A HURON CINDERELLA

BY HOWARD ANGUS KENNEDY

Many years ago there was an Indian chief who had three daughters; and they lived in a lodge by the side of the Ottawa River—not in a wigwam, mind you, but a good old Huron lodge, like a tunnel, made of two rows of young trees bent into arches and tied together at the top, with walls of birch-bark. Oh! it was an honorable old lodge, with more cracks in the birch-bark than you could count, all patched and smeared with pitch.

The chief had three sons too, but they were killed in a great fight with the Iroquois. When the brave Hurons used up all their arrows they threw down their bows and rushed on the Iroquois with their tomahawks. They screamed and howled like eagles and wolves, and the Iroquois were so frightened that they wanted to run away, but their own magic-man threw a spell upon them, so that they couldn’t turn round or run, and they had to stand and fight. The Iroquois were cousins of the Hurons, and came of a brave stock; and as the Hurons were few compared to the Iroquois, few as the thumbs compared to the fingers, the Hurons were beaten, and only twenty men of the tribe escaped down the river, and none of the women except the chief’s three daughters.

Now the two eldest daughters were very proud, and loved to make a fine show before the young men of the tribe. One day a brave young man came to the lodge and asked the chief to give him a daughter for a wife.

The chief said, “It is not right for me to give my daughter to any but a chief’s son.” However, he called his eldest daughter and said to her, “This young man wants you for a wife.”

The eldest daughter thought in her mind: “I am very handsome, and one day a chief’s son will come and ask for me; but my clothes are old and common. I will deceive this young man.” So she said to him: “If you want me for your wife, get me a big piece of the fine red cloth that the white men bring to the fort far down the river.”

The young man was brave, as we have said, and he took his birch-bark canoe and paddled down the river day after day for seven days, only stopping to paddle up the creeks where the beavers build their dams; and when he stopped at the foot of the great rapids, where the white men lay behind stone walls in fear of the Iroquois, his canoe was deep and heavy with the skins of the beavers. The white men were at war with the Indians, and, though he was no Iroquois, his heart grew cold in his breast. But he did not tremble; he marched in at the watergate, and the white men were glad to see his beaver skins, and gave him much red cloth for them; so his heart grew warm again, and he paddled up the river with his riches. Twelve days he paddled, for the current was strong against him; but at last he stood outside the old lodge, and called the chief’s eldest daughter to come out and be his wife. When she saw how red was his load, she was glad and sorry—glad because of the cloth, and sorry because of the man.

“But where are the beads?” said she.

“You asked me for no beads,” said he.

“Fool!” said she. “Was it ever heard that a chief’s daughter married in clothing of plain red cloth? If you want me for your wife, bring me a double handful of the glass beads that the Frenchmen bring from over the sea—red and white and blue and yellow beads!”

So the brave paddled off in his canoe down the river. When he came to the beavers’ creeks he found the dams and the lodges; but the beavers were gone. He followed them up the creeks till the water got so shallow that the rocks tore holes in his canoe, and he had to stop and strip fresh birch-bark to mend the holes; but at last he found where the beavers were building their new dams; and he loaded his canoe with their skins, and paddled away and shot over the rapids, and came to the white man’s fort. The white men passed their hands over the skins and felt that they were good, and gave him a double handful of beads. Then he paddled up the river, paddling fast and hard, so that when he stood before the old chief’s lodge he was very thin.

The eldest daughter came out when he called, and said: “It is a shame for such an ugly man to have a chief’s daughter for his wife. You are not a man; you are only the bones of a man, like the poles of the lodge when the bark is stripped away. Come back when you are fat.”

Then he went away to his lodge, and ate and slept and ate and slept till he was fat, and he made his face beautiful with red clay and went and called to the chief’s daughter to come and marry him. But she called out to him, saying:

“A chief’s daughter must have time to embroider her clothes. Come back when I have made my cloth beautiful with a strip of beadwork a hand’s-breadth wide from end to end of the cloth.”

flute player
from a painting by j. h. sharp

But she was very lazy as well as proud, and she took the cloth to her youngest sister, and said: “Embroider a beautiful strip, a hand’s-breadth wide, from end to end of the cloth.”

