Chapter II: Part 2

GOODBYE GRAY CAT

Gray Cat,
I am telling you goodbye.

Today I go to the mountains.

I take my sheep to summer range,
but you, Gray Cat,
you have no sheep
so you must stay at home.

Stay here with my grandmother,
Gray Cat.

She will feed you.

Goodbye, Goodbye.

ACROSS THE SAND

My mother lets down the bars
of the sheep corral.

The flock crowds around her.

The goats look at me.

I think they are saying,
"We know where we are going."

The little lambs
walk close by their mothers.

They are like me,
they do not know
if they will like this place
where we are going.

My mother and I,
we drive our sheep
across the sand.

My grandmother
stands at her door
looking after us.

GOODBYE TO GRANDMOTHER

My grandmother,
my little grandmother,
now I am leaving you.

Last year I was too small
to go to the mountains.

I stayed with you,
but this year I am big,
I am almost tall
so I must help drive the sheep
to summer range.

My grandmother,
my little grandmother,
do not be lonely.

I will come back again.

RIDING

Riding,
riding,
riding on my horse
to herd the sheep
across the yellow sand.

Yellow sand is around me.

Yellow sun is above me.

I ride in the middle
of a sand and sun filled world.

Riding,
riding,
riding on my horse
to herd the sheep
across the yellow sand.

Sun heat
and sheep smell
and sand dust
wrap around me
like a blanket
as I ride through the sand
with my sheep.

NOON IN THE SAGEBRUSH

At noon
we reach the sagebrush flats.

Gray-green sagebrush scents the air.

Gray-green sagebrush softens
the yellows of the land.

My mother makes a little fire
no bigger than her coffee pot.

Food is good
and rest is good
at noon
in the sagebrush.

NIGHT CAMP

At night we make camp
in the juniper covered hills.

My father is waiting for us there.

The moon looks down
on the restless sheep
on the hobbled horses.

The moon looks down
on a shooting star.

But I am too tired
to look at anything.

I sleep.

UP THE TRAIL

Morning sunrise sees us climbing
up and up
on the mountain trail.

There are pine trees
standing straight and tall.

Brown pine needles
and green grass
cover the ground.

Shadows play with the sunlight.

There is no yellow sand.

The sheep hurry upward,
climbing and pushing
in the narrow trail.

I ride after the sheep.

My horse breathes fast.

His feet stumble
in the narrow trail.

All day long
the sheep climb upward.

They want to eat
and I am hungry, too,
but my mother says,
"No."

All day long we ride
to herd the sheep.

Night is almost with us
when we reach the top.

SUMMER RANGE

Summer range in the mountains
is on a high mesa,
a steep, high mesa,
a flat-topped mesa,
with tall growing pine trees,
with short growing green grass,
with little, winding rivers
and rain filled lakes.

This is summer range for our sheep.

THE LAKE

Between the trees
I see water standing
in a bowl of green rushes.

The water is quiet.

It is still
and blue
and cold.

It is a lake
with land all around it.

It is a lake.

The sheep drink
long and steadily.

They stand in the shallow water
at the edges of the lake.

Their little pointed feet
dig deep into the mud
of the lake banks.

I see colored fish
beneath the water
swimming in a rainbow line.

I throw stones into the lake.

The water pushes back in circles
to take the stones.

The dogs swim far out
into the cold waters.

They are thirsty and hot.

I have never seen a lake before.

Gentle rain pools I have seen
and angry flood waters,
but never before
a still, blue lake.

It is beautiful.

A lake is beautiful.

SHELTER

Beneath the trees
I see our summer shelter.

My father and my uncle
have made a shade
to shelter us from night rains
and from the cold
of near-by snow peaks.

They have made us a shade
of cottonwood boughs
and juniper bark.

It has the clean smell
that trees give.

THE SHEEP CORRAL

My father and my uncle
made a sheep corral
while they were waiting
for the sheep and for us
to come up the trail.

They made the sheep corral
of branches,
a circle of branches,
a circle of dark colored boughs.

