Transcriber's Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR

Oscar L. Chapman, Secretary

UNITED STATES INDIAN SERVICE

Dillon S. Myer, Commissioner

EDUCATION DIVISION

Willard W. Beatty, Chief

Authorized by Congress

Printing Department

Haskell Institute

Price

.25

September, 1951—5M

LITTLE NAVAJO
HERDER

ANN CLARK

Illustrated by HOKE DENETSOSIE

UNITED STATES INDIAN SERVICE

HASKELL INSTITUTE—LAWRENCE, KANSAS

LITTLE NAVAJO HERDER

In Little Navajo Herder, we have brought together in one volume the pictured story of a year in the life of a little Navajo girl, which originally appeared in four separate books. In the first edition, which was prepared for classroom use in Federal Indian schools, the stories appeared in both English and Navajo. However, the popularity of Little Herder was not limited to the child readers of her own tribe. She has found her way into the hearts of Indian children throughout the nation. The universality of her appeal is indicated by increasing interest in her story by non-Indian children in home and school. Selections from her books have found their way into dozens of anthologies. This popularity with those who read only English has dictated this single volume edition in English. Again the delightful drawings by Hoke Denetsosie, a full-blood Navajo artist, are used.

Little Navajo Herder bids fair to find a permanent place in children's literature, as has Mrs. Clark's earlier volume on Pueblo life—"In My Mother's House." This book is illustrated by a Pueblo artist, Velerio Herrera, and is published by Viking Press.

Other Indian stories by Mrs. Clark have been published by the Indian Service for use in Indian schools. A complete list may be obtained from Haskell Institute, Lawrence, Kansas.

IN AUTUMN

IN AUTUMN

HOME LAND

The land around my mother's hogan

is big.

It is still.

It has walls of red rocks.

And way, far off

the sky comes down

to touch the sands.

Blue sky is above me.

Yellow sand is beneath me.

The sheep are around me.

My mother's hogan is near.

THE HOGAN

My mother's hogan is round

and earth-color.

Its floor is smooth and hard.

It has a friendly fire

and an open door.

It is my home.

I live happily

in my mother's hogan.

NIGHT CORRAL

The night corral is fenced

with poles.

It is the home for the sheep

and the goats

when darkness comes

to my mother's land.

THE CORNFIELD

The cornfield is fenced with poles.

My mother works in the cornfield.

My father works in the cornfield.

While they are working

I walk among the corn plants.

I sing to the tall tasseled corn.

In the middle

of all these known things

stands my mother's hogan

with its open door.

MY MOTHER

My mother is sun browned color.

Her eyes are dark.

Her hair shines black.

My mother is good to look at,

but I like her hands the best.

They are beautiful.

They are strong and quick

at working,

but when they touch my hands

they are slow moving

and gentle.

MY FATHER

My father is tall.

He is strong.

He is brave.

He hunts and he rides

and he sings.

He coaxes the corn

and the squash plants

to grow

out of the sand-dry earth.

My father has magic

in his finger tips.

He can turn

flat pieces of silver

into things of beauty.

Sometimes

I hide in the wide folds

of my mother's skirts

and look out at my father.

POSSESSIONS

I have black hair.

I have white teeth.

My hands are brown

with many fingers.

My feet are brown

with many toes.

My arms are brown

and strong.

My legs are brown

and swift.

I have two eyes.

They show me how things look.

I have two ears.

They bring sounds

to stay with me

for a little while.

I have two names,

a War Name

for just me to know

but not to use,

and a nickname

for everyone to use

for every day.

But with all these things

I still am only

one little girl.

Isn't it strange?

THE HORSES

I see my father's horses

running in the wind.

I feel little

standing here

when the wind

and the horses

run by.

THE SHEEP

Of all the kinds of sheep,

Navaho sheep

give the best wool

for weaving.

My mother says

that is why

they are Navaho sheep,

because they know best

the needs of The People.

THE GOATS

Goats have long whiskers.

They have long faces.

They have long legs.

Goats are funny, I think.

THE LAMBS

Now that it is autumn,

the lambs

that were babies in the spring,

have grown.

They are almost as tall

as their mothers.

My father takes the lambs

in his wagon

to the trading post.

He takes them to sell

to the trader.

THE TRADING POST

Hosteen White Man

has the trading post.

He has hard things on the shelf.

He has soft things on the wall.

And in a jar

he has red stick candy

that he keeps just for me.

Hosteen White Man

at the trading post

is such a good man.

Sometimes, I forget he is not

one of The People.

SELLING

In his wagon

my father drives

to the trading post.

He takes the lambs

and he takes me, too.

He wants me to know

about selling.

He tells me that sometimes

he trades the lambs,

and sometimes

he gives them in payment

for a debt.

This time

he will sell them

to the trader.

When we get to the trading post

the trader looks at the lambs.

Then he tells my father

how much he will pay.

I wonder if the lambs

like to have my father

sell them to the trader.

My father sells the lambs

for hard round money

to Hosteen White Man

at the trading post.

Then he chooses cans of food

to put into his wagon,

and he gives Hosteen White Man

some of the round hard money

back again.

My father calls this selling,

but I think

it is a game

they play together,

Hosteen White Man and

my father at the trading post.

My father likes this game of selling.

He did not tell me, but, someway,

I know that he likes it.

THE SILVERSMITH

My father sits before his forge

melting bars of silver

and turning them

into silver raindrops

and silver cloud designs.

Somehow,

my father has caught the wind

within his bellows

and when he lets it go

its breath

turns the silver

to red earth color.

Its breath cools the silver

until it is hard

like something made

of gray water

and then turned to stone.

Today my father sang

as he worked

at making a bracelet

for my arm.

His song

flowed into the silver circle

making it a circle of song.

TURQUOISE

Turquoise is sky.

Turquoise is still water.

Turquoise is color-blue

and color-green

that someone

somewhere

has caught

and turned to stone.

Sometimes, turquoise

is trapped in silver,

and sometimes, in small beads

running along a white string

like beauty following

a straight trail.

IT IS DRY

My father says

over and over,

"It is dry.

It is too dry."

My father means

there has been no rain

to fill the rain pools

for the thirsty sheep.

SORTING THE WOOL

I am helping my mother

sort the wool.

This pile we will keep

to spin into yarn for weaving

because its strands

are long and unbroken.

This pile we will sell

to the trader.

Its strands are broken and short.

The trader will buy it,

but he will not pay as much

as if it were all long.

I wish that all our wool

was of long, unbroken strands.