Now the chief’s youngest daughter was very beautiful; so her sisters were jealous and made her live in the dark corner at the back of the lodge, where no man could see her; but her eyes were very bright, and by the light of her eyes she arranged the beads and sewed them on so that the pattern was like the flowers of the earth and the stars of heaven, it was so beautiful. But when the youngest daughter had fallen asleep at night her eldest sister came softly and took away the cloth and picked off the beads.

In the morning she went to her youngest sister and said, “Show me the work you did yesterday.”

And the youngest sister cried, and said, “Truly I worked as well as I could, but some evil one has picked out the beads.”

Then her sister scolded her, and pricked her with the needle, and said, “You are lazy! Embroider this cloth, and do it beautifully, or I shall beat you!”

This she did day after day, and whenever the young man came to see if she was dressed for the wedding she showed him the cloth, and it was not finished.

Now there was another brave young man in that village, and he came and asked the chief for his second daughter.

The second daughter was as proud as the first, and said to herself, “One day a great chief’s son will come, and I will marry him.” But she said to the young man, “If you want me for your wife, you must build me a new lodge, and cover the door of it with a curtain of beaver-skins.”

The young man smiled in his heart, for he said to himself, “This is easy; this is child’s play.” So he built a new lodge, and hung a curtain of beaver-skins over the door.

But when the chief’s daughter saw the curtain, she said, “I should be ashamed to live behind a curtain of plain beaver-skins like that! Go and hunt for porcupines, that the curtain may be embroidered with their quills.”

So he took his bow and his arrows and went away through the woods to hunt. Twelve days he marched, till he came to the porcupines’ country. When the porcupines saw him coming; they ran to meet him, crying out, “Don’t kill us! We will give you all the quills that you want.” And while he stood doubting, the porcupines turned round, and shot their prickly quills out at him so that they stuck in his body. And the porcupines ran away into hiding before he could shoot.

Then the young man, because he had been gone so long already, did not chase the porcupines, but left the quills sticking in his body and went back to the village, saying to himself, “She will see how brave I am, that I care nothing for the pain of the porcupine quills.”

But when the chief’s daughter saw him she only laughed and said:

“You cannot deceive me! It was never heard that a chief’s daughter married a man who was not brave. If you were brave, you would have twenty Iroquois scalps hanging from your belt. It is easy to hunt porcupines; go and hunt the Iroquois, that I may embroider the curtain black and white with the porcupine-quills and the Iroquois hair.”

Then the young man’s heart grew cold; but he took his bow and arrows and went through the woods; and when he came near the Iroquois town he lay down on his face and slipped through the bushes like a snake. When an Iroquois came to hunt in the woods, he shot the Iroquois and took his scalp; and this he did till he had twenty scalps on his belt.

Now all the time that he lay in the bushes by the Iroquois town he ate nothing but wild strawberries, for the blueberries were not yet ripe; so when he came to his own village and called to the chief’s second daughter, she said:

“You are an ill-looking man for a chief’s daughter to marry. You are like a porcupine-quill yourself. Nevertheless, I am not like my sister, and I will marry you as soon as the curtain is embroidered.”

Then she took the curtain of beaver-skin and gave it to her youngest sister, and said:

“Embroider this curtain with quills, black and white, and criss-cross, so that it shall be more beautiful than the red cloth and the beadwork.”

So the youngest sister, when she had done her day’s work on the cloth, and was tired and ready to sleep, took the quills and the hair and began to embroider the curtain, black and white, in beautiful patterns like the boughs of the trees against the sky, till she could work no longer, and fell asleep with her chin on her breast.

Then her second sister came with her mischievous fingers and picked out all the embroidery of quills and hair, and in the morning came and shook her and waked her, and said, “You are lazy! you are lazy! Embroider this curtain!”

