Flying Plover: His stories, told him by Squat-by-the-fire

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

The other children of the village were afraid of Flying Plover's grandmother, because of her bent back, and wrinkled face, and bright dark eyes. Though she had never so much as said a harsh word to any one of them, and though her medicines had saved the lives of many of them, yet they would never follow Flying Plover into the big lodge where she sat all day by the fire, steeping her fragrant herbs and thinking of all manner of wonderful things. They said that she could turn a little boy, or a little girl, into any kind of animal or bird in the world, without any more trouble than snapping her fingers. That was nonsense; but some of the men and women believed it, too. Magicians were not very rare things in that region (at least to people who believed in them) and you were just as likely as not to think that you saw one every time you went out for a walk. But Squat-by-the-fire was not a magician, and could not have turned a little boy, or a little girl, into a bird or a four-legged animal if she had snapped her fingers for fifty years. She was just an old, good, and very clever woman; and though she loved little children and was glad to be able to make medicines for them, she really was not sorry that they did not all run in and out of her lodge, with the freedom of her grandson. Flying Plover had learned her ways and wishes and never disturbed the pots by the fire or the big jars in the corner; but she knew that the other children, once they felt at home, would knock things about at a terrible rate. And she was far too old and busy to begin to teach deportment to all the children of the village. But Flying Plover never caused her any trouble, and was not in the least afraid of her.

One evening, when the raw-hide door of the lodge was fastened tight, and the fire burned cheerily and smokily on the earthen floor, and the wind moaned outside, the old medicine woman asked, "What games did you play to-day, little son of Swift Runner?"

"We played at battles," replied Flying Plover; "and they put me on the Eskimo side, and so I was taken prisoner, and fastened to a tree. I did not see much fun in that; so I made up another game, something like deer-hunting, and we played that until it got dark. But I like battles best, except when I am an Eskimo. Do the Eskimos always get beaten in the real battles?"

"Our people have not been at war with the fat blubber-eaters for a long, long time," replied the old woman. "We used to battle with them every summer; but it was a foolish thing to do, and brought a great deal of sorrow and suffering to both peoples. When my father was a young man, our warriors used to chase the Eskimo warriors as the timber wolves chase the young caribou. But the missionaries have taught us that killing and robbing are terrible sins—and I think people should have known that before. So now, when we want sealskins and fish, we do not fight and rob, but we trade instead. That is better, for it does not call for the shedding of blood, the burning of lodges, and torture and starvation, as of old. Now the blubber-eaters are a weak people; but hundreds and hundreds of seasons ago they were a great nation. But that was far beyond the reach of my father's memory. They were a mighty people though, once upon a time; and then our nation was nothing more than a few weak villages. We were afraid of the blubber-eaters then, and never went down from the mountains. The Eskimo warriors chased our warriors then, when they saw them, even as the timber wolves chase the young caribou. So it is with men and tribes and nations, little son of a chief. I have seen something of it, even with my own eyes. The Eskimo people were the great people; and next the Mountaineers were mighty in battle; and now both the fat men of the ice and the hunters of the mountains know that the white missionaries and the white traders are their masters."

"That is very strange," remarked Flying Plover. "The white men do not look like great warriors, and they are very few in number."

"It is the mind," said old Squat-by-the-fire, touching her wrinkled forehead with a gnarled finger. "'T is the light inside the skull that gives the mastery; though to listen to the story tellers, one would believe that all the power lies in the biggest club and the straightest arrow. The minds of the white men are full of knowledge, and caution, and courage. That is why they are now the great people."

"They feed their brains with fine sweet puddings. I think that is why they are able to talk to our people so big and make the little Eskimo boys go to school," said Flying Plover.

The old woman laughed; but it was not at her grandson's remark. She was thinking of the oldest story she had ever heard.

"There was a time, more than ten thousand summers ago, I should think, when men were such weak, dull-witted creatures that they had no mastery over anything but the smallest animals and birds," she said. "Oh, yes, that was a very long time ago, ages and ages before the white man had ever been heard of. The animals were the masters, in those days, and it is a wonder that the poor, frightened creatures that ran on two legs, and hid in caves and holes, kept alive at all. Then, the wolves were as big as black bears, and the bears stood as high as caribou, and the foxes were as big as timber wolves. When a hunter saw a fox, in those days, he was glad to climb a tree; and he was lucky if a caribou did not come along and knock the tree over with its head. Or may be an eagle would catch sight of the man, and swoop down and pick him out of the tree with its claws, as if he weighed no more than a little brook trout."

"I am glad I did not live in those days," said Flying Plover. "If all the beasts were too big to kill, and there were no white men to buy blankets from, what did people do for clothes to wear?"