EDITORIAL
Although the year now nearly ended has been one of extreme labor on the part of the Editor, he feels a reasonable degree of pride in that his efforts to produce a magazine worthy of being known as the successor of Mrs. Lamb’s Magazine of American History, have been recognized as successful, by many of his subscribers. That the venture could be financially profitable the first year, was not expected—yet the deficiency is not large, and may even yet be extinguished by the receipt of a comparatively small number of subscriptions before the New Year is upon us.
It is not the Editor’s custom to make unlimited promises for a coming year—he much prefers to let the performance of 1905 stand as a fair sample of what may be expected in 1906, and promises only to improve on it if he can. It is so obvious that the standard of a periodical depends on the growth of its subscription list, that he alludes to it only to emphasize the fact that an historical periodical is particularly so dependent, as advertising receipts from such an one can never be large—advertisers as a rule seeking only those of great circulation. Hence the need that all who claim to be interested in our Nation’s history should prove that interest by subscribing to this, the only monthly devoted to the subject and not confining itself to any one section of the United States.
Its value can also be enhanced by the receipt of queries or historical items appropriate to its columns—and the Editor wishes such whether from subscribers or those who may read it only in our public libraries.
To those who have aided him by contributing MSS. during the year, he returns his warmest thanks, appreciating fully that only by such aid has it been possible to successfully conduct the publication.
The irregularity in publishing the monthly parts, has been unavoidable—but subscribers may rest assured that all possible will be done to reduce this to a minimum. It has been as much of an annoyance to the Editor as to his subscribers, but may be occasionally inevitable in the absence of the usual “quantity of matter awaiting publication,” which more fortunate editors have been known to mention to aspirants for literary fame.
MINOR TOPICS
THE FATE OF THE PIGEONS
[The description of the vast flocks of the wild pigeons (Ectopistes migratoria), given in Mr. Ryman’s article in the October Magazine, makes the following article, from a recent number of Forest and Stream, of timely interest. The Editor remembers that in 1892, when he desired to give a game dinner in New York, he was unable to add these birds to his list, although making application to dealers as far west as Minneapolis. The description of a flight of pigeons, given by Audubon and Wilson in their works, is of remarkable value, as showing the great change wrought in a comparatively short period of time by the increase of population in the former haunts of these valuable birds.—Ed.]
Being old enough at the time to fully appreciate the grand sight of the myriads of wild pigeons as they moved back and forth through the Mississippi valley in the late seventies, it did not occur to the writer when they suddenly disappeared that it meant they had done so for all time.
As the years pass and no satisfactory explanation has been advanced, the subject fairly nettles the thoughtful lover of nature. Superficial humane zealots as usual credit the trapshooters with wanton slaughter, which is positively silly when it is remembered that a single flock, one of a hundred that passed in a day, would supply pigeons for trapshooting for several years. That disease exterminated them is not impossible, and is by far more reasonable than the trap or net explanation, twenty-five or more years of guessing having failed to locate or account for the birds.
The suggestion here offered (for what it is worth), which was brought about by a dream, may, if followed up, give a clew to the whereabouts or fate of the birds which sportsmen of the last generation will ever remember as the most graceful and skillful flyers known. The dream above mentioned need not be given in detail, nor could it be at this time; however, the writer dreamed of a pow-wow with a venerable Indian who, when asked what had become of the pigeons, stated, to quote him literally (as dreamed), that “Pigeon heap d——n fool, fly in big water [meaning the Gulf of Mexico], no come back.”
I am without any element of superstition, but this dream and Indian affirmation have haunted me for months. I have just returned from the Gulf coast, where, strange as it may seem, the dream has in a measure been confirmed as follows:
Having waded through a slough several times in quest of jack snipe, which were there in large numbers, and having killed and bagged many, I came to an inviting log near the edge of the swamp, which made a good resting place for a tired shooter. While seated there making up my mind whether I should quit shooting or go back after the snipe again, an old negro driving an antiquated mule attached to a creaking, ramshackle wagon with dished wheels, drove up. A few pieces of webbing, some chains for traces, and a bridle and reins of common clothesline made a perfectly harmonious outfit.
“Whoa, Jake!” commanded the old man as he rolled up to my resting place. “Good mo’nin’, sah. You all been spo’tin’ some dis mo’nin’.”