In this way the youngest sister’s task was doubled, and she grew thin for want of sleep; yet she was so beautiful, and her eyes shone so brightly, that her sisters hated her more and more, for they said to themselves, “If a great chief’s son comes this way, he will see her eyes shining even in the dark at the back of the lodge.”

One day, when the chief looked out of his door, he saw a new lodge standing in the middle of the village, covered with buckskin, and painted round with pictures of wonderful beasts that had never been seen in that country before. There was a fire in front of the lodge, and the haunch of a deer was cooking on the fire. When the chief went and stood and looked in at the door, the lodge was empty, and he said, “Whose can this lodge be?”

Then a voice close by him said, “It is the lodge of a chief who is greater than any chief of the Hurons or any chief of the Iroquois.”

“Where is he?” asked the old chief.

“I am sitting beside my fire,” said the voice; “but you cannot see me, for your eyes are turned inward. No one can see me but the maiden I have come to marry.”

“There are no maidens here,” said the old chief, “except my daughters.”

Then he went back to his lodge, where his two elder daughters were idling in the sun, and told them:

“There is a great chief come to seek a wife in my tribe. His magic is so strong that no one can see him except the maiden whom he chooses to marry.”

Then the eldest daughter got up, snatched the red cloth out of her youngest sister’s hand, wrapped it round her, smeared red clay over her face, and ran to the new lodge and called to the great chief to come and look at her.

“I am looking at you now,” said a voice close beside her; “and you are very ugly; you have been dipping your face in the mud. And you are very lazy, for your embroidery is not finished.”

“Great chief,” said she, “I will wash the clay from my face, and I will go and finish the embroidery and make a robe fit for a maiden who is to marry the great chief.”

Then the voice said, “How can you marry a man you cannot see?”

“Oh,” she said, “I can see you as plainly as the lodge and the fire. I can see you quite plainly, sitting beside the fire.”

“Then tell me what I am like,” said he.

“You are the handsomest of men,” she said, “straight of back and brown of skin.”

“Go home,” said the voice, “and learn to speak truth.”

When she came back to the lodge, she flung the red cloth down on the ground without speaking.

Then the old chief said to his second daughter, “Your sister has failed; it must be you that the great chief will marry.”

So the second daughter picked up the beaver curtain and flung it round her, and ran to the empty lodge; and, being crafty, she cried aloud as she came near, “Oh! What a handsome chief you are!”

“How do you know I am handsome?” said the voice. “Tell me what clothes I wear.”

So she guessed in her mind, and, looking on the painted lodge, she said, “A robe of buckskin, with wonderful animals painted on it.”

“Go home,” said the voice, “and learn to speak truth.”

Then she slunk away home, and squatted on the ground before the lodge, with her chin on her breast.

Now, when the youngest daughter saw that both her sisters had failed, she said to herself, “They tell me I am very thin and ugly, but I will go and try if I can see this great chief.” So she pushed aside a corner of the birch-bark, slipped out at the back of the lodge, and stole away to the painted lodge; and there, sitting by his fire on the ground, she saw a wonderful great chief, with skin as white as midwinter snow, dressed in a long robe of red and blue and green and yellow stripes.

He smiled on her as she stood humbly before him, and said, “Tell me now, chief’s daughter, what I am like, and what I wear!”

And she said, “Your face is like a cloud in the north when the sun shines bright from the south; and your robe is like the arch in the sky when the sun shines on the rain.”

Then he stood up and took her for his wife, and carried her away to live in his own country.

THE FIRE BRINGER [S]

BY MARY AUSTIN

They ranged together by wood and open swale, the boy who was to be called Fire Bringer, and the keen, gray dog of the wilderness, and saw the tribesmen catching fish in the creeks with their hands, and the women digging roots with sharp stones. This they did in Summer, and fared well; but when Winter came they ran nakedly in the snow, or huddled in caves of the rocks, and were very miserable. When the boy saw this he was very unhappy, and brooded over it until the Coyote noticed it.

“It is because my people suffer and have no way to escape the cold,” said the boy.

“I do not feel it,” said the Coyote.

“That is because of your coat of good fur, which my people have not, except they take it in the chase, and it is hard to come by.”

