Jack the Young Trapper: An Eastern Boy's Fur Hunting in the Rocky Mountains

by George Bird Grinnell

"That's queer, too," said Hugh; "and yet I don't see why it might not be so."

"Oh," rejoined Jack, "there was a long, long article about it in one of the New York papers, copied from some paper printed in Europe. I wish I could remember more about it. It gave the names of the different kinds of little birds that were thought to cross that big water in that way, and it also told about some African people, perhaps they were Arabs, who knew and always had known that these little birds made their journeys north and south in that way."

"Now, tell me, son, you are a good deal younger than I am; isn't there some white man's story about a dispute among the birds as to which one could fly the highest, and doesn't the story say that the eagle flew highest, but that some small bird got on his back, and after the eagle had turned to come down, flew a little higher still, and then came down and won the prize?"

"Yes," said Jack, "there is just such a story. The little bird that beat the eagle was the wren, a tiny little bird."

"Well," said Hugh, "I suppose there have been a whole lot of mighty smart men that have been trying for a long time to find out all about birds, but I reckon there are some things left yet that they do not know."

"I guess so," said Jack, "a whole lot of things."

"Hugh," he went on, after a pause, "the Indians must have a great many beliefs and stories about birds and animals, haven't they? I don't mean sacred stories, or stories where birds and animals help them, but just tales about the animals, and how they live and what they do."

"Yes," said Hugh; "they do so. Of course, you know that there are lots of Indians who believe that they can understand the talk of the wolves. If they hear a wolf howling they know that he is speaking, telling them some news or other, and they can understand him and interpret for him to other Indians that don't understand the wolf's speech. Then, there are some Indians, Blackfeet, who say that they can understand what the meadow lark says when he is singing. The Cheyennes say this, too, but they say that the meadow lark says only one thing; that is, the song always repeats, 'I come from Tallow River.' Tallow River, you know, is the South Platte River. The Blackfeet names for the killdee and for the big curlew are in imitation of the cry of each bird. Blackfeet call the little chickadee 'Neo-po-muki,' and that means, according to them, 'summer is coming.' Yes, there are a whole lot of beliefs and stories about birds and animals that are pretty interesting. Of course, the birds and the animals seem a whole lot closer to the Indians than they do to us. They come pretty near to being the Indian's comrades and every day associates. There is one story that old Shell, a Cheyenne Indian, told me once, that I thought was a mighty good story, and if you like I'll try to repeat it to you before we go to bed."

"I wish you would, Hugh," said Jack. "I always like to hear those stories, and it seems to me that you know an awful lot of them."

"Well," replied Hugh, "I've heard a lot of them in my time, and I wish that I could remember them all. This is what old Shell told me as near as I can remember. He said: 'A long time ago my father was out walking in the hills and he came to a high cut cliff. The cliff was broken and overhung a little, and almost everywhere it was covered with the mud nests of swallows. It was about the time in spring when the eggs hatch, and the swallows were flying about gathering food and bringing it to the young ones. They were thick about the nests, and made a great deal of noise. My father sat there and looked at them for quite a long time. Presently he saw the birds gathering in great numbers about a particular place on the cliff, and when he looked carefully to see what attracted them, he saw a great snake crawling along on a ledge. Presently the snake came close to a lot of nests built all together, and raised its head and put it into one nest after another and ate the young birds. The swallows kept flying at the snake, but they could not stop it. All at once all the birds gathered together and flew in a great throng away to the east. All the old ones were gone; none were left about the nests. While my father sat there wondering where they had gone, he saw the swallows coming back in a great black bunch, and flying in front of them was a swift hawk, which every now and then whistled as it flew along. The birds came on and when they were close to the cliff the hawk whistled loud. When he did that, the snake raised its head and turned it toward the hawk, and the hawk turned aside and flew by the snake and flew away out of sight. When the hawk turned aside and flew by the snake without doing anything to it, the swallows made a great noise and followed him as he flew away, calling as if asking him to come back. So all the birds flew over the hill out of sight, but my father sat there waiting to see what would happen.