I like to sort the wool.

It is good to feel its softness,

like making words for something

my heart has always known.

CLEANING THE WOOL

I go with my mother

to beat the wool.

We get the little sticks

and burrs out of it.

We put the wool

on a flat rock.

We beat the wool

with yucca sticks.

I have a little yucca stick

like my mother's big one.

It takes my mother and me

a long time to clean the wool.

CARDING THE WOOL

I sit with my mother

under the juniper tree.

I watch her card wool

with her towcards.

My mother's towcards

are flat pieces of wood

with strong handles

and with wire teeth.

My mother buys her towcards

from the trader

at the trading post.

With her towcards

she pulls the wool thin.

She stretches it in white sheets

like snow mist in winter.

She bunches it in soft rolls

like white clouds in summer.

Under my mother's towcards

the gray wool turns white.

The matted wool turns fluffy

and soft,

and light as baby eagle down.

I like to sit with my mother

under the juniper tree.

I like to watch her card the wool

with her towcards.

SPINNING

My mother's spindle

is a slender stick

on a hardwood whorl.

Under her fingers

it spins like a dancer,

winding itself

in twisted yarn.

Under her fingers

it twists the wool

into straight beauty

like a trail of pollen,

like a trail of song.

My hands are not strong enough

to card, very well.

My fingers are not swift enough

to spin, very well.

But my heart knows perfectly

how it is done.

AUTUMN

Now that autumn is here,

the flowers and the plants

give themselves to us

for winter will not need them.

The pumpkins are rusty color

with brown and green patches.

They are ripe.

Ripe is such a good word.

I like to say it.

All the plants are ripe

and beautiful with color

now that autumn is here.

Soon my mother will go

to the mountains

to gather plants for dyes,

and plants for food,

and plants for medicine.

If I were bigger

she would take me with her.

She does take me

when we go

to places near the hogan.

After heavy frost

my father will go

to the mountains

to gather the pinyons.

This year he will go without us.

He will go with some other men

in a truck

that belongs to the trader.

My mother does not like this.

She thinks

my father should take us

with him

when he goes for pinyons.

DYEING

With flower plants

and bark and roots

and minerals and water

and fire,

my mother changes

the colors of her yarns.

My mother puts the dye plants

into the dye kettle

over the fire.

Slowly the water

in the kettle

changes its color.

My mother puts white yarn

into this dye water.

She boils it over the fire.

She stirs it with a stick.

It bubbles and bubbles.

It gives a good smell

like plants after rain.

For a little time

my mother boils the yarn

in the dye water,

and then she takes it out again.

It is no longer white.

It has changed color.

In this way

my mother changes the colors

of her yarns

to look like

brown earth in morning

or yellow sand at mid-day.

She changes the colors

of her yarns

to look like

black cliffs at sunset,

or black like the night,

and black like the dark clouds

of male rain.

I help to gather the flowers

and the bark and the roots

and the minerals.

I help to carry the water

from the rain pool

by the red rocks.

I help to make the fire

with little twigs.

I look and look.

I see the water and the plants.

I see the yarn in the water

but I do not see

the magic

that I think

my mother must use

to change her yarns

to colors.

When I tell this

to my mother,

she laughs at me.

She says she has no magic

in her dye kettle.

She says the plants

in her dye kettle

are the things

which give colors

to her yarns.

So now,

I have learned a new thing.

WEAVING

When my mother sits

on her sheepskin,

weaving a blanket on her loom

I think it is like a song.

The warp threads

are the drum beats,

strong sounds

underneath.

The colored yarns

are the singing words

weaving through

the drum beats.

When the blanket is finished

it is like a finished song.

The warp

and the drum beats,

the colored wools

and the singing words

are forgotten.

Only

the pattern

of color

and of sound

is left.

LEARNING TO WEAVE

My mother took me in her arms.

We sat together at her loom.

She took my hands

to guide them

along the weaving way.

She showed them how to weave.

We did not weave

straight across the loom.

That is not our way.

We wove with one color

for a little way up.

And then with another color

for a little way up.

We kept the edges straight.

We wove not too tight

and not too loose

and pounded it down,

pounded it down,

pounded it.

But when I told my father,

"See, I wove this blanket,"

my mother spoke sharply.

"We do not say

things that are not true,"

she told me.

I hid my face away

from the sharp words of

my mother,

but soon my mother's hand

came gently

to touch my hair.

FLOOD

Rain comes hard and black.

It fills the arroyos

with yellow water

running in anger.

Great pieces of sand bank

on the sides of the arroyos

slide into the water

with little tired noises

and are lost for always.

The rain pools fill with water,

rain water,

fresh and clean and cold.

SUN

Sun comes now

to comfort the land

that the rain has frightened.

My father says,

"Sun takes the rain water

from the thirsty land

back to the sky too soon."

But my mother and I,

we are glad the sun comes soon.

Sun does not mean

to rob the land of water.

Sun means only to warm it again.

HERDING

Today I go with my mother.

I go with her to drive the sheep

for I must learn to tend

the flock.

It is my work.

The way is long.

The sand is hot.

The arroyos are deep.

It takes many steps

to keep up with my mother.

It takes many steps

to keep up with the sheep.

My mother waits for me.

My mother takes my hand.

She calls me

Little Herder of the Sheep.

And so we walk

across the sand.

We walk

till the day is done,

till the sun goes

and the stars

are almost ready

to come.

We walk across the sand.

We walk to the water hole

when day is at the middle.

We walk to the night corral

when day is at the close,

the sheep,

my mother

and my mother's Little Herder.

Before the hogan fire,

when night has come,

my father sings,

my mother whispers,

"Come sit beside me

Little Herder."

I like that name.

From now till always

I want to be

my mother's Little Herder.

IN WINTER

IN WINTER

SNOW

My mother's land is white with snow.

The sandwash and the waterhole,

the dry grass patches and the

cornfield hide away

under the white blanket,

under the snow blanket

that covers the land.

The air is filled

with falling snow,

thick snow,

soft snow

falling,

falling.

Beautiful Mountain

and the red rock canyons

hide their faces

in snow clouds.

The wind cries.

It piles the snow

in drift banks

against the poles

of the sheep corral.

It pushes against the door

of my mother's hogan,

and it cries.

The wind cries out there

in the snow and the cold.

My mother's hogan is cold.

Snow blows down the smoke hole.

Water drops on the fire.

The wet wood smokes

and keeps its flames to itself.

The sun

has not shown his face

to tell us

what time of day it is.

