Chapter I: FANCY I must have been dozing after that hard ride; for when a (1)

far-away, cracked voice that could be none other than Grandfather Ysidro’s said, “_Kah-whee-cá-me, Lorenso-kaí-deh!_” I started up so hastily as to bump my head against the whitewashed wall. That may seem a queer sentence to rouse one so sharply; and especially when you know what it means. It meant that old Ysidro[50] had just finished a story, which I had altogether missed, and was now calling upon the old man next him to tell one, by using the customary Pueblo saying:

[50] Pronounced Ee-seé-droh.

“There is a tail to you, Father Lorenso!”

_Kah-whee-cá-me_ is what a Teé-wahn Indian always says in such a case, instead of “Now _you_ tell a story, friend.” It is not intended as an impolite remark, but merely refers to the firm belief of these quaint people that if one were to act like a stubborn donkey, and refuse to tell a story when called on, a donkey’s tail would grow upon him!

With such a fate in prospect, you may be sure that the roundabout invitation thus conveyed is never declined.

Grandfather Lorenso bows his head gravely, but seems in no haste. He is indeed impressively deliberate as he slowly makes a cigarette from a bit of corn-husk and a pinch of tobacco, lights it upon a coal raked out of the fireplace by his withered fingers, blows a slow puff eastward, then one to the north, another to the west, a fourth to the south, one straight above his head, and one down toward the floor. There is one part of the United States where the compass has _six_ cardinal points (those I have just named), and that is among these Indians, and in fact all the others of the Southwest. The cigarette plays a really important part in many sacred ceremonies of the Pueblos; for, as I have explained, its collective smoke is thought to be what makes the rain-clouds and brings the rain; and it is also a charm against witches.

Having thus propitiated the divinities who dwell in the directions named, Lorenso looks about the circle to see if all are listening. The glance satisfies him--as well it may. There are no heedless eyes or ears in the audience, of which I am the only white member--and a very lucky one, in that I, an “Americano,” am allowed to hear these jealously guarded stories, and to see the silent smoke-prayer which would never be made if a stranger were present. There are seven agèd men here, and nine bright-eyed boys--all _Isleteños_ (inhabitants of Isleta). We are huddled around the fireplace in the corner of the big, pleasant room, against whose dark rafters and farther white walls the shadows dance and waver.

And now, taking a deep puff, Lorenso exclaims:

“_Nah-t’ hóo-ai!_” (In a house.) It has nothing to do with the story; but is the prologue to inform the hearers that the story is about to open.

“Ah-h-h!” we all responded, which is as much as to say, “We are listening--go on”; and Lorenso begins his story.

* * * * *

Once upon a time there was a Teé-wahn village on the other side of the mountain, and there lived a man and his wife who thought more of the future of their children than did the others. To care better for the children they moved to a little ranch some distance from the village, and there taught their two little sons all they could. Both boys loved the outdoors, and games, and hunting; and the parents were well pleased, saying to each other:

“Perhaps some day they will be great hunters!”

By the time the elder boy was twelve and the younger ten, they both were very expert with the little bows and arrows their father carefully made them; and already they began to bring home many rabbits when they were allowed to go a little way from home. There was only one command their parents gave about their hunts; and that was that they must never, never go south. They could hunt to the east, north, and west, but not south.

Day after day they went hunting, and more and more rabbits they killed, growing always more expert.

One day when they had hunted eastward, the elder boy said:

“Brother, can you say any reason why we must not go south?”

“I know nothing,” replied the younger, “except what I overheard our parents saying one day. They spoke of an old woman who lives in the south who eats children; and for that they said they would never let us go south.”

“Pooh!” said the elder, “I think nothing of _that_. The real reason must be that they wish to save the rabbits in the south, and are afraid we would kill them all. There must be many rabbits in that _bosque_ [forest] away down there. Let’s go and see--_they_ won’t know!”

The younger boy being persuaded, they started off together, and after a long walk came to the _bosque_. It was full of rabbits, and they were having great sport, when suddenly they heard a motherly voice calling through the woods. In a moment they saw an old woman coming from the south, who said to the boys:

“_Mah-kóo-oon_ [grandchildren], what are you doing here, where no one ever thinks to come?”

“We are hunting, Grandmother,” they replied. “Our parents would never let us come south; but to-day we came to see if the rabbits are more numerous here than above.”

“Oh!” said the old woman, “this game you see here is _nothing_. Come, and I will show you where there is much, and you can carry very large rabbits home to your parents.” But she was deceiving them.

She had a big basket upon her back, and stooping for the boys to get into it, she carried them farther and farther into the woods. At last they came to an old, battered house; and setting the basket down, she said:

“Now we have come all the way here, where no one ever came before, and there is no way out. You can find no trail, and you will have to stay here contented, or I will eat you up!”

The boys were much afraid, and said they would stay and be contented. But the old woman went into the house and told her husband--who was as wicked as she--to get wood and build a big fire in the _horno_.[51] All day long the fire burned, and the oven became hotter than it had ever been. In the evening the old witch-woman raked out the coals, and calling the boys seized them and forced them into the fiery oven.