I assured him I had bagged a lot of jacks.
“I dun hear pow’ful lots o’ gun firin’ as I come along back.”
His aged and gray head was set with bright eyes, and his old face beamed with good nature. I decided to do some of the questioning, so I started in with an inquiry as to whether Jake, who stood within reach of my seat on the log, had been or was a kicker. His owner assured me he was gentle and “never was a fool mule.”
“How long have you lived here, uncle?” I inquired.
“I don’t live here; I lives up dis road ’bout fo’ miles.”
“Yes, but how long have you lived in Texas, or near the Gulf?” I asked.
“Good Lo’d! I dun always been here,” and, as if to emphasize the statement, his old face wrinkled more than usual.
“Do you remember the pigeons, years ago?” I asked.
“I shore does, sah.”
“What became of them?” I asked, recalling the dream.
“Whar you all come from to ast dis nigger such fool things! Of cou’se I knows.”
“Well, I don’t,” I remarked; “but would like to very much.”
“You never dun heard of de black fog and the ‘norther’ on dis beach ’bout twenty-five years ago?”
“I never have; but what has that to do with it?”
“Beg your pa’don, sah, I guess you-all ain’t jokin’?”
I assured him I was not, and he began the story of the disappearance of the pigeons something like this:
“When me and Tom Clay was out huntin’ ’coons and bob cats one day, de fog came so thick it was most pitch dark in dis woods, and we was ’fraid to go to the island where Mars Judge Tobin lived, and we was workin’, and jes had to stay right dar in dat timber fo’ days and fo’ nights—coze we shore would git lost if we rowed de boat in dat fog. Well, de second mo’nin’ along come de ‘norther’ an’ dun blowed dis timber most to pieces, but not de fog. By an’ bye I hear a sound, I dun heard befo’, pigeons was a-flyin’ over, and de sound kep’ up all dat day till mos’ dark. Den dey come fallin’ thro’ de trees around us with their wings busted, and heads busted, like they was plum crazy; an’ when dey seen our fire dey fluttered into it and put it clean out. Yas, sah, dat’s God’s truf, I dun tole you all. Next mo’nin’ all dat could fly started off to’d the ocean, an’ the noise of more a-comin’ kep’ up all day till mos’ night. Dat noise was shore mighty bad, an’ we dun been ’bout scared to death when de fog lifted, an’ we started fo’ home in de boat. Den we was scared agin, fo’ de bay was mos’ covered with dead pigeons an’ blood an’ feathers, an’ mos’ every kind of a fish was dar jes helpin’ hisself, an’ so thick we could jes row de boat. We dun busted right into a nest of sharks feedin’ on pigeons, an’ one throwed his tail so hard he knocked de oar out of de boat mos’ ten feet. Next mo’nin’ all the pigeons was dun gone, excep’ on de beach was some washed up, an’ a pow’ful lot of dead fish, little ones’ s’pose got killed in de rush for pigeons. I neber did see a big flock since, an’ ain’t seen nary one fo’ yeahs now.”
“Then you think they perished in the Gulf?” I asked.
“I dun seen um, I knows I know it!” he replied.
Will some kind reader help me in this matter and interview some old sea dog who may have met the unfortunate birds further out to sea, and verify this negro’s story, and the characteristic statement that “pigeon heap fool, fly in big water, and no come back,” of the visionary Indian?
INDIAN LEGENDS: III.
THE LONE BUFFALO
Among the legends which the traveler frequently hears, while crossing the prairies of the Far West, I remember one which accounts in a most romantic manner for the origin of thunder. A summer storm was sweeping over the land, and I had sought a temporary shelter in the lodge of a Sioux or Dacotah Indian on the banks of the St. Peter’s River. Vividly flashed the lightning, and an occasional peal of thunder echoed through the firmament. While the storm continued my host and his family paid but little attention to my comfort, for they were all evidently stricken with terror. I endeavored to quell their fears, and for that purpose asked them a variety of questions respecting their people, but they only replied by repeating, in a dismal tone the name of the Lone Buffalo. My curiosity was of course excited, and it may readily be imagined that I did not resume my journey without obtaining an explanation of the mystic words; and from him who first uttered them in the Sioux lodge I subsequently obtained the following legend:
There was a chief of the Sioux nation whose name was the Master Bear. He was famous as a prophet and hunter, and was a particular favorite with the Master of Life. In an evil hour he partook of the white man’s fire-water, and in a fighting broil unfortunately took the life of a brother chief. According to ancient custom blood was demanded for blood, and when next the Master Bear went forth to hunt, he was waylaid, shot through the heart with an arrow, and his body deposited in front of his widow’s lodge. Bitterly did the woman bewail her misfortune, now mutilating her body in the most heroic manner, and anon narrating to her only son, a mere infant, the prominent events of her husband’s life. Night came, and with her child lashed upon her back, the woman erected a scaffold on the margin of a neighboring stream, and with none to lend her a helping hand, enveloped the corpse in her more valuable robes, and fastened it upon the scaffold. She completed her task just as the day was breaking, when she returned to the lodge, and shutting herself therein, spent the three following days without tasting food.