I do not like to ask my mother,

"Is it noon now?" or

"Is it almost night?"

because

she might think

I wanted it to be time to eat.

She might think

I wanted food.

THERE IS NO FOOD

There is no food.

There is no flour nor cornmeal

to make into bread.

There is no coffee

that my mother could boil

for us to drink.

There is no food.

The corn my father planted

in his field

is gone.

We ate it.

There was so little.

The corn pile in the storehouse

was not high enough

to last for long.

It is gone.

Now all of it is gone.

There is no food.

There is food

at the Trading Post

in sacks and in boxes,

in bins and in cans

on the shelf.

There is food at the Trading Post,

but the Trading Post

is far away

and snowdrifts

and snow clouds

are heavy between.

There is food at the Trading Post

but my father has nothing left

of the hard, round money

that he must give

to the Trader

for the food.

There is no food here

in my mother's hogan.

When it is time to eat,

we talk of other things,

but not of hunger.

This thing called hunger

is a pain

that sits inside me.

At first it was little,

but now

it grows bigger

and bigger.

It hurts me

to be hungry.

THE DOGS ARE HUNGRY

The dogs are hungry, too.

They crowd in the hogan.

The black one

is not sleeping now.

He lies with his head

on his paws

and looks at nothing.

The yellow one whimpers.

He has worked hard,

but there is no food.

The gray shadow dog stays outside

close to the tree trunk

making no sound

asking for nothing.

I think she knows

nobody wants her.

MELTING SNOW WATER

The sheep are wet and cold.

They are hungry, too.

If the snow keeps falling,

it will be bad for the sheep.

Perhaps

that is why the wind cries.

Perhaps

the wind is sorry

for the sheep.

That is what I think.

My mother talks to my father.

Together

they go out to shovel snow.

The ruffles on my mother's skirts

make pretty marks on the top

of the snow whiteness.

My mother and my father

shovel a round place

clean of snow

out near the sheep corral.

They will build a fire

to melt snow into water

to give to the sheep.

It takes much wood

to make a fire

to melt snow into water,

but if the sheep have water

to drink

they do not hunger so much.

When the round place

is clear of snow,

my mother comes into the hogan

for dry wood

to make the outdoor fire.

She picks a stick

from our small pile

beside the fire.

She picks another

until she has a little armful.

My mother picks them up slowly

for our pile is so small.

My father comes into the hogan.

He stamps his feet.

Little hills of dirty snow

melt slowly by them

on the hogan floor.

It takes a lot of snow

in my mother's washtub

to melt enough water

for the sheep.

When my mother comes again

into the hogan

she is tired.

Her poor face

is dark with cold.

I put my arms

around my mother's knees.

It is the only way I know

to show her

that I am sorry she is cold.

NIGHT

Night is slow in coming,

but at last it comes

moving through the snowstorm.

Coyotes howl, far away.

Nearby the wind cries.

The wet wood smokes.

Snow water drips down

through the smoke hole.

STORY TELLING

Then

my father tells us stories.

Long stories

made up of many words.

His words have power.

They have strength.

They seem to hold me.

They seem to warm me.

They seem to feed me.

My father's words,

they comfort me.

His words have power.

My father tells

The Star Story.

"When the world was being made,

being made."

My father tells us,

"When the Gods were

placing stars,

the stars,

the stars in patterns

in the sky,

coyote stole the star bag."

Coyote spilled the stars out

in the sky,

helter skelter in the sky,

when the world was being made.

Softly

my father tells it,

the story of the stars.

Outside,

the wind

and the night

push against

my mother's hogan door.

Outside,

big flakes of snow

fall thickly,

fall softly,

fall steadily.

Inside,

snow water drips

down the smoke hole

and the words of

my father's voice

drop softly

into the quiet

of my mother's hogan.

"IT-IS-TWISTED"

The Star Story

made my mother think

of the string game,

"It-Is-Twisted."

She said that the Spider People

gave it to us

to use in winter evenings.

My mother showed us

how to make the game.

She made

Twin-Stars and Many-Stars,

Big-Star and Horned-Star

with pieces of string.

PAWN

Just now,

I heard myself saying,

"I want some bread."

My father is not talking now.

He is looking at me.

My mother is looking at me.

They do not know it was not I,

but this hunger pain inside me

that said those words,

"I want some bread."

They do not know that,

and I do not know

how to tell them.

My father sits still.

He sits quietly.

He is thinking.

My mother looks down

at her hands

where they are resting

in the folds of her skirt.

Outside,

the wind cries

the wind cries

to my thinking.

Slowly

my father takes his concho belt

from about his waist.

Slowly

his fingers touch the belt,

counting,

counting,

counting the conchos.

Slowly

my mother takes her coral string

from about her neck.

She looks at it.

She looks at it.

Slowly

she puts it back again

around her neck.

Then

my mother

takes from her finger

her largest turquoise ring.

My father puts his concho belt

upon the floor.

My mother puts her turquoise ring

upon the floor.

The concho belt

and the turquoise ring

make a splash of color

in the gray-lighted hogan.

He will pawn them

because our food

is getting low.

The concho belt

and the turquoise ring

are for pawn.

They are for pawn.

Pawn to the Trader

for food.

Pawn to the Trader

that we may eat.

Our hard goods,

our possessions

we give them

for salt

and for flour.

They are for pawn.

Who knows

when we can buy them back.

The snow water drops

from the smoke hole

like tears.

The wind cries.

Quickly

my father sings

a funny song

to make laughter come

to my mother and me.

MORNING

The wind lies still.

It has not gone away

I know,

for I can feel it

lying there outside

hiding in the snow.

The wind lies still

behind the snowdrifts,

but sometimes

it starts up

with a low cry,

then falls again to hide.

Cold bends over the land.

The white feathers of snow

fall slower and slower.

My mother and my father

get up early.

My mother will kill a sheep

so my father can eat

something

before he starts

for the Trading Post.

My father waits

for my mother

to butcher the sheep

and to cook a piece

for his breakfast.

Then my father finds his horse.

He ties an empty flour sack

behind his saddle.

He wraps his blanket about him

and leaning his body

against the storm

he rides to the Trading Post.

My father rides

into the snow-filled world.

His blanket and his horse

are the only colors

moving

through the white.

Snow comes into my heart

filling it with cold

when I see

my father ride away.

SHOVELING SNOW

For a little while

I sit in the hogan

thinking of my father

riding along the snowy trail

to the Trading Post.

Snow stops falling.

Cold blows its blue breath

across the white.