[51] An outdoor bake-oven, made of clay, and shaped like a
beehive.

* * * * *

“_Tahb-kóon-nahm?_” (Is that so?) we all exclaimed--that being the proper response whenever the narrator pauses a moment.

“That is so,” replied Lorenso, and went on.

* * * * *

Then the old woman put a flat rock over the little door of the oven, and another over the smoke-hole, and sealed them both tight with clay. All that night she and her husband were chuckling to think what a nice breakfast they would have--for both of them were witch-people, and ate all the children they could find.

But in the morning when she unsealed the oven, there were the two boys, laughing and playing together unhurt--for the Wháy-nin[52] had come to their aid and protected them from the heat.

[52] “The Trues,” as the Pueblos call their highest divinities.

Leaving the boys to crawl out, the old woman ran to the house and scolded the old man terribly for not having made the oven hot enough. “Go this minute,” she said, “and put in the oven all the wood that it will hold, and keep it burning all day!”

When night came, the old woman cleaned the oven, which was twice as hot as before; and again she put in the boys and sealed it up. But the next morning the boys were unhurt and went to playing.

The witch-woman was very angry then; and giving the boys their bows and arrows, told them to go and play. She stayed at home and abused the old witch-man all day for a poor fire-maker.

When the boys returned in the evening, she said:

“To-morrow, grandchildren, we will play _Nah-oo-p’ah-chée_ (hide-and-seek), and the one who is found three times by the other shall pay his life.”

The boys agreed,[53] and secretly prayed to the Trues to help them--for by this time they knew that the old man and the old woman “had the bad road.”

[53] For such a challenge, which was once a common one with the
Indians, could not possibly be declined.

The next day came; and very soon the old woman called them to begin the game. The boys were to hide first; and when the old woman had turned her eyes and vowed not to look, they went to the door and hid, one against each of its jambs. There you could look and look, and see the wood through them--for the Trues, to help them, made them invisible. When they were safely hidden they whooped, “_Hee-táh!_” and the old woman began to hunt, singing the hide-and-seek song:

_Hee-táh yahn
Hee choo-ah-kóo
Mee, mee, mee?_

(Now, now,
Which way
Went they, went they, went they?)

After hunting some time she called:

“You little fellows are on the door-posts. Come out!”

So the boys came out and “made blind” (covered their eyes) while the old woman went to hide. There was a pond close by, with many ducks on it; and making herself very little, she went and hid under the left wing of the duck with a blue head.[54]

[54] I should tell you that, being a witch, she could not
possibly have gone under the right wing. Everything that is to
the left belongs to the witches.

When they heard her “_Hee-táh!_” the boys went searching and singing; and at last the elder cried out:

“Old woman, you are under the left wing of the whitest duck on the lake--the one with the blue head. Come out!”

This time the boys made themselves small and crawled into the quivers beside their bows and arrows. The old woman had to sing her song over a great many times, as she went hunting all around; but at last she called:

“Come out of the quivers where you are!”

Then the witch made herself very small indeed, and went behind the foot of a big crane that was standing on one leg near the lake. But at last the boys found her even there.

It was their last turn now, and the old woman felt very triumphant as she waited for them to hide. But this time they went up and hid themselves under the right arm of the Sun.[55] The old witch hunted everywhere, and used all her bad power, but in vain; and when she was tired out she had to cry, “_Hee-táh-ow!_” And then the boys came down from under the Sun’s arm rejoicing.

[55] Who is, in the Pueblo belief, the father of all things.

The old witch, taking her last turn, went to the lake and entered into a fish, thinking that there she would be perfectly safe from discovery. It did take the boys a great while to find her; but at last they shouted:

“Old woman, you are in the biggest fish in the lake. Come out!”

As she came walking toward them in her natural shape again, they called: “Remember the agreement!” and with their sharp arrows they killed the old witch-woman and then the old witch-man. Then they took away the two wicked old hearts, and put in place of each a kernel of spotless corn; so that if the witches should ever come to life again they would no longer be witches, but people with pure, good hearts. They never did come to life, however, which was just as well.

Taking their bows and arrows, the boys--now young men, for the four “days” they had been with the witches were really four years--returned home. At the village they found their anxious parents, who had come to ask the Cacique to order all the people out to search.

When all saw the boys and heard their story, there was great rejoicing, for those two witch-people had been terrors to the village for years. On their account no one had dared go hunting to the south. And to this day the game is thicker there than anywhere else in the country, because it has not been hunted there for so long as in other places. The two young men were forgiven for disobedience (which is a very serious thing at any age, among the Pueblos), and were made heroes. The Cacique gave them his two daughters for wives, and all the people did them honor.[56]

[56] This story seems to be one of the myths about the Hero
Twin Brothers, the children of the Sun. They are, next to
Sun-Father and Moon-Mother, the chief deities of all the
southwestern tribes. In the Quères folk-lore they figure very
prominently; but in the Tée-wahn are more disguised.

* * * * *

“Is that so?” we responded; and Lorenso replied, “That is so,” gathering his blanket and rising to go without “putting a tail” to any one, for it was already late.