The sheep stay safe
in their corral tonight
and I sleep
beneath the cottonwood shade.

DAWN

This morning
when I opened my eyes from
sleeping I could not remember
what place this is.

I thought I was in
my mother's winter hogan.

Now I remember.

This is summer camp.

Tall trees stretch above me.

In the darkness
they look blacker than the night.

As I lie here,
safe and warm beneath
my blanket,
all around me turns to gray mist,
all around me turns to silver.

Darkness is gone,
but it made no sound.

It left no footprints.

The world is still asleep.

Through the pine trees
day comes up
light comes up.

In the pine trees
bird wings are stirring,
bird songs are stirring.

I hear them.

I hear them.

The grass beside my blanket
is wet with night rain.

Morning mist is on the leaves
and in my hair.

I put one toe out,
one brown toe out.

It is hard to get up
when it is cold.

Blue smoke from my mother's fire
curls upward in a thin blue line.

The sheep move inside their corral.

I come out from under my blanket,
from under my warm blanket.

Like the other things around me,
I come out
to greet the day.

MORNING PRAYER

Silent and still
my father stands
before our summer shelter.

He is thinking a prayer
to the Holy Ones,
asking them
this day
to keep our feet
on the trail of Beauty.

Filling the silence
of my father's prayer
I hear the bluebird's song.

THE SHEEP

The poor sheep are cold.

Their winter wool was cut off
last week
at shearing time.

When early summer painted
flowers on the desert
with bunches of new grass,
when snow water melted
and softened the hard earth,
when Sun-Bearer smiled
on the sheep and the people.

Then my mother said,
"Now,
it is shearing time."

My mother said that last week.

Last week it was shearing time.

Last week
at shearing time,
my mother caught her sheep.

One by one she caught them.

She tied their feet together
and with her shears
she clipped their wool.

My mother's hands were sure.

She cut the wool but once
from underneath.

She did not fumble,
cutting it here and there
into short pieces.

She cut the wool but once.

Her hands were sure.

My mother's hands were strong.

She pulled the wool back.

She folded it back
to come off in one piece.

My mother's hands were strong.

The sheep lay still
beneath her gentle fingers.

Trusting my mother's hands,
the sheep lay still.

But now
the poor sheep are cold.

They stand in their corral
this morning
and shiver
and bleat
and call loudly
for the sun
and for me
to come.

THE GOATS

Goats lead the sheep.

They go first into everything.

That is their way.

They are not afraid.

My uncle says in the English,
"Goats are tough."

Goats eat the grass too far down.

They eat the trees too far up.

That is their way.

They do not care.

My uncle says in the English,
"Goats are tough."

Goats, more than sheep,
get into my mother's stew pot.

Their meat is good,
but it takes chewing,
too much chewing.

I say with my uncle,
"Goats are tough."

HERDING

After we have eaten our morning food,
my father and my uncle
ride down the steep trail
to the Trading Post.

My mother kneels beside her loom
before the cottonwood shade.

I see the sun on my mother's
brown hands.

I see the sun on my mother's
black hair.

I give my mother a long look,
then I turn my back.

I walk to the sheep corral.

My feet are brown.

My feet are bare.

The wet grass parts
to make a way
to let me pass.

I walk to the sheep corral.

My skirts are long.

My skirts are many.

The flowers move back
to make a way
to let me pass.

I walk to the sheep corral.

I let down the bars.

The sheep go first
and I follow.

The sheep walk slowly
for they like to eat
the short sweet grass
under the trees.

I walk slowly
for I am lonely.

Things here are strange.

I am afraid.

I know that my mother sits
before our shelter
weaving a blanket at her loom.

I know she is near me,
but I cannot see her.

I can see only tall trees
and bits of sky.

I am a child of the yellow sand.

Mesa top and pine trees,
green grass and colored flowers
are strange to me.

Unknown things live here.

I am afraid.

I creep to the edge of the mesa
while my sheep are feeding.

Far, far below me
is the world I know,
the yellow world
of sand and wind
and sand.

