Wigwam Evenings Part 1

Wigwam Evenings.

by Charles Alexander Eastman and Elaine Goodale Eastman.

PREFACE

These scattered leaves from the unwritten school-book of the wilderness have been gathered together for the children of to-day; both as a slight contribution to the treasures of aboriginal folk-lore, and with the special purpose of adapting them to the demands of the American school and fireside. That is to say, we have chosen from a ma.s.s of material the shorter and simpler stories and parts of stories, and have not always insisted upon a literal rendering, but taken such occasional liberties with the originals as seemed necessary to fit them to the exigencies of an unlike tongue and to the sympathies of an alien race.

Nevertheless, we hope and think that we have been able to preserve in the main the true spirit and feeling of these old tales--tales that have been handed down by oral tradition alone through many generations of simple and story-loving people. The "Creation myths" and others rich in meaning have been treated very simply, as their symbolism is too complicated for very young readers; and much of the characteristic detail of the rambling native story-teller has been omitted. A story that to our thinking is most effectively told in a brief ten minutes is by him made to fill a long evening by dint of minute and realistic description of every stage of a journey, each camp made, every feature of a ceremony performed, and so on indefinitely. True, the attention of his unlettered listeners never flags; but our sophisticated youngsters would soon weary, we fear, of any such repet.i.tion.

There are stories here of different types, each of which has its prototype or parallel in the nursery tales of other nations. The animal fables of the philosophic red man are almost as terse and satisfying as those of Aesop, of whom they put us strongly in mind. A little further on we meet with brave and fortunate heroes, and beautiful princesses, and wicked old witches, and magical transformations, and all the other dear, familiar material of fairy lore, combined with a touch that is unfamiliar and fascinating.

The "Little Boy Man," the Adam of the Sioux, has a singular interest for us in that he is a sort of grown-up child, or a "Peter Pan" who never really grows up, and whose Eve-less Eden is a world where all the animals are his friends and killing for any purpose is unknown. Surely the red man's secret ideal must have been not war, but peace! The elements, indeed, are shown to be at war, as in the battle between Heat and Frost, or that of the mighty Thunder and the monstrous Deep; but let it be noted here that these conflicts are far more poetic and less b.l.o.o.d.y than those of Jack the Giant-killer and other redoubtable heroes of the Anglo-Saxon nursery.

The animal loves are strange--perhaps even repellent; yet our children have read of a prince who falls in love with a White Cat; in the story of "The Runaways" we come upon the old, old ruse of magic barriers interposed between pursuer and pursued; and Andersen's charming fantasy of "The Woodcutter's Child" who disobeyed her Guardian Angel has scarcely a more delicate pathos than the "Ghost Wife."

There are, to be sure, certain characters in this forest wonder-world that are purely and unmistakably Indian; yet after all Unk-to-mee, the sly one, whose adventures are endless, may be set beside quaint "Brer Fox" of Negro folk-lore, and Chan-o-te-dah is obviously an Indian brownie or gnome, while monstrous E-ya and wicked Double-Face re-incarnate the cannibal giants of our nursery days. Real children everywhere have lively imaginations that feed upon such robust marvels as these; and in many of us elders, I hope, enough of the child is left to find pleasure in a literature so vital, so human in its appeal, and one that, old as it is, has for the most part never until now put on the self-consciousness of type.

The stories are more particularly intended to be read beside an open fire to children of five years old and upward, or in the school-room by the nine, ten, eleven-year-olds in the corresponding grades.

E. G. E.

FIRST EVENING

The cold December moon is just showing above the tree-tops, pointing a white finger here and there at the cl.u.s.tered teepees of the Sioux, while opposite their winter camp on the lake sh.o.r.e a lonely, wooded island is spread like a black buffalo robe between the white, snow-covered ice and the dull gray sky.

All by itself at the further end of the village stands the teepee of Smoky Day, the old story-teller, the school-master of the woods. The paths that lead to this low brown wigwam are well beaten; deep, narrow trails, like sheep paths, in the hard-frozen snow.

To-night a generous fire of logs gives both warmth and light inside the teepee, and the old man is calmly filling his long, red pipe for the smoke of meditation, when the voices and foot-steps of several children are distinctly heard through the stillness of the winter night.