I may add that the game of hide-and-seek is still played by my dusky little neighbors, the Pueblo children, and the searching-song is still sung by them, exactly as the boys and the old witch played and sang--but of course without their magical talent at hiding.

XIV

THE RACE OF THE TAILS

NEARLY every people has its own version of the race of the Hare and the Tortoise. That current among the Pueblos makes the Rabbit the hero, by a trick rather cleverer than Æsop’s.

Once the Coyote came where Pee-oo-ée-deh, the little “cotton-tail” rabbit, sat at the door of his house, thinking.

“What do you think, friend Pee-oo-ée-deh?” said the Coyote.

“I am thinking, friend Too-wháy-deh, why some have large tails like you; but we have no tails. Perhaps if we had tails like yours, we could run straight; but now we have to hop.”

“It is true, _ah-bóo_,”[57] said the Coyote, not knowing that the Rabbit laughed in his heart. “For I can run faster than any one, and never did any gain from me in the foot-races. But _you_,--you just hop like a bird.”

[57] Poor thing.

The Rabbit made a sad face, and the Coyote said: “But come, friend Pee-oo-ée-deh, let us run a race. We will run around the world, and see who will win. And whichever shall come in first, he shall kill the other and eat him.”[58]

[58] A challenge of this sort, with life as the stake, was
very common among all Indians; and it was impossible for the
challenged to decline. This story recalls that of the Antelope
Boy. Four days always elapsed between the challenge and the
race.

“It is well,” answered the Rabbit. “In four days we will run.”

Then the Coyote went home very glad. But Pee-oo-ée-deh called a _junta_ of all his tribe, and told them how it was, and the way he thought to win the race. And when they had heard, they all said: “It is well. Fear not, for we will be the ones that will help you.”

When the fourth day came, the Coyote arrived smiling, and threw down his blanket, and stood ready in only the dark blue _taparabo_,[59] saying: “But what is the use to run? For I shall win. It is better that I eat you now, before you are tired.”

[59] Breech-clout, which is the only thing worn in a foot-race.

But the Rabbit threw off his blanket, and tightened his _taparabo_, and said: “Pooh! For the end of the race is far away, and _there_ is time to talk of eating. Come, we will run around the four sides of the world.[60] But _I_ shall run underground, for so it is easier for me.”

[60] Which the Pueblos believe to be flat and square.

Then they stood up side by side. And when they were ready, the Capitan shouted “_Haí-koo!_” and they ran. The Coyote ran with all his legs; but the Rabbit jumped into his hole and threw out sand, as those who dig very fast.

Now for many days the Coyote kept running to the east, and saw nothing of Pee-oo-ée-deh. But just as he came to the east and was turning to the north, up jumped a rabbit from under the ground in front of him, and shouted: “We do this to one another”; and jumped back in the hole and began to throw out dirt very hard.

“Ai!” said the Coyote. “I wish I could run under the ground like that, for it seems very easy. For all these days I have run faster than ever any one ran; yet Pe-oo-ée-deh comes to the east ahead of me.” But he did not know it was the brother of Pee-oo-ée-deh, who had come out to the east to wait for him.

So Too-wháy-deh ran harder; and after many days he came to the end of the world, to the north. But just as he was to turn west, up sprang a rabbit in front of him, and taunted him, and went back in its hole, digging.

The Coyote’s heart was heavy, but he ran _very_ hard. “Surely,” he said, “no one can run so fast as _this_.”

But when he came to the west, a rabbit sprang up ahead of him, and mocked him, and went again under the ground. And when he had run to the south, there was the same thing. At last, very tired and with his tongue out, he came in sight of the starting-point, and there was Pee-oo-ée-deh, sitting at the door of his house, smoothing his hair. And he said: “Pooh! Coyote-friend, we do this to one another. For now it is clear that big tails are not good to run with, since I have been waiting here a long time for you. Come here, then, that I may eat you, though you are tough.”

But Too-wháy-deh, being a coward, ran away and would not pay his bet. And all the brothers of Pee-oo-ée-deh laughed for the trick they had put upon the Coyote.

* * * * *

In a case which I knew of, years ago, this folk-story seems to have given a hint to human racers. A Mexican who owned a large and very fleet-footed burro, challenged a young Indian of Acoma to a ten-mile race. The Indian was a very famous runner, and the challenger depended on the distance alone to wear him out. In accordance with the conditions the rivals started together from the goal, the Indian on foot, the Mexican on his burro. For about four miles the Indian left the galloping donkey far behind; but he could not keep up such a tremendous pace, and the burro began to gain. About midway of the course where the trail touches a great lava-flow, the Indian dove into a cave. Just as the Mexican was passing, out came an Indian, passed the burro with a magnificent spurt, and after a long run reached the farther goal about a hundred feet ahead. Unfortunately for him, however, the trick was detected--he was the twin brother of the challenged man, and had awaited him in the cave, taking up the race fresh when the first runner was tired!

XV

HONEST BIG-EARS

NEARLY all of you have seen pictures of the Burro, the quaint little donkey of the Southwest. He is very small,--not more than half the weight of a smallish mule,--but very strong, very sure-footed, and very reliable. And he is one of the drollest, “cutest,” wisest-looking creatures on earth.