I help my mother shovel snow.

We make a path to the sheep corral

and to my grandmother's hogan.

The snow, so soft to feel,

is hard to shovel.

The cold slaps at my face.

It traps my hands and my feet

in icy feeling.

My mother takes me

into the hogan.

She rubs my face and hands

and my feet with snow.

Soon

little hot pains

come to play

with my cold fingers

and my cold toes.

Soon the icy feeling goes away.

CAT'S CRADLES

The day moves slowly.

My father does not come back

along the trail.

It is far to the Trading Post.

The snow is deep.

I think of my father

and his concho belt.

I look at my mother's finger.

One finger looks bare

without its turquoise ring.

I pull my sleeve down

over my bracelet.

Perhaps

I should have given it

to my father.

My grandmother comes to see us.

She brings a piece of bread

for me

and for my mother

to eat with our meat.

She brings a piece of string.

She shows me how

to make Cat's Cradles.

She shows me how

to make "It-Is-Twisted."

We make Bird's-Nest and Butterflies

and Coyotes-Running-Apart

with the piece of string.

FATHER COMES BACK

We hear my father singing

as he rides along

the snowy trail.

My grandmother goes to her hogan

and my mother and I,

we stand together,

laughing.

We stand together

outside our door,

happy because

my father comes back again.

Behind my father's saddle

is tied

the flour sack filled with food.

It is not empty now,

but a sack

of bumps and bumps,

and heavy looking.

In front of him

my father carries

a dry wood box

that the Trader gave him.

My mother takes the sack of food.

I take the dry wood box.

My father takes the saddle

from his horse.

We go into the hogan

with our bundles in our arms.

My mother breaks the box

with her foot.

She breaks the pieces across her knee.

She feeds them to the fire.

The dry wood box

makes the fire flame dance

in the hogan fire.

My mother puts meat to cook.

She mixes flour and water,

a little ball of lard,

a little pinch of salt

in our round tin bowl.

She takes some out

and pats it flat,

and pats it round,

and pats it thin,

and throws it in

a kettle full of boiling fat.

This hunger pain inside me

is bigger now than I am.

It is the smell of cooking food

that makes it grow, I think.

Soon the fried bread

in the hot fat

swells big and brown.

Soon the meat

in the stew pot

makes bubbling noises.

Coffee boils

smelling strong and good.

The hunger pain

is now so big

I cannot understand

Why I do not see it.

SUPPER

Now we are eating

the good food.

We eat slowly.

We eat a long time.

The hunger pain is gone.

It went somewhere,

but I do not know when,

it left so quickly.

My father tells us

that the wife of Tall-Man's brother

suffers from something.

She is sick.

My father tells us

that tomorrow

there will be a Sing

for this woman

who has sickness.

We will go,

he says,

if the sun shines tomorrow.

We will go to the hogan

of the wife of Tall-Man's brother.

SLEEP

Now that I am warm

and have no pain

and feel well fed

with my mother's good cooking,

I feel sleepy

and glad.

Lying on my blanket bed

on the floor of the hogan,

I say to myself

over and over,

"If the sun shines tomorrow

we will go to the Sing."

MORNING SUN

Last night went quickly

with sleeping.

It is tomorrow

now.

I open my eyes

to a beautiful world

of sun and snow.

Everywhere I look

the snow shines

as if someone

had sprinkled it

with broken bits of stars.

My father says,

"snow is good for the land.

When the sun melts it

the thirsty sand

drinks in the snow water."

Grass patches show again.

They look fresh and clean.

The goats hurry about

eating all they can.

Even the sheep move

more quickly,

eating.

GOING TO THE SING

My father goes for dry wood.

He has to go to the foothills

to get it.

My mother cooks bread and meat.

I sit by the door in the sunshine

and think about the Sing.

My grandmother comes

to my mother's hogan.

She will look after the sheep

while we are gone to the Sing.

The sun shines.

The sun shines.

Soon we will go

to the Sing,

the Sing.

After awhile

my father comes back with

the wagon.

He piles the wood near the hogan.

He says he is ready

to go to the Sing

and we are ready, too.

It is not far.

Not long after

the sun has finished with the day

we will get there.

We will get to the hogan

of the wife of Tall-Man's brother.

We will be at the Sing,

the Sing,

the Sing.

The ruts in the road

are deep

and frozen.

The wheels of the wagon

have a song of their own.

I sit in the back of the wagon

in a nest made of blankets.

I listen to the song

of the rolling wagon wheels.

My father sits on the wagon seat.

He is driving his horses.

My mother sits beside him.

Straight and tall

my mother sits

on the wagon seat

beside my father.

My father sings

as he drives along.

He is happy.

He sings, "Now is winter.

Thunder sleeps.

Falls the snow.

Thunder sleeps.

Grass is gone.

Thunder sleeps.

Birds are gone.

Thunder sleeps.

Warmth is gone from the sands,

from the red rocks,

from the canyons.

Thunder sleeps.

It sleeps."

In my father's wagon

we go.

Behind my father's horses

we go.

On the trail of the Holy Songs

we go

to hear the voices of the Gods.

THE SING

It will be a long time

before the night sky bends down

and the stars hang low

and the supper fires

of the camping people

dot the night.

Our wagon

comes within the circles

of supper fires,

comes within the circle

of firelight,

and I see all the People

who have come to the Sing.

There are many People here.

There are many horses here.

There are many wagons here.

There is one truck.

It makes me happy to see

all of the People

walking around

and standing and sitting.

It makes me happy to see

all the colors that there are

in the skirts of the women

in the shirts of the men

and in the blankets

that all the People wear.

I can see

the horses,

all the horses.

I can see a race horse

that belongs to a man

my uncle knows.

After the Sing is over,

the men will race their horses.

My father will bet

which horse will win.

And then

perhaps

he will win

a better concho belt

than the one

he has in pawn

to the Trader.

There is a new hogan

built just for the Sing.

There are some shelters

built just for the Sing,

and at one side

is the Cook Shade

where all kinds of foods

are cooking.

The smell of food

makes me happy.

I think

it is good

to be happy

when food is near.

As it gets darker

more fires are lighted

and within the circle

a big one burns.

Smoke gets in my eyes

and I can taste it

in my mouth.

In the folds of my mother's blanket,

in the warmth of my

mother's blanket,

in the quiet of my

mother's blanket,

close to her heart

I sleep

and awaken

to hear the Gods,

the Singers of Songs.

Now is the time

for the singing.

Now is the time

for the songs.