The door-flap is raised, and the nine-year-old Tanagela, the Humming-bird, slips in first, with her roguish black eyes and her shy smile.

"Grandmother, we have come to hear a story," she murmurs. "I have brought you a sun-dried buffalo-tongue, grandmother!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: SMOKY DAY TELLING TALES OF OLD DAYS AROUND HIS FIRE.

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One by one the little people of the village follow her, and all seat themselves on the ground about the central fire until the circle is well filled. Then the old man lays down his pipe, clears his throat once or twice and begins in a serious voice:

"These old stories for which you ask teach us the way of life, my grandchildren. The Great-Grandfather of all made us all; therefore we are brothers.

"In many of the stories the people have a common language, which now the Great Mystery has taken away from us, and has put a barrier between us and them, so that we can no longer converse together and understand the speech of the animal people.

"Observe, further, that silence is greater than speech. This is why we honor the animals, who are more silent than man, and we reverence the trees and rocks, where the Great Mystery lives undisturbed, in a peace that is never broken.

"Let no one ask a question until the story is finished."

THE BUFFALO AND THE FIELD-MOUSE

Once upon a time, when the Field-Mouse was out gathering wild beans for the winter, his neighbor, the Buffalo, came down to graze in the meadow.

This the little Mouse did not like, for he knew that the other would mow down all the long gra.s.s with his p.r.i.c.kly tongue, and there would be no place in which to hide. He made up his mind to offer battle like a man.

"Ho, Friend Buffalo, I challenge you to a fight!" he exclaimed in a small, squeaking voice.

The Buffalo paid no attention, no doubt thinking it only a joke. The Mouse angrily repeated the challenge, and still his enemy went on quietly grazing. Then the little Mouse laughed with contempt as he offered his defiance. The Buffalo at last looked at him and replied carelessly:

"You had better keep still, little one, or I shall come over there and step on you, and there will be nothing left!"

"You can't do it!" replied the Mouse.

"I tell you to keep still," insisted the Buffalo, who was getting angry.

"If you speak to me again, I shall certainly come and put an end to you!"

"I dare you to do it!" said the Mouse, provoking him.

Thereupon the other rushed upon him. He trampled the gra.s.s clumsily and tore up the earth with his front hoofs. When he had ended, he looked for the Mouse, but he could not see him anywhere.

"I told you I would step on you, and there would be nothing left!" he muttered.

Just then he felt a scratching inside his right ear. He shook his head as hard as he could, and twitched his ears back and forth. The gnawing went deeper and deeper until he was half wild with the pain. He pawed with his hoofs and tore up the sod with his horns. Bellowing madly, he ran as fast as he could, first straight forward and then in circles, but at last he stopped and stood trembling. Then the Mouse jumped out of his ear, and said:

"Will you own now that I am master?"

"No!" bellowed the Buffalo, and again he started toward the Mouse, as if to trample him under his feet. The little fellow was nowhere to be seen, but in a minute the Buffalo felt him in the other ear. Once more he became wild with pain, and ran here and there over the prairie, at times leaping high in the air. At last he fell to the ground and lay quite still. The Mouse came out of his ear, and stood proudly upon his dead body.

"Eho!" said he, "I have killed the greatest of all beasts. This will show to all that I am master!"

Standing upon the body of the dead Buffalo, he called loudly for a knife with which to dress his game.

In another part of the meadow, Red Fox, very hungry, was hunting mice for his breakfast. He saw one and jumped upon him with all four feet, but the little Mouse got away, and he was dreadfully disappointed.

All at once he thought he heard a distant call: "Bring a knife! Bring a knife!"

When the second call came, Red Fox started in the direction of the sound. At the first knoll he stopped and listened, but hearing nothing more, he was about to go back. Just then he heard the call plainly, but in a very thin voice, "Bring a knife!" Red Fox immediately set out again and ran as fast as he could.

By and by he came upon the huge body of the Buffalo lying upon the ground. The little Mouse still stood upon the body.

"I want you to dress this Buffalo for me and I will give you some of the meat," commanded the Mouse.

"Thank you, my friend, I shall be glad to do this for you," he replied, politely.