T’ah-hlá-a-hloon, or Big-ears, as the Tée-wahn call him, does not appear very often in their folk-lore--and for a very natural reason. Most of these myths were made centuries before a white man ever saw this country; and until Europeans came, there were neither horses, donkeys, sheep, goats, cats, nor cattle (except the buffalo) in either America. It was the Spanish pioneers who gave all these animals to the Pueblos. Nor did the Indians have milk, cheese, wheat, or metals of any sort. So when we see a story in which any of these things are mentioned, we may know that it was made within the last three hundred and fifty years--or that an old story has been modified to include them.

There is one of these comparatively modern nursery-tales which is designed to show the honesty and wisdom of the Burro.

Once Big-ears was coming alone from the farm of his master to Isleta, carrying a load of curd cheeses done up in buckskin bags. As he came through the hills he met a Coyote, who said:

“Friend Big-ears, what do you carry on your back?”

“I carry many cheeses for my master, friend Too-wháy-deh,” answered the Burro.

“Then give me one, friend, for I am hunger-dying.”

“No,” said the Burro, “I cannot give you one, for my master would blame me--since they are not mine but his, and a man of the pueblo waits for them.”

Many times the Coyote asked him, with soft words; but Big-ears would not, and went his way. Then Too-wháy-deh followed him behind, without noise, and slyly bit the bag and stole a cheese. But Big-ears did not know it, for he could not see behind.

When he came to the pueblo, the man who awaited him unloaded the cheeses and counted them. “There lacks one,” he said; “for thy master said he would send _so_ many. Where is the other?”

“Truly, I know not,” answered Big-ears, “but I think Too-wháy-deh stole it; for he asked me on the way to give him a cheese. But wait--I will pay him!”

So Big-ears went back to the hills and looked for the house of Too-wháy-deh. At last he found it, but the Coyote was nowhere. So he lay down near the hole, and stretched his legs out as if dead, and opened his mouth wide, and was very still.

Time passing so, the Old-Woman-Coyote came out of the house to bring a jar of water. But when she saw the Burro lying there, she dropped her _tinaja_, and ran in crying:

“_Hloo-hli!_[61] come out and see! For a _buffalo_ has died out here, and we must take in some meat.”

[61] Old Man.

So Old-Man-Coyote came out, and was very glad, and began to sharpen his knife.

But his wife said: “But before you cut him up, get me the liver, for I am very hungry”--and the liver is that which all the foxes like best.

Then the Old-Man-Coyote, thinking to please her, went into the Burro’s mouth to get the liver; but Big-ears shut his teeth on Too-wháy-deh’s head, and jumped up and ran home. The Old-Woman-Coyote followed running, crying: “_Ay, Nana!_ Let go!” But Big-ears would not listen to her, and brought the thief to his master. When the master heard what had been, he killed the Coyote, and thanked Big-ears, and gave him much grass. And this is why, ever since, Big-ears strikes with his hind feet if anything comes behind him slyly; for he remembers how Too-wháy-deh stole the cheese.

XVI

THE FEATHERED BARBERS

THE coyote, one summer day, having taken a bath in the river, lay down in the hot sand to dry himself. While he was sleeping there, a crowd of Quails came along; and seeing that he was asleep, they said:

“Huh! Here is that foolish Too-wháy-deh. Let us give him a trick!”

So they cut off all his hair, which makes one to be laughed at, and ran away.

When the Coyote woke up he was ashamed, and wished to punish those who had made him _pelado_; and he ran around to see if he could find the tracks of an enemy. There were only the tracks of the Quails, so he knew they had done it. Very angry, he followed the trail until it went into a large hole. He went all around to see if they had come out; but there were no other tracks, so he went in. First the hole was big, but then it grew small, and he had to dig. When he had dug a long time, he caught a Quail, and he said:

“Ho, Ch’um-níd-deh! It is you that cut my hair and left me a laughed-at. But I am going to eat you this very now!”

“No, friend Too-wháy-deh, it was another who did it. You will find him farther in, with the scissors[62] still in his hand.”

[62] This indicates that the tale is comparatively modern.

So the Coyote let that Quail go, and dug and dug till he caught another. But that one said the same thing; and Too-wháy-deh let him go, and dug after the next one. So it was, until he had let them all go, one by one; and when he came to the very end of the hole, there were no more.

With this, the Coyote was very angry, and ran out of the hole, promising to catch and eat them all. As he came out he met the Cotton-tail, and cried with a fierce face:

“Hear, you Pee-oo-ée-deh! If you don’t catch me the Ch’úm-nin that cut my hair, I’ll eat _you_!”

“Oh, I can catch them, friend Coyote,” said the Rabbit. “See, here is their trail!”

When they had followed the trail a long way, they saw the birds sitting and laughing under a bush.

“Now you wait here while I go and catch them,” said Pee-oo-ée-deh. So the Coyote sat down to rest. As soon as the Rabbit was near them, the Quails flew a little way, and he kept running after them. But as soon as they were over a little hill, he turned aside and ran home, and the Coyote never knew if the Quails were caught or not.