Far below
I see sheep walking,
someone's sheep walking,
in a dust cloud
of their own making.

Far below
I see a sand whirl
made by an angry wind
fighting the land.

Far below
I see the heat haze,
colored heat haze
blanketing the desert.

I see these things
through tears
for they are the things
I know.

I am lonely without them.

Here on top of the mesa
is a strange world
of shadows and water
and grass for the sheep.

Grass for the sheep,
I had forgotten that.

Grass for the sheep
to give them life,
to make them strong.

Here on top of the mesa
there is grass for our sheep.

Surely the gods are good
who live here.

The sheep drink slowly.

Shadows sleep.

The quiet of the mesa
pushes against me.

I can feel it, heavy, heavy,
it pushes against me.

Surely, the gods who live here
are known to me.

The words of the Holy Song
are known to me.

"On top of the mountain
are found the gods."

These are the words
of the Holy Song.

NOON ON THE MESA

Day grows long
and bright with sunlight.

The sheep eat their way
to the rain lakes
under the willows.

Little rivers run through the tall grass
and hide away in the rushes.

I see a line of scattered clouds
across the sky.

Sun-Bearer rests
on his way
to the House of Turquoise Woman
in the Western Waters.

It is the middle-time of day.

AFTERNOON

Lying on my back
under the willows
I can see an eagle flying
far above
in great circles
against the blue.

I feel
and see
and listen,
but I do not talk.

There is no one to hear me.

There is no one to play with me,
only the lambs and the baby goats
and they like each other
better than me,
I think.

I am alone.

PLAYMATES

But look!!

There are butterflies,
small white butterflies
above the flower plants
of purple iris.

I sit among the iris.

I hear the whispering
of white wings flying.

I think they like my velvet blouse.

I think they like my long black hair
because they come to me
and to the purple iris,
those small white butterflies.

A little fat chipmunk
in a brown striped blanket
comes close to me.

He sits on his feet.

He holds his hands out.

He wrinkles his nose and looks at me.

I give him bread.

He holds it in his hands
and with little quick bites
stores it away
in his fat brown cheeks.

Funny little chipmunk
in his brown striped blanket
with storerooms in his face!

Gray squirrels with bushy tails
run up and down the trees.

They chatter to me.

They make me laugh.

I pull my skirts around me
and follow the squirrels.

Now I know where they live.

Now I know where I can find
piñon nuts this autumn.

I feel the warmth
of Sun-Bearer's shield
against my back.

And on my face
I feel cool fingers
of rain-cloud shadows.

With my hands on the warm earth
beside me,
almost,
I can feel things growing.

Why did I think
I was alone?

POSSESSIONS

I am making a song
to sing to myself.

It is about my possessions.

I have a woven hair tie.

I have a woven belt.

My mother made them for me.

My mother gave them to me.

They are my possessions.

I have silver rings on my fingers.

I have silver bracelets on my arms.

My father made them for me.

My father gave them to me.

They are my possessions.

Soft things
and hard things
I have for my possessions.

A song,
a song,
I am singing a song about them.

STORM

A storm wind comes to stop my song.

It comes through the trees
with the strength of anger.

It sways me forward.

It sways me backward.

It turns me when I am walking.

Black clouds gather
to blanket the thunder.

Zig-zag lightning
cuts the clouds in two.

My sheep crowd near me.

With soft words I speak to them.
I tell them
not to be afraid
for I am here.

LIGHTNING

Lightning darts
like an arrow,
an arrow of fire,
from an unseen bow.

It darts in flame
from the gray sky
to the gray earth.

It strikes a tree.

Lightning strikes a tree.

My sheep,
my sheep,
I must save my sheep
from this evil around them.

I must save them,
my sheep,
my poor frightened sheep.

FIRE

Fire runs up the tall tree trunk
and into the branches.

The tree is on fire.

The tree is aflame.

It blazes.

It crackles.

It burns.

The sheep look to me to protect them.

My poor frightened sheep,
I do not know which way
to take them.

RAIN

But wait!

The sky is opening.