“Let them run about, then,” said the counselor, “and keep warm.”

“They run till they are weary,” said the boy; “and there are the young children and the very old. Is there no way for them?”

“Come,” said the Coyote, “let us go to the hunt.”

“I will hunt no more,” the boy answered him, “until I have found a way to save my people from the cold. Help me, O counselor!”

But the Coyote had run away. After a time he came back and found the boy still troubled in his mind.

“There is a way, O Man Friend,” said the Coyote, “and you and I must take it together, but it is very hard.”

“I will not fail of my part,” said the boy.

“We will need a hundred men and women, strong, and swift runners.”

“I will find them,” the boy insisted, “only tell me.”

“We must go,” said the Coyote, “to the Burning Mountain by the Big Water and bring fire to our people.”

Said the boy: “What is fire?”

Then the Coyote considered a long time how he should tell the boy what fire is. “It is,” said he, “red like a flower, yet it is no flower; neither is it a beast, though it runs in the grass and rages in the wood and devours all. It is very fierce and hurtful, and stays not for asking; yet if it is kept among stones and fed with small sticks, it will serve the people well and keep them warm.”

“How is it to be come at?”

“It has its lair in the Burning Mountain; and the Fire Spirits guard it night and day. It is a hundred days’ journey from this place, and because of the jealousy of the Fire Spirits no man dare go near it. But I, because all beasts are known to fear it much, may approach it without hurt, and, it may be, bring you a brand from the burning. Then you must have strong runners for every one of the hundred days to bring it safely home.”

“I will go and get them,” said the boy; but it was not so easily done as said. Many there were who were slothful, and many were afraid; but the most disbelieved it wholly.

“For,” they said, “how should this boy tell us of a thing of which we have never heard!” But at last the boy and their own misery persuaded them.

The Coyote advised them how the march should begin. The boy and the counselor went foremost; next to them the swiftest runners, with the others following in the order of their strength, and speed. They left the place of their home and went over the high mountains where great jagged peaks stand up above the snow, and down the way the streams led through a long stretch of giant wood where the somber shade and the sound of the wind in the branches made them afraid. At nightfall, where they rested, one stayed in that place, and the next night another dropped behind; and so it was at the end of each day’s journey. They crossed a great plain where waters of mirage rolled over a cracked and parching earth, and the rim of the world was hidden in a bluish mist. So they came at last to another range of hills, not so high, but tumbled thickly together; and beyond these, at the end of the hundred days, to the Big Water, quaking along the sand at the foot of the Burning Mountain.

It stood up in a high and peaked cone, and the smoke of its burning rolled out and broke along the sky. By night the glare of it reddened the waves far out on the Big Water, when the Fire Spirits began their dance.

Then said the counselor to the boy who was soon to be called the Fire Bringer: “Do you stay here until I bring you a brand from the burning; be ready and right for running, and lose no time, for I shall be far spent when I come again, and the Fire Spirits will pursue me.”

the coyote stole the fire and began to run away with it down the slope of the burning mountain

Then he went up the mountain, and the Fire Spirits, when they saw him come, were laughing and very merry, for his appearance was much against him. Lean he was, and his coat much the worse for the long way he had come. Slinking he looked, inconsiderable, scurvy, and mean, as he has always looked, and it served him as well then as it serves him now. So the Fire Spirits only laughed, and paid him no further heed.

Along in the night, when they came out to begin their dance about the mountain, the Coyote stole the fire and began to run away with it down the slope of the Burning Mountain. When the Fire Spirits saw what he had done, they streamed out after him red and angry in pursuit, with a sound like a swarm of bees.

The boy saw them come, and stood up in his place clean-limbed and taut for running. He saw the sparks of the brand stream back along the Coyote’s flanks as he carried it in his mouth, and stretched forward on the trail, bright against the dark bulk of the mountain like a falling star. He heard the singing sound of the Fire Spirits behind, and the labored breath of the counselor nearing through the dark. Then the good beast panted down beside him, and the brand dropped from his jaws.