XVII

THE ACCURSED LAKE

AWAY to the southeast of the Manzano Mountains, two days’ journey from my pueblo of Isleta, are the shallow salt lakes. For scores of miles their dazzling sheen is visible--a strange patch of silver on the vast brown plains. They are near the noblest ruins in our North America--the wondrous piles of massive masonry of Abó, Cuaray, and the so-called “Gran Quivira”--the latter the home of the silliest delusion that ever lured treasure-hunters to their death. The whole region has a romantic history, and is important to the scientific student. From that locality came, centuries ago, part of the people who then founded Isleta, and whose descendants dwell here to this day. Perhaps you would like to know _why_ those lakes are salt now--for my Indian neighbors say that once they were fresh and full of fish, and that the deer and buffalo came from all the country round to drink there. The story is very important ethnologically, for it tells much of the strange secret religion of the Pueblos, and more concerning the method of initiating a young Indian into one of the orders of medicine-men--both matters which men of science have found extremely difficult to be learned. Here is the story as it is believed by the Tée-wahn, and as it was related to me by one of them.

* * * * *

Long ago there was still a village east of Shoo-paht-hóo-eh, the Eagle-Feather (Manzano) Mountains, and in it lived a famous hunter. One day, going out on the plains to the east, he stalked a herd of antelopes, and wounded one with his arrows. It fled eastward, while the herd went south; and the hunter began to trail it by the drops of blood. Presently he came to the largest lake, into which the trail led. As he stood on the bank, wondering what to do, a fish thrust its head from the water and said:

“Friend Hunter, you are on dangerous ground!” and off it went swimming. Before the Hunter could recover from his surprise, a Lake-Man came up out of the water and said:

“How is it that you are here, where no human ever came?”

The Hunter told his story, and the Lake-Man invited him to come in. When he had entered the lake, he came to a house with doors to the east, north, west, and south, and a trap-door in the roof, with a ladder; and by the latter door they entered. In their talk together the Lake-Man learned that the Hunter had a wife and little son at home.

“If that is so,” said he, “why do you not come and live with me? I am here alone, and have plenty of other food, but I am no hunter. We could live very well here together.” And opening doors on four sides of the room he showed the Hunter four other huge rooms, all piled from floor to ceiling with corn and wheat and dried squash and the like.

“That is a very good offer,” said the astonished Hunter. “I will come again in four days; and if my Cacique will let me, I will bring my family and stay.”

So the Hunter went home--killing an antelope on the way--and told his wife all. She thought very well of the offer; and he went to ask permission of the Cacique. The Cacique demurred, for this was the best hunter in all the pueblo,[63] but at last consented and gave him his blessing.

[63] All hunters give the Cacique a tenth of their game, for
his support.

So on the fourth day the Hunter and his wife and little boy came to the lake with all their property. The Lake-Man met them cordially, and gave the house and all its contents into the charge of the woman.[64]

[64] As is the custom among all Pueblo Indians.

Some time passed very pleasantly, the Hunter going out daily and bringing back great quantities of game. At last the Lake-Man, who was of an evil heart, pretended to show the Hunter something in the east room; and pushing him in, locked the great door and left him there to starve--for the room was full of the bones of men whom he had already entrapped in the same way.

The boy was now big enough to use his bow and arrows so well that he brought home many rabbits; and the witch-hearted Lake-Man began to plot to get him, too, out of the way.

So one morning when the boy was about to start for a hunt, he heard his mother groaning as if about to die; and the Lake-Man said to him:

“My boy, your mother has a terrible pain, and the only thing that will cure her is some ice from T’hoor-p’ah-whée-ai [Lake of the Sun],[65] the water from which the sun rises.”

[65] Located “somewhere to the east”; perhaps the ocean.

“Then,” said the boy, straightway, “if that is so, I will take the heart of a man [that is, be brave] and go and get the ice for my little mother.” And away he started toward the unknown east.

Far out over the endless brown plains he trudged bravely; until at last he came to the house of Shee-chóo-hlee-oh, the Old-Woman-Mole, who was there all alone--for her husband had gone to hunt. They were dreadfully poor, and the house was almost falling down, and the poor, wrinkled Old-Woman-Mole sat huddled in the corner by the fireplace, trying to keep warm by a few dying coals. But when the boy knocked, she rose and welcomed him kindly and gave him all there was in the house to eat--a wee bowl of soup with a patched-up snowbird in it. The boy was very hungry, and picking up the snowbird bit a big piece out of it.

“Oh, my child!” cried the old woman, beginning to weep. “You have ruined me! For my husband trapped that bird these many years ago, but we could never get another; and that is all we have had to eat ever since. So we never bit it, but cooked it over and over and drank the broth. And now not even that is left.” And she wept bitterly.

“Nay, Grandmother, do not worry,” said the boy. “Have you any long hairs?”--for he saw many snowbirds lighting near by.

“No, my child,” said the old woman sadly. “There is no other living animal here, and you are the first human that ever came here.”