We go,

we go,

on the Holy Trail of Song.

We go,

we go,

to hear the voices of the Gods.

They say,

on the path of the rainbow,

they say,

on the bridge of the lightening,

they say

on the trail of pollen

went the Elder Brother,

Reared-in-the-Mountains,

Young Man,

Chief.

We go to hear them say it.

Look! Look!

they say,

they say,

the Gods are walking.

The Gods are walking.

Follow the trail of song.

Hu-Hu-Hu-Hu.

Look! Look!

they say,

they say,

the Gods are dancing.

The Gods are dancing.

Follow the trail of song.

Hu-Hu-Hu-Hu.

Look! Look!

they say,

they say,

the Gods are singing.

The Gods are singing.

Follow the trail of song.

Hu-Hu-Hu-Hu.

It is finished.

The Sing is finished.

Dawn light is here.

Gray light is here.

Morning is here.

Day is here.

The sun comes again

to warm the world.

The Sing is finished.

It is finished.

Finished.

THE BETTING

The men go for horses

that have walked away

to find grass to eat.

The women put blankets

and food in the wagons.

My uncle tells my father

to wait awhile

because

my uncle says

he knows a man

who has a horse

that can win a race.

All the men stand around.

They talk together

about this horse.

My father gets the things

out of the wagon

that my mother has put in it.

He is going to bet them

on this horse

that my uncle says

can win a race.

The Trader comes.

He does not like the horse

my uncle knows.

He puts up a hundred dollars

against the horse.

All the Indian men

take off their concho belts

and rings and turquoise

and bowguards and blankets.

They throw them on the ground

to make a pile of things

as much as a hundred dollars.

They say,

"We will run

to that place

and back."

They mount their horses.

They line them up.

One man stands by

the pool of things

that are being bet

against the hundred dollars.

With another man

my father bets his bowguard

against a concho belt

on that horse

my uncle knows.

The men choose a flat place

to run the race.

THE RACE

The starter takes his hat off.

He lifts it up.

He lifts it up.

He holds it there.

He drops it.

They are off.

They are off.

They are running together.

No horse is in front.

No horse is behind.

They are together.

Together.

Running, running.

The black one that the Trader likes

stretches out,

running,

running,

gets in front,

running,

running.

Sand flies.

People shout.

The People shout.

Now comes the horse

my uncle knows.

There he is,

there he is,

in front,

in front,

away in front.

He has won the race.

The horse my uncle knows

has won the race.

The horses come back.

They are sweating.

Their sides go in and out

just like my blouse

goes in and out.

We are tired,

the horses and I are tired.

It takes some running

to win a race.

GOING HOME

The horse race is finished.

My father has a concho belt

and money in his pocket.

Now we go back

on the home trail.

Back to the hogan.

Back to the sheep.

Everything is finished.

We have listened

to the Holy Songs.

We have walked

on the Holy Trail.

It is finished.

Our hearts are good.

All around us is good.

We ride along

on the home trail.

It is finished.

IN SPRING

IN SPRING

MORNING

This morning,

when I crawled

from under my blanket,

when I stood

before my mother's hogan door,

outside looked

as if it had been crying.

The sky was hanging heavy

with gray tears.

I stood at the door

of my mother's hogan

and looked out

at the gray, sad morning.

My father came.

He stood beside us.

He spoke

in a happy way

to me

and to my mother.

Then the gray tears

on the sky's face

melted.

The clouds pushed away

and the sun

smiled through them.

Now it is gray again,

but I cannot forget

that when my father spoke

the sun came

and looked down

upon us.

THE HOGAN

My mother's hogan is dry

against the gray mists

of morning.

My mother's hogan is warm

against the gray cold

of morning.

I sit in the middle

of its rounded walls,

walls that my father built

of juniper and good earth.

Walls that my father blessed

with song and corn pollen.

Here in the middle

of my mother's hogan

I sit

because I am happy.

BREAKFAST

On the fire

in the middle of her hogan

my mother cooks food.

My mother

makes fried bread

and coffee,

and she cooks mutton ribs

over the coals.

My father

and I

and my mother,

we sit on the floor

together,

and we eat

the good food

that my mother

has cooked for us.

POSSESSIONS

We have many things.

My mother

has many sheep

and goats

and her hogan

and the things

of the hogan

and me.

My father

has many horses.

On his land

he has many horses.

He has a wagon

near the horse corral.

Inside my mother's hogan

my father keeps his gun,

and outside

he hangs his sheepskin

and his saddle

and his blanket.

And I

have my mother

and my father,

three baby lambs

and a cat

with a long tail.

I have a tree

that I know.

It is a little tree.

It is a crooked tree

on the top of a hill.

It knows me, too,

I think,

because it bends down low

to let me climb it

to hide away.

Behind my mother's hogan

is Beautiful Mountain.

It is mine,

I know,

because always

it is looking at me

to make me happy.

We have many things.

All of us

have many things.

One day

my father told me

that all The People

had possessions.

He said,

"Sheep and horses

for the men and the women

and land for all.

That is enough."

My father said this.

But I think

there should be more

than sheep and horses

and land for all.

There should be little girls

for little girls to play with.

That would be enough,

I think.

SHEEP CORRAL

Near my mother's hogan

is the sheep corral,

a hard packed place

fenced with poles.

There is a tree

for shade.

There is a shelter

for lambs

in the sheep corral.

The sheep stand together

in their corral.

They stand close

to each other.

I think

sheep like to know

that they are many.

Sometimes

I think that way.

I think

that there are many children

all around me,

all about me.

When I am herding

and I cannot see my mother,

it is good

to play

that many children

stand together with me,

and that all outside

is my corral.

THE PUPPY

Far from the hogan

in a dry sand wash

I found the gray dog

and a new baby puppy

gray with black spots.

Poor little puppy,

it crawled to me

crying.

Thin little baby,

its pink cold nose

found my hand.

Soft baby puppy,

it was so little

it made me feel gentle

and strong

like my mother.

When I picked it up,

the gray mother dog

did not growl.

She was glad for me

to want her puppy.

She thumped her tail.

Listen,

you gray pup with black spots,

I will teach you

to watch the sheep

so that always

there will be a place for you

in our hogan.

THE WATERHOLE

The waterhole hides away

behind the red rocks,

but my sheep

know where to find it.

Their little feet

have made a deep trail

from the corral

to the waterhole.

THE FIELD

In a little delta

of seepage water

near the waterhole

is a small place

that my father has fenced

to make a home

for the corn,

for the squash

and the melons.

