encountered Lobong, the long-tailed Spectacle-Monkey. And when he saw the Monkey the Elephant said, “Mr. Lobong yonder is far too noisy; let us try and shake him off; if he falls to me I am to eat you; and if he falls to you, you are to eat me—we will make a wager of it.” The Tiger said, “Agreed?” and the Elephant replied, “Agreed.” “Very well!” said the Tiger; “you shall try and menace him first.” So the Elephant tried to menace the Monkey. “_Au! Au! Au!_” he trumpeted, and each time he trumpeted the Monkey was scared. But the Monkey went jumping head foremost through the branches and never fell to the ground at all.

Presently, therefore, the Tiger asked the Elephant, “Well, Friend Elephant, would you like to try your luck again?” But the Elephant said, “No, thank you. It shall be your turn now; and if he falls to you, you shall eat me—if you really can make him fall!”

Then the Tiger went and roared his longest and loudest and shortened his body as for a spring and growled and menaced the Monkey thrice. And the Monkey leaped and fell at the Tiger’s feet, for his feet and hands were paralyzed and would not grip the branches any more. Then the Tiger said, “Well, Friend Elephant, I suppose I may eat you now!” But the Elephant said, “You have, I admit, won the wager; but I beg you to grant me just seven days’ respite, to enable me to visit my wife and children and to make my will.” The Tiger granted the request, and the Elephant went home, bellowing and sobbing every foot of the way.

Now the Elephant’s wife heard the sound of her husband’s voice, and said to her children, “What can be the matter with your father that he keeps sobbing so?” And the children listened to make sure and said, “Yes, it really is father’s voice, the sobbing, and not that of anybody else.” Presently Father Elephant arrived, and Mother Elephant asked, “What were you sobbing for, father? What have you done to yourself?” Father Elephant replied, “I made a wager with Friend Tiger about shaking down a Monkey, and Friend Tiger beat me; I menaced the Monkey, but he did not fall; if he had fallen to me, I was to have eaten Friend Tiger, but if he fell to Friend Tiger, Friend Tiger was to eat me. I was beaten, and now Friend Tiger says he is going to eat me. So I begged leave to come home and see you, and he has given me just seven days’ respite.”

Now for the seven days Father Elephant kept sobbing aloud, and neither ate nor slept. And the thing came to the hearing of Friend Mouse-deer. “What can be the matter with Friend Elephant that he keeps bellowing and bellowing, neither does he sleep, so that night is turned into day, and day into night? What on earth is the matter with him? Suppose I go and see” (said the Mouse-deer). Then the Mouse-deer went to see what was wrong, and asked, “What is the matter with you, Friend Elephant, that we hear you bellowing and bellowing every single day and every single night, just now, too, when the Rams are upon us? You are far too noisy.”

But the Elephant said, “It is no mere empty noise, Friend Mouse-deer, I have got into a dreadful scrape.” “What sort of a scrape?” inquired the Mouse-deer. “I made a wager with Friend Tiger about shaking down a Monkey, and he beat me.” “What was the stake?” asked the Mouse-deer. “The stake was that Friend Tiger might eat me if Friend Tiger frightened it down; and if I frightened it down, I might eat Friend Tiger. It fell to Friend Tiger, and now Friend Tiger wants to eat me. And my reason for not eating or sleeping any more is that I have got only just seven days’ respite to go home and visit my wife and children and to make my will.” Then the Mouse-deer said, “If it came to Friend Tiger’s eating you, I should feel exceedingly sorrowful, exceedingly distressed; but things being only as you say, I feel neither.” “If you will assist me, I will become your slave, and my descendant shall be your slaves forever.” “Very well, if that is the case, I will assist you,” said the Mouse-deer. “Go and look for a jar full of molasses.” Friend Elephant promised to do so, and went to look for it at the house of a maker of Palm-wine. The owner of the house fled for his life, and the jar fell into Friend Elephant’s possession, who bore it back to the Mouse-deer.

Then Friend Mouse-deer said, “When does your promise expire?” and Friend Elephant replied, “To-morrow.” So when next morning arrived they started, and the Mouse-deer said, “Now pour the molasses over your back and let it spread and spread and run down your legs.” Friend Elephant did as he was ordered. Friend Mouse-deer then instructed the Elephant as follows: “As soon as I begin to lick up the molasses on your back, bellow as loud as you can and make believe to be hurt, and writhe and wriggle this way and that.”

And presently Friend Mouse-deer commenced to lick hard, and Friend Elephant writhed and wriggled and made believe to be hurt, and made a prodigious noise of trumpeting. In this way they proceeded and Friend Mouse-deer got up and sat astride upon Friend Elephant’s back. And the Elephant trumpeted and trumpeted all the way till they met with Friend Tiger. At this Friend Mouse-deer exclaimed, “A single Elephant is very short commons; if I could only catch that big and fat old Tiger there, it would be just enough to satisfy my hunger.”