But the boy pulled out some of his own long hair and made snares, and soon caught many birds. Then the Old-Woman-Mole was full of joy; and having learned his errand, she said:

“My son, fear not, for I will be the one that shall help you. When you come into the house of the Trues, they will tempt you with a seat; but you must sit down only on what you have.[66] Then they will try you with smoking the _weer_, but I will help you.”

[66] That is, upon his blanket and moccasins, the unvarying
etiquette of the Medicine House.

Then she gave him her blessing, and the boy started away to the east. At last, after a weary, weary way, he came so near the Sun Lake, that the _Whit-lah-wíd-deh_[67] of the Trues saw him coming, and went in to report.

[67] One of an order of medicine-men, who among other duties,
act as guards of the Medicine House.

“Let him be brought in,” said the Trues; and the Whit-lah-wíd-deh took the boy in and in through eight rooms, until he stood in the presence of all the gods, in a vast room. There were all the gods of the East, whose color is white, and the blue gods of the North, the yellow gods of the West, the red gods of the South, and the rainbow-colored gods of the Up, the Down, and the Center, all in human shape. Beyond their seats were all the sacred animals--the buffalo, the bear, the eagle, the badger, the mountain lion, the rattlesnake, and all the others that are powerful in medicine.

Then the Trues bade the boy sit down, and offered him a white _manta_ (robe) for a seat; but he declined respectfully, saying that he had been taught, when in the presence of his elders, to sit on nothing save what he brought, and he sat upon his blanket and moccasins. When he had told his story, the Trues tried him, and gave him the sacred _weer_ to smoke--a hollow reed rammed with _pee-en-hleh_.[68] He smoked, and held the smoke bravely. But just then the Old-Woman-Mole, who had followed him underground all this way, dug a hole up to his very toes; and the smoke went down through his feet into the hole, and away back to the Old-Woman-Mole’s house, where it poured out in a great cloud. And not the tiniest particle escaped into the room of the Trues. He finished the second _weer_[69] without being sick at all; and the Trues said, “Yes, he is our son. But we will try him once more.” So they put him into the room of the East with the bear and the lion; and the savage animals came forward and breathed on him, but would not hurt him. Then they put him into the room of the North, with the eagle and the hawk; then into the room of the West, with the snakes; and lastly, into the room of the South, where were the Apaches and all the other human enemies of his people. And from each room he came forth unscratched.

[68] The smoking of the pungent _weer_ is a very severe ordeal;
and it is a disgrace to let any of the smoke escape from the
mouth or nose.

[69] Two being the usual number given a candidate for
initiation into a medicine order.

“Surely,” said the Trues, “this is our son! But once more we will try him.”

They had a great pile of logs built up (“cob-house” fashion), and the space between filled with pine-knots. Then the Whit-lah-wíd-deh set the boy on the top of the pile and lighted it.

But in the morning, when the guard went out, there was the boy unharmed and saying: “Tell the Trues I am cold, and would like more fire.”

Then he was brought again before the Trues, who said: “Son, you have proved yourself a True Believer, and now you shall have what you seek.”

So the sacred ice was given him, and he started homeward--stopping on the way only to thank the Old-Woman-Mole, to whose aid he owed his success.

When the wicked Lake-Man saw the boy coming, he was very angry, for he had never expected him to return from that dangerous mission. But he deceived the boy and the woman; and in a few days made a similar excuse to send the boy to the gods of the South after more ice for his mother.

The boy started off as bravely as before. When he had traveled a great way to the south, he came to a drying lake; and there, dying in the mud, was a little fish.

“_Ah-bóo_ [poor thing], little fish,” said the boy; and picking it up, he put it in his gourd canteen of water. After awhile he came to a good lake; and as he sat down to eat his lunch the fish in his gourd said:

“Friend Boy, let me swim while you eat, for I love the water.”

So he put the fish in the lake; and when he was ready to go on, the fish came to him, and he put it back in his gourd. At three lakes he let the fish swim while he ate; and each time the fish came back to him. But beyond the third lake began a great forest which stretched clear across the world, and was so dense with thorns and brush that no man could pass it. But as the boy was wondering what he should do, the tiny fish changed itself into a great Fish-Animal with a very hard, strong skin,[70] and bidding the boy mount upon its back, it went plowing through the forest, breaking down big trees like stubble, and bringing him through to the other side without a scratch.

[70] It is quite possible that this “Fish-Animal with a hard,
strong skin,” living far to the south, is the alligator. Of
course, the Pueblos never saw that strange saurian; but they
probably heard of it in the earliest days from nomad tribes,
and as a great scientist has pointed out, we may always
depend upon it that there is a nucleus of truth in all these
folk-myths. Such a strange animal, once heard of, would be very
sure to figure in some story.

“Now, Friend Boy,” said the Fish-Animal, “you saved my life, and I will be the one that shall help you. When you come to the house of the Trues, they will try you as they did in the East. And when you have proved yourself, the Cacique will bring you his three daughters, from whom to choose you a wife. The two eldest are very beautiful, and the youngest is not; but you ought to choose her, for beauty does not always reach to the heart.”