Rain comes through.

Male rain comes through,
comes down in sheets of water,
pours down in sheets of water
drenching the flames
of the burning tree.

My mother comes running
between the trees.

She is frightened for the sheep
and for me.

I tell her
all things are good.

Lightning did not touch the sheep.

Male rain saved the trees from fire.

Male rain saved us from forest fire.

Now male rain has gone
down into the valley.

Female rain follows
with soft footsteps.

Flowers turn upward

Leaves turn upward
lifting their hands
to catch the gentle rain.

It is good.

The rain is good.

I open my hands
to catch the gentle rain.

EVENING

Sun-Bearer parts the clouds
and looks down on the rain.

He turns each raindrop
into a silver bead.

He turns each rainstreak
into a silver necklace.

He makes a rainbow path
for the gods
across the sky.

I go among the sheep,
the huddled, wet sheep.

I sing to them.

I sing to the sheep,
a song, a song,
a song about my possessions,
my ceremonial goods.

I have a little buckskin bag
filled with things,
with things.

My grandfather filled it for me.

My grandfather gave it to me.

Wherever I go
I carry my little buckskin bag
to keep me safe,
to keep my feet
on the Trail of Beauty.

A song,
a song,
I am singing a song
to my sheep.

Just now on the home trail,
a young deer,
a beautiful young deer,
stood in the bushes
and looked at me.

His eyes were big and dark
and full of questions.

A song,
a song,
I am singing a song
on the home trail.

I have a necklace of
turquoise and coral.

I have a necklace of
white shell and coral.

My grandmother traded for them.

My grandmother gave them to me.

They are possessions.

I have turquoise in my ears,
silver bells on my belt fringe.

My uncle made them for me.

My uncle gave them to me.

They are my possessions.

A song,
a song,
I am singing a song
to my sheep.

My father has five kinds
of possessions.

He has hard goods
and soft goods,
ceremonial goods
and land
and game.

But I am little.

I do not have five kinds.

I have three.

I made a song about them
to sing the sheep home.

At last we reach the home camp.

The sheep are safe in their corral.

I am safe with my mother.

Summer shade is at my back.

In front of me is my mother's fire.

I am dry and warm.

Good food is cooking.

My mother sings,
and all around me
there is beauty.

SUPPER

My father and my uncle
ride up from the Trading Post,
the Red Rock Trading Post
down near the winter hogan.

Long before I heard them
I could feel them coming.

Long before I saw them
I could hear them singing.

Now they ride into the firelight,
my father and my uncle.

My father brought salt
and baking powder
and lard
for my mother
from the Trading Post.

He brought candy
for me.

My father brought news,
much news.

Things he had seen,
things that were told to him
at the Trading Post.

He brought them back
for us to hear.

Then we washed our hands.

We sat away from the fire.

My mother placed the evening food
before us.

When we had eaten
my father gave thanks
to the Holy Ones.

We washed our hands again.

My uncle put new wood upon the fire.

Then the best part of the day began.

My father and my uncle talked.

TALKING

My father said
in ten days
would be the time
for dipping the sheep.

He and my uncle
would help my mother and me
drive the sheep to the dipping.

Sheep must be dipped
in medicine-water.

There is no pollen.

There is no Holy Song.

There is no Trail of Beauty
in this medicine water.

But my father says
it is good for the sheep.

Sheep get lice
hidden in their thick wool.

Lice make the sheep unhappy.

Lice make the sheep bite their wool.

Lice are bad for sheep.

Dipping the sheep
in medicine-water
kills the lice.

Ticks are bad for sheep.

Ticks live
on the sheep's good blood.

Ticks make the sheep thin
and weak.

If the sheep are robbed
of their good blood
they cannot stand
the cold of winter.

They cannot stand
the heat of summer.

They sicken.

Their wool is not good.

Dipping the sheep
in medicine-water
kills the lice and the ticks.

It is good for the sheep.

My mother does not like dipping
because she does not understand
why the sheep are dipped.

But my father talks to her.

He tells her about lice and ticks.