It is too cold now,

but soon,

when the snow melts

and hides away in the warm sand,

my father will go to his field.

There he will make

the soil ready for planting.

He will break through

the hard crust of winter

and turn up toward the sun

little lumps of fresh earth.

I like to go with my father

to his field

because

I like the feel and the smell

of new earth

when it first sees the sun.

I want my father to take me

with him

when he goes to plant the corn

because

I forget

how he does it.

LITTLE LAMBS

The little lambs are born.

Near the waterhole

my mother makes shelters

of green boughs

for the mother sheep.

There

in the shelters

the little lambs are born.

The green boughs

stand close together,

they do not let the snow

nor the wind

nor the sand

come in

to hurt the lambs.

Soon the lambs

will be big enough

to play with me.

HERDING

All day I herd

my mother's sheep.

The sheep and I,

we have a way of going

that is always the same.

From the corral we go

to the waterhole

and through the arroyo

to the sagebrush

then back again.

Outside is round

like the sheep corral.

Outside is round

like my mother's hogan,

but it is bigger.

Outside is big,

big,

so big.

Sometimes

when I am alone

with my mother's sheep,

I am afraid.

I cannot say

with words

the things

that make me afraid

because I do not know

what they are.

But sometimes

outside is so still

and big

and empty

and I am so little.

The red rocks

are so high

and Beautiful Mountain

behind my mother's hogan

seems far away.

Nothing walks with me,

but the sheep,

just the sheep,

and I am so little

walking along

in the big outside.

I am so little,

I am afraid.

And then

near by

I see my mother

at her hogan door.

The red rocks

seem to bend down

to look at me

in a good way

and Beautiful Mountain

comes closer.

All things are good again

because

my mother is near me.

I am not afraid.

Today is cold.

There is wind

and snow

and sand

and always wind.

I take the sheep

to the waterhole

and the wind goes with us.

LITTLE BELLS

I have little bells

on my belt fringe.

Little bells,

silver bells,

hanging on my belt fringe.

My mother has a tin can

filled with stones.

She rattles it

to tell the sheep

to hurry.

But I have little bells

tied to my belt fringe.

When I run

the little bells laugh

and say to the sheep,

"Hurry,

hurry."

LAMBS IN THE SNOW

Today

the cold comes

in gray clouds

of blowing snow.

The little lambs

stand close to their mothers.

They think

the cold has come to stay.

Yesterday the sky was blue

and the sun warmed the land.

The lambs do not know

that sometimes

cold days make mistakes

and come again

after they should have gone away.

They do not know

that tomorrow will be warm again.

They have not been here

long enough

to know these things

and their mothers

have not told them.

My mother

is watching the lambs.

She will not let them

get too cold.

My father says,

"Next year

I will try the white-man's way

of breeding the sheep.

Then the lambs

will be born later,

when summer has come to stay."

My mother says, "Yes,

next year

we will try that way."

THE WIND

There are many things

about the wind

that I do not know.

I have not seen the wind,

and no one has told me

where the wind lives,

or where it is going

when I hear it

and when I feel it

rushing by.

And something more

I do not know about the wind.

I do not know if it is angry

or if it is playing

and just doing the things it does

for fun.

Sometimes

the wind gathers the sand

into whirlwinds

and makes them dance

over the flat lands

until they are tired

and lie down

to get their breath.

Sometimes

the wind bends the wild grass

down to the ground,

and makes the sagebrush

bow its head

as if a giant moccasin

had stepped on them

in passing.

Today the wind makes the

tumbleweeds

look like sheep

jumping off high banks

and racing up arroyos

with no dog to guard them,

with no herder to guide them.

Poor tumbleweeds are frightened

because

they do not know where to go.

I want someone to tell me

if the wind is angry

or if it is playing with me

and racing with me

and my many skirts

across the sand.

When the wind blows

my long skirts,

my many skirts

are in a hurry

to get to the hogan

where the wind

cannot push them.

They pull me along

when I am walking

and my feet

have a hard time

to keep up

with my skirts.

NOON

Now it is middle-time of day.

The sheep stand still.

The shadows sit under the trees.

Everything is resting,

the sun

and the sheep

and the shadows.

I, too, rest.

And I look at Beautiful Mountain

behind my mother's hogan.

I am thinking about something.

THINKING

Earth,

they are saying

that you are tired.

They are saying

that for too long

you have given life

to the sheep

and The People.

I am only little.

I cannot do big things,

but I can do this for you.

I can take my sheep

to new pastures.

I can take them

the long way

around the arroyos,

not through them,

when we go to the waterhole.

This way

their little feet,

their sharp pointed feet,

will not make the cuts

across your face

grow deeper.

This way

the worn pastures

can sleep a little

and grow new grass again.

I can do this

to heal your cuts,

to make you

not so tired.

Earth, my mother,

do you understand?

OLD GRANDFATHER GOAT

Grandfather Goat

stands on the hilltop,

shaking his whiskers,

chewing something

and looking wise.

Sometimes

when I ask him things

he looks at me

as if he knew.

Perhaps he does.

BABY GOATS

Baby goats

always are playing,

climbing up

and jumping down.

This small one

always stands

on the top of the storehouse.

He knows

there are things to eat inside,

I think.

AFTERNOON

Afternoon is long.

The sun goes slowly

across the sky.

The sheep walk slowly,

feeding.

I see them against the sky

in a long, slow line.

I whisper to the wind

to blow the sun

and the sheep

a little

to make them hurry.

But it blows

only the clouds

and the sand

and me.

SUNSET

Just now

I watched the sun going.

It took a long time

to say goodbye.

I think it knew

that the land

and the things

of the land

were sorry

it had to go.

It said goodbye

in such a good way.

Just for a little time

it made the sky

and the rocks

and the sand

like itself

to let them know

how it feels

to be sun.

Then it went away

and all things

were still

because the sun had gone.

GREEDY GOAT

The sheep know

that the day is over,

but Grandfather Goat

stays behind

to push his whiskers

high up in a tree

for one last bite.

Old Greedy

Grandfather Goat.

BEAUTIFUL MOUNTAIN

Beautiful Mountain

looks so blue

and so cold

and so lonely

now that the sun

and the sheep

and I

are going.

If it were nearer to me

and small,

I could bring it

into my mother's hogan

under my blanket.

Then I need not leave

Beautiful Mountain

out there by itself

in the night.

MEETINGS

For a long time

there have been meetings

of many men

for many days.