Now when Friend Tiger heard these words of the Mouse-deer, he said to himself, “So I suppose if you catch me, you’ll eat me into the bargain, will you?” And Friend Tiger stayed not a moment longer, but fled for his life, fetching very lofty bounds. And soon he met with the Black Ape, and Friend Ape asked, “Why running so hard, Friend Tiger? Why so much noise, and why, just when the Rams are upon us, too, do you go fetching such lofty bounds?” Friend Tiger replied, “What do you mean by ‘So much noise’? What was the Thing that was got upon Friend Elephant’s back, that had caught Friend Elephant and was devouring him so that he went writhing and wriggling for the pain of it, and the blood went streaming down in floods? Moreover the Thing that was on Friend Elephant’s back said, to my hearing, that a single Elephant was very short commons; but if It could catch a fat old Tiger like myself that would be just enough to satisfy Its hunger.” Friend Ape said, “What was that Thing, Friend Tiger?” “I don’t know,” said the Tiger. “Ah,” mused the Ape, “I wonder if It _could_ be Friend Mouse-deer!” “Certainly not,” said the Tiger; “why, how in the world could Friend Mouse-deer swallow _Me_? To say nothing of his not being used to meat food” (said he). “Come and let us go back again.”

Then they went back again to find the Elephant, and first the Ape went the faster, and then the Tiger went the faster, and then the Ape got in front again. But Friend Mouse-deer sitting on Friend Elephant’s back saw them coming and shouted, “Hallo, Father Ape” (said he), “this is a dog’s trick indeed; you promise to bring me two Tigers and you only bring me one. I refuse to accept it, Father Ape.”

Now when the Tiger heard this, he ran off at first as fast as he could, but presently he slackened his pace and said, “It is too bad of you, Friend Ape, for trying to cozen me in order to pay your own debts. For shame! Father Ape! It was only through good luck that he refused to accept me; if he had accepted, I should have been dead and done with. So now, if you come down to the ground, you shall die the death yourself, just for your trying to cheat me.”

Thus the Tiger and the Ape were set at enmity, and to this day the Tiger is very wroth with the Ape for trying to cheat him. And here the story ends.

HOW THE TORTOISE OUTRAN THE DEER

By C. F. Hartt

A Tortoise met a Deer out walking, one day, and asked him what he was looking for. The Deer answered, “I am out for a walk, to see if I cannot find something to eat; and pray where are you going, Tortoise?”

“Oh, out walking, looking for water to drink.”

“How soon do you expect to reach the water?” asked the Deer.

“Why do you ask that question?” returned the Tortoise.

“Because your legs are so short.”

“Well!” answered the Tortoise, “I can run faster than you can. If you are long-legged you cannot run so fast as I.”

“Then let us run a race!” said the Deer.

“Well,” answered the Tortoise, “when shall we run?”

“To-morrow.”

“At what time?”

“Very early in the morning.”

“All right,” assented the Tortoise, who then went into the forest and called together his relations, the other Tortoises, saying, “Come on, let’s catch him!”

“But how are you going to catch him?” they inquired.

“I said to the Deer,” answered the Tortoise, “‘Let us run a race, to see who can run the faster.’ Now I am going to cheat that Deer. You scatter yourselves along the edge of the campo, in the forest, keeping not very far from one another, and see that you keep perfectly still, each in his place! To-morrow, when we begin the race, the deer will run on the campo, but I will remain quietly in my place. When he calls out to me, if you are ahead of him, answer, but take care not to respond if he has passed you.”

Early the next morning the Deer went out to meet the Tortoise.

“Come,” said the former, “let us run!”

“Wait a bit!” said the Tortoise, “I am going to run in the woods.”

“Why, how are you, a little, short-legged fellow, going to run in the forest?” asked the Deer, surprised.

The Tortoise insisted that he could not run in the campo, but that he was accustomed to run in the forest, so the Deer assented, and the Tortoise went into the woods, saying: “When I take my position I will make a noise with a little stick, so that you may know I am ready.”

When the Tortoise, having reached his place, gave the signal, the Deer started off leisurely, laughing to himself, not thinking it worth his while to run. After the Deer had gone quite a little distance, he turned round and called out, “Hullo, Tortoise!” When to his astonishment, a Tortoise a little way ahead cried out, “Hullo, Deer!”

“Well,” said the Deer to himself, “that Tortoise does run fast!” Whereupon he hurried up for a bit and then called out again, but the voice of the Tortoise still seemed to be beyond him.

“Why, how’s this?” exclaimed the Deer, and he ran briskly for a little ways till, thinking that he surely must have passed the Tortoise, he stopped, turned about, and called again. “Hullo, Deer!” the answer came from the edge of the forest just ahead.

On this the Deer set off at full speed, and, after a little, but without stopping this time, he called to the Tortoise. And still the cry, “Hullo, Deer!” came back to him from ahead. He then redoubled his forces, but with no better success, and at last, tired and bewildered, he ran against a tree and fell dead.