He tells her too
that she is quickest and best
of all the women
at dipping her sheep
in the medicine-water.

SHEEP DIPPING

All the people
with their sheep and goats
and horses and wagons
and children and dogs
go to the dipping.

There is much dust and work
and singing and eating
at dipping time.

I like it.

Sheep do not like dipping.

They do not like to take a bath
in the medicine-water
even though it is good for them.

When grandfather goat gets dipped
he is angry, very angry.

He does not like
to get his whiskers wet.

Tomorrow, first thing,
I will tell old goat, old goat,
that in ten days
Washington will
wash his whiskers.

My father talks of other things
besides the dipping.

His voice goes on and on
like wind in trees,
like water running,
like soft rain falling,
like drum beats pounding,
talk,
talk,
talking.

BEDTIME

After a time
my mother and I
unroll our blankets.

We go to bed
beneath the cottonwood shade.

I have my own prayer
to the night.

I whisper it,
whisper it,
but only the night wind hears.

The horses move
within the shadows.

My father sings.

It is night.

The sheep move
within the circle of branches.

My mother sleeps.

It is night.

THE STAR SONG

Softly my father sings
the Star Song
to the stars and me.

"When the world was being made,
being made,
when the gods were
placing stars,
the stars,
the stars in patterns
in the sky,
coyote stole the star bag,
coyote spilled the stars out
in the sky,
helter skelter in the sky,
when the world
was being made."

Softly my father sings it,
the Star Song,
to the stars and me.

Darkness covers me.

Beauty covers me.

My mother is near.

My father is near.

The sheep are safe.

The words of the Holy Song
come to me,
"On top of the mountain
I found the gods."

It is night.

It is night.

Happiness comes to me.

I sleep.

THE ARTIST

The artist, Hoke Denetsosie, is a full-blood Navaho boy of twenty years, born and raised near Tuba City in the western part of the reservation. He was a student at the Tuba school, and transferred to Phoenix Indian School for high school work. Hoke has been drawing for a number of years, during which time he has had little instruction. He finds the landscape of his native country a source of never-tiring interest. Prior to undertaking the problem of illustrating this series of stories, Hoke had done no work in black and white, but has developed his technique as he has proceeded.

When Hoke was invited to prepare the illustrations for these stories, he was given the manuscripts to read, and then talked over with the author the things she had in mind in writing the various episodes of the story. By the variety of the story, many problems of illustration were encountered which an artist might avoid for many years if simply drawing in response to his own interest. Hoke has had full freedom in the solution of these problems, often preparing several sketches for a single episode, and then selecting between them for the final drawing. Some of the drawings have been frankly experimental—showing a snow scene in the simple black and white technique developed by Hoke, for example; or distinguishing between night and day. The style is the artist's own, and is neither the flat stylized drawing of many Pueblo artists, nor the minutely shaded drawing of the white man. The artist was chosen because he possesses a sure skill and inquiring mind. It is believed that his present pictures will illuminate the text, and give pleasure to many; and that he may have before him an artistic future. He has the following brief statement to make about his own work:

"I shall always remember the day when I received the first manuscript of the Little Herder series. The only instructions and suggestions I received before I began were; 'Here are the manuscripts, let's see what you can do with them.'

"So not knowing the first thing about the fundamentals and principles of illustration the work really launched several months of extensive experimentation, the result of which was the black and white technique finally achieved. The use of simple black and white technique was employed because it is more readily understandable for a child.

"The nature of the stories, being concerned with Navaho life, called for illustration genuine in every sense of the word. I had to observe and incorporate in pictures those characteristics which serve to distinguish the Navaho from other tribes. Further, the setting of the pictures had to change to express local changes as the family moved from place to place. The domestic animals raised by the Navaho had to be shown in a proper setting just as one sees them on the reservation. The sheep could not be shown grazing in a pasture, nor the horses in a stable, because such things are not Navaho.

"In other words the ideas were represented in an earnest attempt to express as far as possible the author's feelings, but without hindering the illustrator's freedom."

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors. 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.