At the meetings

there is talking,

talking,

talking.

Some this way.

Some that way.

In the morning

when my father

leaves for meeting

he says to us,

"When I come here again

then I will know

if it is best

to have many sheep

or few sheep,

to use the land

or let it sleep."

But

when my father

comes home from meeting

he does not know

which talking-way to follow.

Tonight

when my father

came home from meeting

he just sat, looking

and looking.

My mother gave him coffee

and bread and mutton,

but my father just sat,

looking.

Then my mother

spoke to me.

She said,

"A meeting is like rain.

When there is little talk,

now and then,

here and there,

it is good.

It makes thoughts grow

as little rains make corn grow.

But big talk, too much,

is like a flood

taking things of long standing

before it."

My mother

said this to me,

but I think

she wanted my father

to hear it.

GOING HOME

After the sun has gone,

my mother's sheep

and I,

we walk together, slowly,

to my mother's hogan

and the corral.

Most all the day

my mother

from her hogan door

has watched me

and the sheep

to see

that no harm came to us.

And now

my mother comes to meet us.

She comes to welcome us

as if we had been gone

a long way,

a long time.

Sometimes

my father's singing

comes to meet us

across the sandwash.

It comes to meet us

to sing us home.

Sometimes,

the smoke

from the supper fire

comes to meet us

across the dark blue

of the night sky.

For me the hogan is waiting

and the corral

waits for the sheep.

NIGHT

Night is outside

in his black blanket.

I hear him

talking with the wind.

I do not know him.

He is outside.

I am here

in my mother's hogan

warm in my sheepskin

close to my mother.

The things I know

are around me

like a blanket,

keeping me safe

from those things

which are strange.

Keeping me safe.

IN SUMMER

IN SUMMER

TODAY

Today

we leave my mother's hogan

my mother's winter hogan.

We leave the shelter of its

rounded walls.

We leave its friendly center fire.

We drive our sheep to the mountains.

For the sheep,

there is grass and shade

and water,

flowing water

and water standing still,

in the mountains.

There is no wind.

There is no sand

up there.

PACKING

My mother's possessions

we tie on the pack horses,

her loom parts

and her wool yarns,

her cooking pots,

her blanket

and my blanket

and the water jug,

white sacks filled with food,

cans of food,

cornmeal and wheat flour,

coffee and sugar.

My mother's possessions,

we tie them all on the

pack horses.

The packs must be steady.

The ropes must be tight.

The knots must be strong.

I cannot pack the horses,

I am too little,

but I can bring the possessions

to my father and my uncle.

I am big enough for that.

GOODBYE TO MY HOGAN

My mother's hogan,

I feel safe

with your rounded walls

about me.

But now I must leave you.

I must leave your fire

and your door.

The sheep need me.

I must go with them

to a place they know,

but that is strange to me.

I put my moccasins,

my precious moccasins,

by your fireplace, my hogan,

so you will not be lonely

while I am gone.

GOODBYE

Land

around my mother's hogan

and sheep trail

and arroyo

and waterhole,

sleep in the sun

this summer.

Rest well

for my sheep

will not be here

to deepen the trail and arroyo

with their little sharp feet.

They will not be here

to eat the short grass,

to drink the stored water.

Sleep,

rest well,

and be ready for our return.

READY TO GO

My mother scatters the ashes

from her cooking fire.

She sweeps the hogan floor

with her rabbit-brush broom.

My father lays the bough

across the door

to show that we have gone.

The dogs bark.

They run around the sheep corral

telling the sheep

we are ready to go.

The young corn in the field

hangs its tasseled heads.

Young corn,

my grandmother is staying

at home.

She will take care of you.

My father mounts his horse.

He drives the pack horses before him.

My uncle mounts his horse.

They ride away together,

singing,

across the empty sand.

GOODBYE GRAY CAT

Gray Cat,

I am telling you goodbye.

Today I go to the mountains.

I take my sheep to summer range,

but you, Gray Cat,

you have no sheep

so you must stay at home.

Stay here with my grandmother,

Gray Cat.

She will feed you.

Goodbye, Goodbye.

ACROSS THE SAND

My mother lets down the bars

of the sheep corral.

The flock crowds around her.

The goats look at me.

I think they are saying,

"We know where we are going."

The little lambs

walk close by their mothers.

They are like me,

they do not know

if they will like this place

where we are going.

My mother and I,

we drive our sheep

across the sand.

My grandmother

stands at her door

looking after us.

GOODBYE TO GRANDMOTHER

My grandmother,

my little grandmother,

now I am leaving you.

Last year I was too small

to go to the mountains.

I stayed with you,

but this year I am big,

I am almost tall

so I must help drive the sheep

to summer range.

My grandmother,

my little grandmother,

do not be lonely.

I will come back again.

RIDING

Riding,

riding,

riding on my horse

to herd the sheep

across the yellow sand.

Yellow sand is around me.

Yellow sun is above me.

I ride in the middle

of a sand and sun filled world.

Riding,

riding,

riding on my horse

to herd the sheep

across the yellow sand.

Sun heat

and sheep smell

and sand dust

wrap around me

like a blanket

as I ride through the sand

with my sheep.

NOON IN THE SAGEBRUSH

At noon

we reach the sagebrush flats.

Gray-green sagebrush scents the air.

Gray-green sagebrush softens

the yellows of the land.

My mother makes a little fire

no bigger than her coffee pot.

Food is good

and rest is good

at noon

in the sagebrush.

NIGHT CAMP

At night we make camp

in the juniper covered hills.

My father is waiting for us there.

The moon looks down

on the restless sheep

on the hobbled horses.

The moon looks down

on a shooting star.

But I am too tired

to look at anything.

I sleep.

UP THE TRAIL

Morning sunrise sees us climbing

up and up

on the mountain trail.

There are pine trees

standing straight and tall.

Brown pine needles

and green grass

cover the ground.

Shadows play with the sunlight.

There is no yellow sand.

The sheep hurry upward,

climbing and pushing

in the narrow trail.

I ride after the sheep.

My horse breathes fast.

His feet stumble

in the narrow trail.

All day long

the sheep climb upward.

They want to eat

and I am hungry, too,

but my mother says,

"No."

All day long we ride

to herd the sheep.

Night is almost with us

when we reach the top.

SUMMER RANGE

Summer range in the mountains

is on a high mesa,

a steep, high mesa,

a flat-topped mesa,

with tall growing pine trees,

with short growing green grass,

with little, winding rivers

and rain filled lakes.