The boy caught it up, standing bent for the running as a bow to speeding the arrow. Out he shot on the homeward path, and the Fire Spirits snapped and sung behind him. Fast as they pursued he fled faster, until he saw the next runner stand up in his place to receive the brand.

So it passed from hand to hand, and the Fire Spirits tore after it through the scrub until they came to the mountains of the snows. These they could not pass; and the dark, sleek runners with the backward-streaming brand bore it forward, shining star-like in the night, glowing red through sultry noons, violet pale in twilight glooms, until they came in safety to their own land. Here they kept it among stones, and fed it with small sticks, as the Coyote had advised, until it warmed them and cooked their food.

As for the boy by whom fire came to the tribes, he was called the Fire Bringer while he lived; and after that, since there was no other with so good a right to the name, it fell to the Coyote; and this is the sign that the tale is true, for all along his lean flanks the fur is singed and yellow as it was by the flames that blew backward from the brand when he brought it down from the Burning Mountain.

As for the fire, that went on broadening and brightening, and giving out a cheery sound until it broadened into the light of day.

[S] From “The Basket Woman,” by Mary Austin; used by permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Company.

SCAR FACE

An Indian Tale

The mother of Scar Face the Youth was Feather Woman, who had fallen in love with Morning Star, and vowed that she would marry none other. To this she held true, despite the laughter and jibes of her friends. And one morning when she walked in the fields very, very early, that she might see Morning Star before the sun hid his brightness, she met a handsome youth who told her that he was Morning Star, and that he had come to earth for a day, impelled by her love.

So Feather Woman went back to Skyland with Morning Star, and by-and-by a little son was born to her. At first she had been very happy in Skyland, but there were times when she was sad because of the camp of the Blackfeet, which she had left.

Now, in Skyland Feather Woman often dug in the garden, and she had been cautioned not to uproot the turnip, lest evil befall. After she was given this charge she looked long at the turnip and wondered what evil might come from its uprooting. At last she took her flint and dug around the least bit, not wanting to uproot it; but hardly had she loosened the turnip when it came out of the ground, and she looked down through the hole which it had made in the sky and saw the camp of the Blackfeet spread before her.

Suddenly she began to weep for her friends; and when her father-in-law, the Sun, saw her weeping, he said: “You have dug up the turnip and have looked down at the camp of the Blackfeet. Now must you return thither.”

So the star-weavers made a net, and Feather Woman and her child, the son of Morning Star, were let down into the camp of the Blackfeet.

At first she was very happy, but soon she began to grieve for Morning Star, and at last she died of sorrow because she could not return to Skyland. Morning Star could not come to earth, for it had been given to him to come but that one time when impelled by her love.

And so the little son of Feather Woman and Morning Star was left all alone. And across his face was a great scar, which had been made there when he had been let down from Skyland in the net woven by the star-weavers. Because of this scar he was named, and because of it he was very ugly, so that the children of the tribe were afraid of him, and the older folks hated him; they said that evil must be in his heart that he should have so ugly a face.

But there was no evil in the heart of Scar Face, and he hunted and fished alone, and became a great hunter, bringing home much meat to the tribe.

But he was not happy, because of the unfriendliness of the tribe. The Chief had a very beautiful daughter, and all the young men of the tribe loved her; and Scar Face, too, loved her, and longed to marry her.

So at last he went to her and told her of his love, and asked her to marry him; and she, thinking to jest, said: “I will marry you when you take that ugly scar from your face.”

At this Scar Face was more sad than he had been before, for he did not see how it was possible to get rid of the scar. But he loved the Chief’s daughter very much, and at last he went to the old Medicine Man of the tribe to ask him what he could do to get rid of the scar.

“You can do nothing,” replied the Medicine Man. “The scar was put there by the Sun, and only the Sun can take it away.”

“Then I will go to the Sun and ask him to take away the scar,” said Scar Face.

“If you will do that,” replied the Medicine Man, “you must journey far to the west, where the land ends and where the Big Water is. And when you come to the Big Water at sunset you will see a long trail, marked by a golden light, which leads to the home of the Sun. Follow the trail.”