The noise made by the feet of the Deer having ceased, the first Tortoise listened. Not a sound was heard. Then he called to the Deer, but received no response. So he went to see what was the matter and found the Deer lying at the foot of the tree.

This is an Amazonian myth of the Tupi-speaking population, as
related in the Lingua Geral.—CHARLES F. HARTT.

A myth of the slow Tortoise (Sun) and the swift Deer (Moon), a
race which the Sun always wins.

WHICH WAS THE STRONGER, THE TORTOISE, THE TAPIR, OR THE WHALE?

By C. F. Hartt

One day a Tortoise went down to the sea to drink. A Whale saw him and called out: “Here, what are you doing, Tortoise?”

“Why, I’m drinking, ’cause I’m thirsty.”

Then the Whale began to make fun of the Tortoise’s short legs, but the Tortoise indignantly replied: “Even if my legs are short, I am stronger than you, and I can pull you on shore.”

The Whale laughed, “Come on, let me see you do it!”

“Well!” said the Tortoise, “just wait until I go into the forest and get a sipó!”[5]

Away went the Tortoise into the forest, and there he met a Tapir, who asked him what he was looking for.

“I am looking for a sipó.”

“And what are you going to do with a sipó?” asked the Tapir.

“I want it to pull you down to the sea.”

“You!” exclaimed the Tapir, surprised. “I’ll pull you into the forest, and, what’s more—but never mind, let’s try who may be the stronger! Go get your sipó!” The Tortoise went off, and presently came back with a very long sipó, one end of which he tied around the body of the Tapir.

“Now,” said the Tortoise, “wait here until I go down to the sea. When I shake this sipó, run with all your might into the forest.” Having attached one end to the Tapir, he dragged the other down to the sea and fastened it to the tail of the Whale. This accomplished, he said, “I will go up into the forest, and when I shake the sipó, pull as hard as you can, for I am going to draw you on shore.”

The Tortoise then went into the wood, midway between the Whale and the Tapir, shook the sipó, and awaited the result. First the Whale, swimming vigorously, dragged the Tapir backward to the sea, but the latter, resisting with all his might, finally gained a firm foothold and began to get the better of the Whale, drawing him in toward the shore. Then the Whale made another effort, and in this manner they kept tugging against one another, each thinking the Tortoise at the other end of the sipó, until at last, both gave up the struggle from sheer exhaustion.

The Tortoise then walked down to the shore, and the Whale called out to him: “Well, you certainly are strong, Tortoise; I am very tired.”

The Tortoise untied the sipó from the Whale, and, having dipped himself in the water, went over to where the Tapir was puffing after his labors.

“Well, Tapir,” he said, as he untied the sipó, “you see that I am the stronger.”

“It is true, Tortoise, you are very, very strong.”

The Tortoise (Sun) has a trial of strength with the Tapir
(Moon) or perhaps this is the Tortoise (Sun) provoking the
everlasting tidal contest between sea and land.—C. F. HARTT.

[5] A sipó is a long root growing in the air, often used as a
rope.

HOW THE TURTLE GOT HIS SHELL

By Annie Ker

Long ago, our fathers have told us, the Turtle and the Wallaby were friends. Now on a certain day the Turtle was hungry, and asked his friend to go with him to the beach and from thence to the Hornbill’s garden, where was much sugarcane and where bananas also were plentiful. This they did, and fed plentifully on all that was there. The Wallaby trod upon the stalks of the bananas and bowed them to the ground that his friend might eat. Thus did he also to the tall sugarcanes and the flowering rush. And they both did eat and their hunger was stayed.

Now while they were eating the Birds were at work in their gardens, tilling the ground. When the work was finished they dug up much taro and returned to the village to cook their food. They peeled the roots and cut them up and placed them in the pots for cooking. Then said Binama the Hornbill, “Let one of you go down to the beach and bring sea water that our food may be salted.”

But nothing came of it, for one by one the Birds made excuse, fearing lest an enemy lay in wait. At last the Wagtail arose, and ran into the house to make ready to go to the beach. He hung his shell breastplate round his neck, tied waving feathers round his head, and took his spear and went forth. As he went he leaped from side to side the better to avoid the foe, if foe there were. In a little while he came to Binama’s garden and saw the Turtle and Wallaby feeding. Their hearts trembled; nevertheless the Turtle made bold and said to the Wagtail, “Thy master has bidden us eat of his bananas that our hunger may be stayed.”

Now the Wagtail knew in his heart that they lied, but he answered never a word, but filled his bottles with sea water and ran back to the village by another way. When he reached the village he cried aloud, “Friends, the Turtle and the Wallaby are eating in our master’s garden!” At this word all arose and ran for their spears, and surrounded the garden. The Wallaby lifted up his head, and seeing naught but enemies round about him, tarried not but leaped mightily, and escaped. The Turtle could not jump, as he well knew, so he crawled with haste into a yam patch and hid himself under the leaves.

