Peter Clarke, a native writer, was undoubtedly one of the most reliable sources of information regarding the ancient history of the Wyandots, whose descendants, absorbed by the white race, have permitted the customs and many of the traditions of their forefathers to die out. Until a comparatively recent period many firmly believed
THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE PANTHER.
On the shore of Lake Huron, long years ago, was a deep pool, or spring, in the midst of marshy ground. An outlet into a river allowed the discharge of surplus water. Reeds and tall grasses almost obscured the pond from view, and the scream of the loon and the cry of the reed-bird alone disclosed its presence, until the traveler found himself upon its very verge.
The Wyandots knew of this place, and had little doubt that it was inhabited by a mysterious spirit. Sometimes the water rose and fell, as if stirred by the breathing of an immense animal beneath its surface, then grew suddenly calm. A benighted hunter, passing that way, told of a wondrous light, sparkling like the glow of a thousand fireflies; and of a rumbling sound that shook the earth, announcing that an evil spirit was at work.
A party of the Prairie Turtle Clan camped one day at the spring, established an altar and offered burnt offerings to the strange god. Articles of value, silver ornaments and wampum belts, were cast into the pool and Ce-zhaw-yen-hau was chosen to call up the spirit. Standing in the marsh, with a bow in one hand and a bunch of arrows in the other, he chanted a song; while his companions, in homage to the Hoo-kee, or wizard of the spring, burned tobacco. He invoked the spirit to come forth. A loon arose, screaming and flapping its wings.
"Not you," said Ce-zhaw-yen-hau, and the loon vanished. Next came an otter.
"Not you," said the Indian, "begone! Come forth, you wizard!"
The water rose, as if agitated by some huge body, and a white panther emerged, looking eastward. Piercing its side with an arrow, the conjurer quickly extended a small vessel to catch the blood which trickled from the creature's side. The moment the pan filled, the wounded animal disappeared, and the air vibrated with a rumbling, muttering sound, like distant thunder. Volumes of turbid water came to the surface, indicating the course the monster had taken in passing down the river. Never again was it seen at the pool.
The Prairie Turtle Clan, which had always been considered refractory in disposition, and inclined to be rebellious toward the Good Spirit, now formed a society and deified the white panther. Anyone who divulged the secrets of the association was instantly put to death. The blood in the small vessel coagulated and became dry. This was broken into pieces and distributed among the members to be placed in their medicine bags. The medicine bag was usually made from the whole skin of an otter, a mink, or other diminutive animal. Those who had been led by fanaticism to seek new gods were repeatedly warned by the Catholic priest to renounce the evil spirit, or it would cause their destruction.
"Throw away the baneful substance which came to you from the devil in the form of a panther," he said, "for just as certain as you continue to keep it among you, the time is not far distant when you will be ruined by it, body and soul."