During her retirement the widow had a dream in which she was visited by the Master of Life. He endeavored to console her in her sorrow, and for the reason that he had loved her husband, promised to make her son a more famous warrior and medicine man than his father had been. And what was more remarkable, this prophecy was to be realized within the period of a few weeks. She told her story in the village, and was laughed at for her credulity.
On the following day, when the village boys were throwing the ball upon the plain, a noble youth suddenly made his appearance among the players, and eclipsed them all in the bounds he made, and the wildness of his shouts. He was a stranger to all, but when the widow’s dream was remembered, he was recognized as her son, and treated with respect. But the youth was yet without a name, for his mother had told him that he should win one for himself by his individual prowess.
Only a few days had elapsed, when it was rumored that a party of Pawnees had overtaken and destroyed a Sioux hunter, when it was immediately determined in council that a party of one hundred warriors should start upon the war-path and revenge the injury. Another council was held for the purpose of appointing a leader, when a young man suddenly entered the ring and claimed the privilege of leading the way. His authority was angrily questioned, but the stranger only replied by pointing to the brilliant eagle’s feathers on his head, and by shaking from his belt a large number of fresh Pawnee scalps. They remembered the stranger boy, and acknowledged the supremacy of the stranger man.
Night settled upon the prairie world, and the Sioux warriors started upon the war-path. Morning dawned and a Pawnee village was in ashes, and the bodies of many hundred men, women and children were left upon the ground as food for the wolf and vulture. The Sioux warriors returned to their own encampment when it was ascertained that the nameless leader had taken more than twice as many scalps as his brother warriors. Then it was that a feeling of jealousy arose, which was soon quieted, however, by the news that the Crow Indians had stolen a number of horses and many valuable furs from a Sioux hunter as he was returning from the mountains. Another warlike expedition was planned, and as before the nameless warrior took the lead.
The sun was near his setting, and as the Sioux party looked down upon a Crow village, which occupied the center of a charming valley, the Sioux chief commanded the attention of his braves and addressed them in the following language:
“I am about to die, my brothers, and must speak my mind. To be fortunate in war is your chief ambition and because I have been successful you are unhappy. Is this right? Have you acted like men? I despise you for your meanness and I intend to prove to you this night that I am the bravest man in the nation. The task will cost me my life, but I am anxious that my nature should be changed and I shall be satisfied. I intend to enter the Crow village alone, but before departing, I have one favor to request. If I succeed in destroying that village, and lose my life, I want you, when I am dead, to cut off my head and protect it with care. You must then kill one of the largest buffaloes in the country and cut off his head. You must then bring his body and my head together, and breathe upon them, when I shall be free to roam in the Spirit-land at all times, and over our great prairie-land wherever I please. And when your hearts are troubled with wickedness remember the Lone Buffalo.”
The attack upon the Crow village was successful, but according to his prophecy the Lone Buffalo received his death wound, and his brother warriors remembered his parting request. The fate of the hero’s mother is unknown, but the Indians believe that it is she who annually sends from the Spirit-land the warm winds of spring, which cover the prairies with grass for the sustenance of the Buffalo race. As to the Lone Buffalo, he is never seen even by the most cunning hunter, excepting when the moon is at its full. At such times he is invariably alone, cropping his food in some remote part of the prairies; and whenever the heavens resound with the moanings of the thunder, the red man banishes from his breast every feeling of jealousy, for he believes it to be the warning voice of the Lone Buffalo.
Charles Lanman.