The Birds knew he was still there, and they hunted for him diligently until they found him and dragged him forth. The Turtle feared greatly, and cried, “Take not vengeance on me, for truly the Wallaby bade me come hither and with his feet he broke the stalks, while I only ate of the fruit.” The Birds cared little for his words, and tied him to a pole and thus carried him to Binama’s house, where they laid him upon a shelf till the morrow.

The next day Binama called his servants together and all went to dig food to make a feast, when they should slay the Turtle. None were in the house but the children whom Binama had set to guard the captive. Then the Turtle made his voice soft, and called to the children, “Loosen my bonds, O children,” quoth he, “that we may play together.” Now the children knew not what was in the Turtle’s mind, and they did as he bade them. He crawled down from the shelf, and stretched himself, for he was stiff and sore. Then he said to the children, “Where are your ornaments? Leave the poor ones in the basket, and bring forth only the good ones, that I may see them.”

The children ran to the place where Binama kept his ornaments, and brought forth a long necklace of shell money, also two shell armlets and a wooden bowl, and laid them before the Turtle. He forthwith wound the necklace many times round his neck, and put on both the shell armlets. Moreover the bowl he fastened upon his back. Then he said to the children, “Ye behold me now richly attired. Watch while I run a little and back again, and tell me if the sight is a good one or no.”

The children watched him crawl a few paces and called him to return. This the Turtle did and all sat together in the shade of a tree. Then the Turtle crawled once more, and the children laughed to watch his ungainly form decorated with their father’s ornaments. Again the Turtle returned to the children, but this time he did not sit with them. For on a sudden he heard voices and knew the men were drawing near. Then he saw them as they came forth, and ran swiftly to the sea. The children cried aloud to their father, “Come, for the Turtle is running away!”

When Binama heard this cry, he and the Birds with him threw the sheaves of taro aside and gave chase to the runaway. But the Turtle had already reached the sea, and he hastened to dive. The Birds called, “Show thyself now. Lift up thy head.” So the Turtle did so, and the angry Birds cast great stones into the sea, and the left armlet which the turtle wore was shattered. So he dived, but they called again, “Show thyself. Lift up thy head,” and a stone fell upon the right armlet and broke it into small pieces. Again they called, and again the Turtle raised himself in the water, and this time the stones cut the string on which the necklace of shell money was threaded.

And now for the last time came the call, “Show thyself. Lift up thy head.” The Turtle once more raised himself and the Birds flung after him all the great stones they could find. They fell in scores upon the wooden bowl which had been carried away from Binama’s home, but it was not destroyed, nay, nor was it harmed at all. And the Turtle fled far over the sea, nor was he seen again of Binama or his followers.

But since that day even until now, so our fathers have told us, all turtles carry upon their backs the bowl which in the old days was in the house of Binama.

THE LEGEND OF RATA

By Sir George Grey

Wahieroa had been treacherously slain by a chief named Matuku, so it became the duty of his young son Rata to revenge his father’s death. By the time he had grown up he had devised a plan for doing this, and gave the necessary orders to his followers. He then started on a journey.

Arrived at the entrance to Matuku’s place he found a Man sitting in the courtyard who had been left in charge.

“Where is the man who killed my father?” he asked.

“He lives down in the earth and I call to warn him when the new moon appears. That is when he comes upon earth to do battle.”

“How can he know when the proper time comes?”

“I call to him in a loud voice.”

“When will there be a new moon?”

“In two nights. Return to your village, but come here again on the morning of the second day.”

On the morning appointed, Rata returned and found the Man sitting in the same place.

“Do you know any spot where I can conceal myself from the enemy with whom I am about to fight?” he inquired.

The Man replied, “Come with me and I will show you the two fountains of clear water.”

“This spot that we stand on,” said the Man, when they arrived at the place, “is the place where Matuku rises up from the earth, and yonder fountain is the one on which he combs and washes his dishevelled hair; but this fountain is the one he uses to reflect his face in while he dresses it. You can not kill him while he is at the fountain he uses to reflect his face in, because your shadow would also be reflected in it and he would see it; but at the fountain in which he washes his hair you may smite and slay him.”

“Will he make his appearance this evening?”

“Yes.”

They had not waited long when the moon became visible and the Man told Rata to hide himself near the brink of the fountain in which Matuku would wash his hair. Then he shouted aloud, “Ho, ho, the new moon is visible—a moon two days old.”

Matuku heard him and, seizing his two-handed wooden sword, rose from the earth. He laid his sword on the ground at the edge of the fountain where he dressed his hair, and kneeling down on both sides of it he loosened the strings which bound up his long locks, shook them out, and plunged his head into the clear cool water. Rata crept out from where he lay hid, and rapidly moved up and stood behind him. As Matuku raised his head above the water Rata with one hand seized him by the hair, while with the other he smote and slew him.

“Where shall I find the bones of my father?” he next asked the Keeper.

“They are not here; a strange people who live at a distance came and carried them off.”