The boy thanked his fish-friend and went on, until at last he came to the house of the Trues of the South. There they tried him with the _weer_ and the fire, just as the Trues of the East had done, but he proved himself a man, and they gave him the ice. Then the Cacique brought his three daughters, and said:

“Son, you are now old enough to have a wife,[71] and I see that you are a true man who will dare all for his mother. Choose, therefore, one of my daughters.”

[71] For it must be remembered that all these travels had taken
many years.

The boy looked at the three girls; and truly the eldest were very lovely. But he remembered the words of his fish friend, and said:

“Let the youngest be my wife.”

Then the Cacique was pleased, for he loved this daughter more than both the others. And the boy and the Cacique’s daughter were married and started homeward, carrying the ice and many presents.

When they came to the great forest, there was the Fish-Animal waiting for them, and taking both on his back he carried them safely through. At the first lake he bade them good-by and blessed them, and they trudged on alone.

At last they came in sight of the big lake, and over it were great clouds, with the forked lightning leaping forth. While they were yet far off, they could see the wicked Lake-Man sitting at the top of his ladder, watching to see if the boy would return, and even while they looked they saw the lightning of the Trues strike him and tear him to shreds.

When they came to the lake the boy found his mother weeping for him as dead. And taking his wife and his mother,--but none of the things of the Lake-Man, for those were bewitched,--the boy came out upon the shore. There he stood and prayed to the Trues that the lake might be accurst forever; and they heard his prayer, for from that day its waters turned salt, and no living thing has drunk therefrom.

XVIII

THE MOQUI[72] BOY AND THE EAGLE

[72] Pronounced Móh-kee.

SOME of the folk-stories told in Isleta were evidently invented in other pueblos, whence the Tée-wahn have learned them in their trading-trips. There is even a story from the far-off towns of Moqui, three hundred miles west of here and ninety miles from the railroad. The Moquis live in northeast Arizona, in strange adobe towns,[73] perched upon impregnable islands of rock, rising far above the bare, brown plain. They are seldom visited and little known by white men. All the other Pueblo towns and tribes have changed somewhat in the present era of American occupation; but the Moquis remain very much as they were when the first Spaniard found them--three hundred and fifty years ago. They retain many customs long extinct among their kindred, and have some of which no trace is to be found elsewhere. One of the minor differences, but one which would be almost the first to strike a stranger, is the absence of captive eagles in Moqui; and this is explained by the following folk-story:

[73] See “Some Strange Corners of Our Country.” The Century
Co., New York.

The Eagle is Kah-báy-deh (commander) of all that flies, and his feathers are strongest in medicine.

So long ago that no man can tell how long, there lived in Moqui an old man and an old woman, who had two children--a boy and a girl. The boy, whose name was Tái-oh, had a pet Eagle, of which he was very fond; and the Eagle loved its young master. Despite his youth, Tái-oh was a capital hunter; and every day he brought home not only rabbits enough for the family, but also to keep the Eagle well fed.

One day when he was about to start on a hunt, he asked his sister to look out for the Eagle during his absence. No sooner was he out of sight than the girl began to upbraid the bird bitterly, saying: “How I hate you, for my brother loves you so much. If it were not for you, he would give me many more rabbits, but now you eat them up.”

The Eagle, feeling the injustice of this, was angry; so when she brought him a rabbit for breakfast the Eagle turned his head and looked at it sidewise, and would not touch it. At noon, when she brought him his dinner, he did the same thing; and at night, when Tái-oh returned, the Eagle told him all that had happened.

“Now,” said the Eagle, “I am very tired of staying always here in Moqui, and I want to go home to visit my people a little. Come and go along with me, that you may see where the Eagle-people live.”

“It is well,” replied Tái-oh. “To-morrow morning we will go together.”

In the morning they all went out into the fields, far down in the valley, to hoe their corn, leaving Tái-oh at home.

“Now,” said the Eagle, “untie this thong from my leg, friend, and get astride my neck, and we will go.”

The string was soon untied, and Tái-oh got astride the neck of the great bird, which rose up into the air as though it carried no weight at all. It circled over the town a long time, and the people cried out with wonder and fear at seeing an Eagle with a boy on his back. Then they sailed out over the fields, where Tái-oh’s parents and his sister were at work; and all the three began to cry, and went home in great sorrow.

The Eagle kept soaring up and up until they came to the very sky. There in the blue was a little door, through which the Eagle flew. Alighting on the floor of the sky, he let Tái-oh down from his back, and said:

“Now, you wait here, friend, while I go and see my people,” and off he flew.

Tái-oh waited three days, and still the Eagle did not return; so he became uneasy and started out to see what he could find. After wandering a long way, he met an old Spider-woman.

“Where are you going, my son?” she asked.

“I am trying to find my friend, the Eagle.”

“Very well, then, I will help you. Come into my house.”

“But how can I come into so small a door?” objected Tái-oh.

“Just put your foot in, and it will open big enough for you to enter.”

So Tái-oh put his foot in, and, sure enough, the door opened wide, and he went into the Spider’s house and sat down.