So Scar Face set out and went to where the land ends and the Big Water is. And he sat by the Big Water until sunset, and he saw the trail as the Medicine Man had said. Then he followed the trail, and came at last to Skyland, where he was greeted by Morning Star, who knew him at once for his son.

Morning Star was most glad at the coming of his son, and they hunted and fished together. And one day when they were hunting they came to a deep cavern in which was a dreadful serpent, which attacked Morning Star and would have killed him but that Scar Face quickly cut off its head.

Then the Sun was grateful to Scar Face for saving the life of his son, Morning Star, and he removed the scar from the face of his grandson, which he had put there in anger at the child’s mother.

Then Scar Face went back to the tribe of the Blackfeet, and he was the most handsome of all the youths; and the daughter of the Chief loved him, and he had no difficulty in persuading her to marry him. Because he loved his father, Morning Star, he took her with him and set out again for the place where the land ends and the Big Water begins; and together they followed the trail marked by golden light until they came at last to Skyland. There they lived and were happy; and Morning Star shone with especial brightness on the camp of the Blackfeet for their sake.

WHY THE BABY SAYS “GOO”

RETOLD BY EHRMA G. FILER

On a sloping highland near the snow-capped mountains of the North was an Indian village. The Chief of the village was a very brave man, and he had done many wonderful things.

These were the days of magic and witchery. The Ice Giants had attempted to raid the land; some wicked Witches had tried to cast an evil spell over the people; and once a neighboring colony of Dwarfs had tried to invade the village.

But the brave Chief had fought and conquered all these forces of evil and magic. He was so successful and so good that the people loved him very much. They thought he could do anything.

Then before long the Chief himself began to be proud and vain. He had conquered everyone; so he thought he was the greatest warrior in the world.

One day he boastfully said: “I can conquer anything or any person on this earth.”

Now, a certain Wise Old Woman lived in this village. She knew one whom the Chief could not conquer. She decided it was best for the Chief to know this, for he was getting too vain. So one day she went to the Chief and told him.

“Granny, who is this marvelous person?” asked the Chief, half angrily.

“We call him Wasis,” she solemnly answered.

“Show him to me,” said the Chief. “I will prove that I can conquer him.”

The old grandmother led the way to her own wigwam. A great crowd followed to see what would happen.

“There he is,” said the Wise Old Woman; and she pointed to a dear little Indian baby, who sat, round-eyed and solemn, sucking a piece of sugar.

The Chief was astonished. He could not imagine what the old woman meant, for he was sure he could make a little baby obey him. This Chief had no wife, and knew nothing about babies. He stepped up closer to the baby, and looking seriously at him said:

“Baby, come here!”

Little Wasis merely smiled back at him and gurgled, “Goo, Goo,” in true baby fashion.

The Chief felt very queer. No one had ever answered him so before. Then he thought, perhaps the baby did not understand; so he stepped nearer and said kindly: “Baby, come here!”

“Goo, Goo!” answered baby, and waved his little dimpled hand.

This was an open insult, the Chief felt; so he called out loudly: “Baby, come here at once!”

This frightened little Wasis, and he opened his little mouth and began to cry. The Chief had never before heard such a noise. He drew back, and looked helplessly around.

“You see, little Wasis shouts back war-cries,” said the Wise Old Woman.

This angered the Chief, and he said: “I will overcome him with my magic power.”

Then he began to mutter queer songs, and to dance around the baby.

This pleased little Wasis, and he smiled and watched the Chief, never moving to go to him. He just sat and sucked his sugar.

At last the Chief was tired out. His red paint was streaked with sweat; his feathers were falling, and his legs ached. He sat down and looked at the old woman.

“Did I not say that baby is mightier than you?” said she. “No one is mightier than he. A baby rules the wigwam, and everyone obeys him.”

“It is truly so,” said the Chief, and went outside.

The last sound he heard as he walked away was the “Goo, Goo” of little Wasis as he crowed in victory. It was his war-cry. All babies mean just that when they gurgle so at you.