Upon hearing this reply Rata returned to his village to think matters over. He went to the forest and, having found a very tall tree that grew straight throughout its entire length, he felled it and cut its noble branching tops, intending to fashion the trunk into a canoe.

The Insects which inhabit trees and the Spirits of the Forest were very angry at this, and as soon as Rata had returned to the village, when his day’s work was done, they took the tree and raised it up again. The multitude of Insects, Birds and Spirits worked away at replacing each little chip and shaving in its proper place, and sang as they worked:

“Fly together, chips and shavings,
Stick ye fast together,
Hold ye fast together;
Stand upright again, O tree.”

Early the next morning Rata came back. When he got to the place where he had left the trunk lying on the ground, he could not at first find it. That fine tall straight tree, which he saw standing whole and sound, was the same he thought he had cut down, and there it was now, erect again; however, he stepped up to it and, hewing away, he felled it to the ground once more. Off he cut its fine branching top, and he began to hollow out the hold of the canoe, and round off the prow and the stern into their proper, gracefully curved forms. In the evening when it became too dark to work, he returned to his village.

As soon as he was gone the multitudes of Insects, Birds and Spirits raised up the tree upon its stump once more. They sang as they worked, and when they had ended the tree again stood as sound as ever in its former place in the forest.

Morning dawned, and Rata returned once more to work at his canoe. When he reached the place was not he amazed to see the tree standing, untouched, just as he had first found it? Nothing daunted, however, he hews away at it again and down it topples, crashing to the earth. As soon as he saw the tree on the ground Rata went off, as if going home, but turned back and hid himself in the underwood, in a spot whence he could peep out and see what took place. He had not been hidden long when he heard the innumerable multitude of the children of Tane approaching singing their incantations, and at last they arrived at the place where the tree was lying on the ground.

Rata rushed upon them. He seized some of them, shouting: “Ha, ha, it is you, is it, who have been exercising your magical arts upon my tree?”

Then the children of Tane all cried aloud in reply, “Who gave you authority to fell the forest god to the ground? You had no right to do so.”

When Rata heard this he was overcome with shame at what he had done. The children of Tane called out to him: “Return, O Rata, to thy village, we will make a canoe for you,” and Rata obeyed their orders without delay.

They were so numerous and each understood so well what to do that they had no sooner begun to adze out a canoe, than it was finished. When the canoe was afloat upon the sea, one hundred and forty warriors embarked on board it and they paddled off to seek their foe.

One night, just at nightfall, they reached the fortress of their enemy. Rata landed alone, leaving all his warriors on board. As he stole along the shore he saw that a fire was burning on the sacred place where the enemy sacrificed to their gods. Without stopping he crept directly towards the fire and hid behind some thick bushes. There were several priests, and to assist them in their magical arts they were using the bones of Wahieroa, knocking them together to beat time while repeating a powerful incantation known only to themselves.

Rata listened attentively to this incantation until he had learned it by heart, and when he was quite sure he knew it he rushed suddenly upon the priests. Being ignorant of the numbers of the enemy or whence they came, they made little resistance and were in a moment overcome. The bones of his father Wahieroa were then eagerly snatched up. He hastened with them back to the canoe, embarked on board it, and his warriors at once paddled away. Rata’s task of avenging his father’s death being thus ended, his tribe hauled up his large canoe on the shore and roofed it over with thatch to protect it from the sun and weather.

WHY THE HIPPOPOTAMUS LIVES IN THE WATER

By Elphinstone Dayrell, F.R.G.S., F.R.A.I.

Many years ago the Hippopotamus, whose name was Isantim, was one of the biggest kings on the land; he was second only to the Elephant. The Hippo had seven large fat Wives, of whom he was very fond. Now and then he used to give a big feast to the people, but a curious thing was that, although every one knew the Hippo, no one, except his seven Wives, knew his name.

At one of the feasts, just as the people were about to sit down, the Hippo said, “You have come to feed at my table, but none of you know my name. If you cannot tell my name you shall all of you go away without your dinner.”

As they could not guess his name, they had to go away and leave all the good food behind them. Before they left, however, the Tortoise stood up and asked the Hippopotamus what he would do if he told him his name at the next feast? So the Hippo replied that he would be so ashamed of himself that he and his whole family would leave the land, and for the future would dwell in the water.

Now, it was the custom for the Hippo and his seven Wives to go down every morning and evening to the river to wash and have a drink. Of this custom the Tortoise was aware. The Hippo used to walk first, and the seven Wives followed. One day when they had gone down to the river to bathe, the Tortoise made a small hole in the middle of the path, and then waited. When the Hippo and his Wives returned two of the Wives were some distance behind, so the Tortoise came out from where he had been hiding and half buried himself in the hole he had dug, leaving the greater part of his shell exposed. When the two Hippo Wives came along, the first one knocked her foot against the Tortoise’s shell, and immediately called out to her husband, “Oh, Isantim, my husband, I have hurt my foot.” At this the Tortoise was very glad, and went joyfully home.