“Now,” said she, “you will have some trouble in getting to the house of your friend, the Eagle, for to get there you will have to climb a dreadful ladder. It is well that you came to me for help, for that ladder is set with sharp arrow-heads and knives of flint, so that if you tried to go up it, it would cut your legs off. But I will give you this sack of sacred herbs to help you. When you come to the ladder, you must chew some of the herbs and spit the juice on the ladder, which will at once become smooth for you.”[74]

[74] This recalls a superstition of the Peruvian mountain
Indians, ancient and modern. The latter I have often seen
throwing upon a stone at the crest of a mountain pass the quid
of coca-leaves they had been chewing. They believe such use
of this sacred herb propitiates the spirits and keeps off the
terrible _soroche_, or mountain-sickness; and that it also
makes veins of metal easier to be worked--softening the stone,
even as it did for Tái-oh.

Tái-oh thanked the Spider-woman and started off with the sack. After awhile he came to the foot of a great ladder, which went away up out of sight. Its sides and rungs were bristling with keen arrow-heads, so that no living thing could climb it; but when Tái-oh chewed some of the magic herb and spat upon the ladder, all the sharp points fell off, and it was so smooth that he climbed it without a single scratch.

After a long, long climb, he came to the top of the ladder, and stepped upon the roof of the Eagles’ house. But when he came to the door he found it so bristling with arrow-points that whoever might try to enter would be cut to pieces. Again he chewed some of the herb, and spat upon the door; and at once all the points fell off, and he entered safely, and inside he found his Eagle-friend, and all the Eagle-people. His friend had fallen in love with an Eagle-girl and married her, and that was the reason he had not returned sooner.

Tái-oh stayed there some time, being very nicely entertained, and enjoyed himself greatly in the strange sky-country. At last one of the wise old Eagle-men came to him and said:

“Now, my son, it is well that you go home, for your parents are very sad, thinking you are dead. After this, whenever you see an Eagle caught and kept captive, you must let it go; for now you have been in our country, and know that when we come home we take off our feather-coats and are people like your own.”

So Tái-oh went to his Eagle-friend and said he thought he must go home.

“Very well,” said the Eagle; “get on my neck and shut your eyes, and we will go.”

So he got on, and they went down out of the sky, and down and down until at last they came to Moqui. There the Eagle let Tái-oh down among the wondering people, and, bidding him an affectionate good-by, flew off to his young wife in the sky.

Tái-oh went to his home loaded down with dried meat and tanned buckskin, which the Eagle had given him; and there was great rejoicing, for all had given him up as dead. And this is why, to this very day, the Moquis will not keep an Eagle captive, though nearly all the other Pueblo towns have all the Eagle-prisoners they can get.

XIX

THE NORTH WIND AND THE SOUTH WIND

NEARLY every nation has its folk-lore concerning Jack Frost and his anti-type. The cold North Wind is always the enemy of man, and the warm South Wind always his friend. The Quères pueblos of Acoma and Laguna have an allegorical folk-story, in which the good spirit of heat defeats his icy-hearted rival.

Once, long ago, the _ta-pó-pe_ (governor) of Acoma had a beautiful daughter, for whom many of the young men had asked in vain, for she would have none of them. One day there came climbing up the stone ladder to the cliff-built pueblo a tall and handsome stranger. His dress glistened with white crystals, and his face, though handsome, was very stern. The fair _kot-chin-á-ka_ (chief’s daughter), bending at a pool in the great rock to fill her water-jar, saw and admired him as he came striding proudly to the village; and he did not fail to notice the dusky beauty. Soon he asked for her in due form; and in a little while they were to be married.

But, with the coming of Shó-kee-ah--for that was the name of the handsome stranger--a sad change befell Acoma. The water froze in the springs and the corn withered in the fields. Every morning Shó-kee-ah left the town and went away to his home in the far North; and every evening he returned, and the air grew chill around. The people could raise no crops, for the bitter cold killed all that they planted, and nothing would grow but the thorny cactus. To keep from starving, they had to eat the cactus-leaves, roasting them first to remove the sharp thorns. One day, when the _kot-chin-á-ka_ was roasting cactus-leaves, there came another handsome stranger with a sunny smile and stood beside her.

“What dost thou there?” he asked; and she told him.

“But do not so,” said the young man, giving her an ear of green corn. “Eat this, and I will bring thee more.”

So saying, he was gone; but very soon he returned with such a load of green corn as the strongest man could not lift, and carried it to her house.

“Roast this,” he said, “and when the people come to thee, give them each two ears, for hereafter there shall always be much corn.”

She roasted the corn and gave it to the people, who took it eagerly, for they were starving. But soon Shó-kee-ah returned, and the warm, bright day grew suddenly cold and cloudy. As he put his foot on the ladder to come down into the house (all Pueblo rooms used to be entered only from the roof, and thousands are so yet) great flakes of snow fell around him; but Mí-o-chin, the newcomer, made it very warm, and the snow melted.

“Now,” said Shó-kee-ah, “we will see which is more powerful; and he that is shall have the _kot-chin-á-ka_.” Mí-o-chin accepted the challenge, and it was agreed that the contest should begin on the morrow and last three days. Mí-o-chin went to consult an old Spider-woman as to the best way to conquer his powerful rival, and she gave him the necessary advice.