“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.