When the next feast was given by the Hippo, he made the same condition about his name; so the Tortoise got up and said, “You promise you will not kill me if I tell you your name?” and the Hippo promised. The Tortoise then shouted as loud as he was able, “Your name is Isantim,” at which a cheer went up from all the people, and then they sat down to dinner.

When the feast was over, the Hippo with his seven Wives, in accordance with his promise, went down to the river, and they have always lived in the water from that day till now. Although they come on shore to feed at night, you never find a Hippo on the land in the daytime.

WHY THE ELEPHANT HAS SMALL EYES

By Elphinstone Dayrell, F.R.G.S., F.R.A.I.

When Ambo was King of Calabar, the Elephant was not only a very big animal, but he had eyes in proportion to his bulk. In those days men and animals were friends, and all mixed together quite freely. At regular intervals King Ambo used to give a feast, and the Elephant used to eat more than any one, though the Hippopotamus used to do his best; however, not being as big as the Elephant, although he was very fat, he was left a long way behind.

As the Elephant ate so much at these feasts, the Tortoise, who was small and very cunning, made up his mind to put a stop to the Elephant eating more than a fair share of the food provided. He, therefore, placed some dry kernels and shrimps, of which the Elephant was very fond, in his bag, and went to the Elephant’s house to make an afternoon call.

When the Tortoise arrived the Elephant told him to sit down, so he made himself comfortable, and, having shut one eye, took one palm kernel and a shrimp out of his bag and commenced to eat them with relish.

When the Elephant saw the Tortoise eating, he said, as he was always hungry himself, “You seem to have some good food there; what are you eating?”

The Tortoise replied that the food was sweet but was rather painful, as he was eating one of his eyes; and he lifted up his head, showing one eye closed.

The Elephant said, “If the food is so good, take out one of my eyes and give me the same food.”

The Tortoise, who was waiting for this, knowing how greedy the Elephant was, said, “I cannot reach your eye, you are so big.” So the Elephant took the Tortoise in his trunk and lifted him up, and with one quick scoop he had the Elephant’s eye out. The Elephant trumpeted with pain, but the Tortoise gave him some of the dried kernels and shrimps, and they so pleased the Elephant that he soon forgot the pain.

Soon the Elephant said, “That food is so sweet I must have some more;” but the Tortoise told him that before he could have any the other eye must come out. To this the Elephant agreed, and soon the Elephant was quite blind. The Elephant then began to make a great noise, and started pulling trees down and doing much damage, calling out for the Tortoise. The Tortoise had slid down the Elephant’s trunk to the ground, and hid himself.

The next morning when the Elephant heard the people passing, he asked them what the time was, and the Bush Buck, who was nearest, shouted out, “The sun is now up, and I am going to market to get some yams and fresh leaves for my food.”

Then the Elephant perceived that the Tortoise had deceived him, and began to ask all the passers-by to lend him a pair of eyes, as he could not see, but every one refused, as they wanted their eyes themselves. At last the Worm grovelled past, and seeing the big Elephant, greeted him in his humble way. He was much surprised when the King of the Forest returned his salutation, and very much flattered also.

The Elephant said, “Look here, Worm, I have mislaid my eyes. Will you lend me yours for a few days? I will return them next market-day.”

The Worm was so flattered at being noticed by the Elephant that he gladly consented, and took his eyes out—which, as every one knows, were very small—and gave them to the Elephant. When the Elephant had put the Worm’s eyes into his own large eye-sockets, the flesh immediately closed round them so tightly that when the market-day arrived it was impossible for the Elephant to get them out again to return to the Worm; and although the Worm repeatedly made applications to the Elephant to return his eyes, the Elephant always pretended not to hear, and sometimes used to say in a very loud voice, “If there are any Worms about, they had better get out of my way, as they are so small I cannot see them, and if I tread on them they will be squashed.”

Ever since then the Worms have been blind, and for the same reason Elephants have such small eyes, quite out of proportion to the size of their huge bodies!

THE BOY WHO SET A SNARE FOR THE SUN

By H. R. Schoolcraft

At the time when the animals reigned on the earth, they had killed all the people but a Girl and her little brother; and these two were living in fear in an out-of-the-way place. The Boy was a perfect little pigmy, and never grew beyond the size of a mere infant; but the Girl increased with her years, so that the task of providing food and shelter fell wholly upon her. She went out daily to get wood for the lodge-fire, and she took her little brother with her that no mishap might befall them, for he was too little to leave alone. A big bird of a mischievous disposition might have flown away with him. She made him a bow and arrows, and one day she said to him: “My little brother, I will leave you behind where I have been gathering the wood; you must hide yourself, and you will soon see the snowbirds come and peck the worms out of the logs which I have piled up. Shoot one of them and bring it home.”

He obeyed her, and tried his best to kill one, but he came home unsuccessful. His sister told him that he must not despair, but try again the next day.

She accordingly left him at the gathering place of the wood, and returned to the lodge. Toward nightfall she heard his little footsteps crackling through the snow, and he hurried in and threw down, with an air of triumph, one of the birds which he had killed. “My sister,” said he, “I wish you to skin it, and stretch the skin, and when I have killed more I will have a coat made out of them.”

“But what shall we do with the body?” said she; for they had always up to that time lived upon greens and berries.

“Cut it in two,” he answered, “and season our stew with one half of it at a time.”

It was their first dish of game, and they greatly relished it.

The Boy kept on in his efforts, and in the course of time he killed ten birds, out of the skins of which his sister made him a pretty little coat. As he was small, there was one bird skin to spare.

“Sister,” said he, one day, as he marched up and down before the lodge, dressed in his new coat and fancying himself the Greatest Little Fellow in the World—as he was, for there was no other beside him—“My sister, are we really alone in the world, or are we making believe? Is there nobody else living? And tell me, was all this great broad earth and this huge big sky made for a little boy and girl like you and me?”

“By no means,” she said. And then she explained to him that there were many folks very unlike a harmless girl and boy, such as they were, who lived in another part of the earth, and that if he would live blameless and not endanger his life, he must never go where they were. This only served to inflame the Boy’s curiosity, and he soon took his bow and arrows and went in that direction. After walking a long while and meeting no one, he became tired and stretched himself upon a high, green knoll, where the day’s warmth had melted off the snow.

It was a charming place to lie upon, and he fell asleep. While he slept the Sun beat so hot upon him that it singed his bird-skin coat and so shrivelled and shrunk it upon his body as to wake him up.

When he saw the mischief the Sun’s fiery beams had played with the coat he was so proud of, he flew into a great rage and scolded the Sun in a terrible way for a little boy no higher than a man’s knee. “Do not think you are too high for me to get you,” said he; “I shall revenge myself, oh Sun. I will have you for a plaything yet.”

When he reached home he told his sister how unfortunate he had been, and bitterly bewailed the spoiling of his new coat. He would not eat, not so much as a single berry. He lay down, like one who fasts, without changing his position for ten days, nor could his sister persuade him to get up. At the end of ten days he turned over on the other side and lay in that position for ten days.

When he got up he was very pale, but very determined. He ordered his sister to make him a snare, as he meant to catch the Sun. She said she had nothing, but presently she brought forward a deer’s sinew, which their father had left, and made it into a string suitable for a noose. The moment she showed it to her brother he said it would not do, and angrily bade her find something else. She said she had nothing else, but presently remembered the bird’s skin that had been left over when the coat was made, and this she made into a string. With this the Boy was more vexed than over the other. “The Sun has had enough of my bird skins,” he said; “find something else.”

She did not dare to say again that she had nothing, so she went out of the lodge murmuring to herself, “Was there ever so obstinate a boy?” Luckily she thought of her hair, and pulling out some of it here and there from among her beautiful black locks, she quickly braided it into a fine cord and handed it to her brother.

The moment his eye fell on it he was delighted, and immediately began to run it back and forth through his hands, trying its strength. Satisfied that the long, glossy coil was strong enough, he wound it around his shoulders and set out from the lodge a little after midnight, his object being to catch the Sun before he rose.

Having fixed his snare firmly at a place where the Sun must strike the land as it rose above the earth, he waited patiently. The instant it appeared he drew the cord tight, so that the Sun was held fast and could not rise.

Soon there was a great commotion among the animals who ruled the earth. They had no light, and ran to and fro, calling out to each other and asking what had happened. They called together a council to discuss the matter. An old Dormouse, suspecting what was the trouble, proposed that some one should be appointed to go out and cut the cord. This was a bold thing to do, as the rays of the Sun would surely burn whoever ventured near them. No one seemed willing to run the risk, so the Dormouse himself undertook to go. The Dormouse was, at this time, the largest animal in the world. When he stood up he looked like a mountain.

He made haste to the place where the Sun lay ensnared, and as it came nearer and nearer its back began to smoke and burn with the heat, and the whole top of its huge body was turned in a very short time to enormous heaps of ashes. The Dormouse did succeed, however, in cutting the cord with its teeth, and the Sun blazed up into the high, blue sky, as beautiful as ever.

The poor Dormouse paid the price of his bravery. So great was the heat of the Sun, that he found himself, when it was all over, shrunk to a little bit of a thing, and that is the reason why the Dormouse is one of the tiniest creatures on the earth.

The Little Boy returned home, when he discovered that the Sun had escaped his snare and devoted himself entirely to hunting. “If the beautiful hair of my sister would not hold the Sun fast, nothing in the world could,” he said. “I was not born, a little fellow like me, to look after the Sun. It takes some one greater and wiser than I to do that.”

Whereupon he went out and shot ten more snowbirds, for at that he was very expert, and had a new bird-skin coat made, which was prettier than the one he had worn before.

THE BIRD LOVER

By Cornelius Mathews

In a region of country where the forest and the prairie strived which should be the most beautiful—the open plain, with its free sunshine and winds and flowers, or the closed wood, with its delicious twilight-walks and enamored haunts—there lived a wicked manito in the disguise of an old Indian.

Although the country furnished an abundance of game, and whatever else a good heart could wish for, it was the study of this wicked genius to destroy such as fell into his hands. He made use of all his arts to decoy men into his power, for the purpose of killing them. The country had been once thickly peopled, but the Mudjee Monedo had so thinned it by his cruel practices, that he now lived almost solitary in the wilderness.

The secret of his success lay in his great speed. He had the power to assume the shape of any four-footed creature, and it was his custom to challenge such as he sought to destroy, to run with him. He had a beaten path on which he ran, leading around a large lake, and he always ran around this circle so that the starting and the winning post was the same.

Whoever failed, as every one had, yielded up his life at this post; and although he ran every day, no man was ever known to beat this evil genius; for whenever he was pressed hard, he changed himself into a fox, wolf, deer, or other swift-footed animal, and was thus able to leave his competitor behind.

The whole country was in dread of this same Mudjee Monedo, and yet the young men were constantly running with him; for if they refused, he called them cowards, which was a reproach they could not bear. They would rather die than be called cowards.

To keep up his sport, the manito made light of these deadly foot-matches, and instead of assuming a braggart air, and going about in a boastful way, with the blood of such as he had overcome upon his hands, he adopted very pleasing manners, and visited the lodges around the country as any other sweet-tempered and harmless old Indian might.

His secret object in these friendly visits was to learn whether the young boys were getting old enough to run with him; he kept a very sharp eye upon their growth, and the day he thought them ready, he did not fail to challenge them to a trial on his racing-ground.

There was not a family in all that beautiful region which had not in this way been visited and thinned out; and the manito had quite naturally come to be held in abhorrence by all the Indian mothers in the country.

It happened that there lived near him a poor widow woman, whose husband and seven sons he had made away with; and she was now living with an only daughter, and a son of ten or twelve years old.

This widow was very poor and feeble, and she suffered so much for lack of food and other comforts of the lodge, that she would have been glad to die, but for her daughter and her little son. The Mudjee Monedo had already visited her lodge to observe whether the boy was sufficiently grown to be challenged to the race; and so crafty in his approaches and so soft in his manners was the Monedo, that the mother feared that he would yet decoy the son and make away with him as he had done with his father and his seven brothers, in spite of all her struggles to save him.

And yet she strove with all her might to strengthen her son in every good course. She taught him, as best she could, what was becoming for the wise hunter and the brave warrior. She remembered and set before him all that she could recall of the skill and the craft of his father and his brothers who were lost.

The widow woman also instructed her daughter in whatever should make her useful as a wife; and in the leisure time of the lodge, she gave her lessons in the art of working with the quills of porcupine, and bestowed on her such other accomplishments as should make her an ornament and a blessing to her husband’s household. The daughter, Minda by name, was kind and obedient to her mother, and never failed in her duty. Their lodge stood high up on the banks of a lake, which gave them a wide prospect of country, embellished with groves and open fields, which waved with the blue light of their long grass, and made, at all hours of sun and moon, a cheerful scene to look upon.

Across this beautiful prairie, Minda had one morning made her way to gather dry limbs for their fire; for she disdained no labor of the lodge. And while enjoying the sweetness of the air and the green beauty of the woods, she strolled far away.

She had come to a bank, painted with flowers of every hue, and was reclining on its fragrant couch, when a bird, of red and deep-blue plumage softly blended, alighted on a branch near by, and began to pour forth its carol. It was a bird of strange character, such as she had never before seen. Its first note was so delicious to the ear of Minda, and it so pierced to her young heart, that she listened as she had never before to any mortal or heavenly sound. It seemed like the human voice, forbidden to speak, and uttering its language through this wild wood-chant with a mournful melody, as if it bewailed the lack of the power or the right to make itself more plainly intelligible.

The voice of the bird rose and fell, and circled round and round, but whithersoever floated or spread out its notes, they seemed ever to have their center where Minda sat; and she looked with sad eyes into the sad eyes of the mournful bird, that sat in his red and deep-blue plumage just opposite to the flowery bank.

The poor bird strove more and more with his voice, and seemed ever more and more anxiously to address his notes of lament to Minda’s ears, till at last she could not refrain from saying: “What aileth thee, sad bird?”

As if he had but waited to be spoken to, the bird left his branch, and alighting upon the bank, smiled on Minda, and, shaking his shining plumage, answered:

“I am bound in this condition until a maiden shall accept me in marriage. I have wandered these groves and sung to many and many of the Indian girls, but none ever heeded my voice till you. Will you be mine?” he added, and poured forth a flood of melody which sparkled and spread itself with its sweet murmurs over all the scene, and fairly entranced the young Minda, who sat silent, as if she feared to break the charm by speech.