This is summer range for our sheep.

THE LAKE

Between the trees

I see water standing

in a bowl of green rushes.

The water is quiet.

It is still

and blue

and cold.

It is a lake

with land all around it.

It is a lake.

The sheep drink

long and steadily.

They stand in the shallow water

at the edges of the lake.

Their little pointed feet

dig deep into the mud

of the lake banks.

I see colored fish

beneath the water

swimming in a rainbow line.

I throw stones into the lake.

The water pushes back in circles

to take the stones.

The dogs swim far out

into the cold waters.

They are thirsty and hot.

I have never seen a lake before.

Gentle rain pools I have seen

and angry flood waters,

but never before

a still, blue lake.

It is beautiful.

A lake is beautiful.

SHELTER

Beneath the trees

I see our summer shelter.

My father and my uncle

have made a shade

to shelter us from night rains

and from the cold

of near-by snow peaks.

They have made us a shade

of cottonwood boughs

and juniper bark.

It has the clean smell

that trees give.

THE SHEEP CORRAL

My father and my uncle

made a sheep corral

while they were waiting

for the sheep and for us

to come up the trail.

They made the sheep corral

of branches,

a circle of branches,

a circle of dark colored boughs.

The sheep stay safe

in their corral tonight

and I sleep

beneath the cottonwood shade.

DAWN

This morning

when I opened my eyes from

sleeping I could not remember

what place this is.

I thought I was in

my mother's winter hogan.

Now I remember.

This is summer camp.

Tall trees stretch above me.

In the darkness

they look blacker than the night.

As I lie here,

safe and warm beneath

my blanket,

all around me turns to gray mist,

all around me turns to silver.

Darkness is gone,

but it made no sound.

It left no footprints.

The world is still asleep.

Through the pine trees

day comes up

light comes up.

In the pine trees

bird wings are stirring,

bird songs are stirring.

I hear them.

I hear them.

The grass beside my blanket

is wet with night rain.

Morning mist is on the leaves

and in my hair.

I put one toe out,

one brown toe out.

It is hard to get up

when it is cold.

Blue smoke from my mother's fire

curls upward in a thin blue line.

The sheep move inside their corral.

I come out from under my blanket,

from under my warm blanket.

Like the other things around me,

I come out

to greet the day.

MORNING PRAYER

Silent and still

my father stands

before our summer shelter.

He is thinking a prayer

to the Holy Ones,

asking them

this day

to keep our feet

on the trail of Beauty.

Filling the silence

of my father's prayer

I hear the bluebird's song.

THE SHEEP

The poor sheep are cold.

Their winter wool was cut off

last week

at shearing time.

When early summer painted

flowers on the desert

with bunches of new grass,

when snow water melted

and softened the hard earth,

when Sun-Bearer smiled

on the sheep and the people.

Then my mother said,

"Now,

it is shearing time."

My mother said that last week.

Last week it was shearing time.

Last week

at shearing time,

my mother caught her sheep.

One by one she caught them.

She tied their feet together

and with her shears

she clipped their wool.

My mother's hands were sure.

She cut the wool but once

from underneath.

She did not fumble,

cutting it here and there

into short pieces.

She cut the wool but once.

Her hands were sure.

My mother's hands were strong.

She pulled the wool back.

She folded it back

to come off in one piece.

My mother's hands were strong.

The sheep lay still

beneath her gentle fingers.

Trusting my mother's hands,

the sheep lay still.

But now

the poor sheep are cold.

They stand in their corral

this morning

and shiver

and bleat

and call loudly

for the sun

and for me

to come.

THE GOATS

Goats lead the sheep.

They go first into everything.

That is their way.

They are not afraid.

My uncle says in the English,

"Goats are tough."

Goats eat the grass too far down.

They eat the trees too far up.

That is their way.

They do not care.

My uncle says in the English,

"Goats are tough."

Goats, more than sheep,

get into my mother's stew pot.

Their meat is good,

but it takes chewing,

too much chewing.

I say with my uncle,

"Goats are tough."

HERDING

After we have eaten our morning food,

my father and my uncle

ride down the steep trail

to the Trading Post.

My mother kneels beside her loom

before the cottonwood shade.

I see the sun on my mother's

brown hands.

I see the sun on my mother's

black hair.

I give my mother a long look,

then I turn my back.

I walk to the sheep corral.

My feet are brown.

My feet are bare.

The wet grass parts

to make a way

to let me pass.

I walk to the sheep corral.

My skirts are long.

My skirts are many.

The flowers move back

to make a way

to let me pass.

I walk to the sheep corral.

I let down the bars.

The sheep go first

and I follow.

The sheep walk slowly

for they like to eat

the short sweet grass

under the trees.

I walk slowly

for I am lonely.

Things here are strange.

I am afraid.

I know that my mother sits

before our shelter

weaving a blanket at her loom.

I know she is near me,

but I cannot see her.

I can see only tall trees

and bits of sky.

I am a child of the yellow sand.

Mesa top and pine trees,

green grass and colored flowers

are strange to me.

Unknown things live here.

I am afraid.

I creep to the edge of the mesa

while my sheep are feeding.

Far, far below me

is the world I know,

the yellow world

of sand and wind

and sand.

Far below

I see sheep walking,

someone's sheep walking,

in a dust cloud

of their own making.

Far below

I see a sand whirl

made by an angry wind

fighting the land.

Far below

I see the heat haze,

colored heat haze

blanketing the desert.

I see these things

through tears

for they are the things

I know.

I am lonely without them.

Here on top of the mesa

is a strange world

of shadows and water

and grass for the sheep.

Grass for the sheep,

I had forgotten that.

Grass for the sheep

to give them life,

to make them strong.

Here on top of the mesa

there is grass for our sheep.

Surely the gods are good

who live here.

The sheep drink slowly.

Shadows sleep.

The quiet of the mesa

pushes against me.

I can feel it, heavy, heavy,

it pushes against me.

Surely, the gods who live here

are known to me.

The words of the Holy Song

are known to me.

"On top of the mountain

are found the gods."

These are the words

of the Holy Song.

NOON ON THE MESA

Day grows long

and bright with sunlight.

The sheep eat their way

to the rain lakes

under the willows.

Little rivers run through the tall grass

and hide away in the rushes.

I see a line of scattered clouds

across the sky.

Sun-Bearer rests

on his way

to the House of Turquoise Woman

in the Western Waters.

It is the middle-time of day.

AFTERNOON

Lying on my back

under the willows

I can see an eagle flying

far above

in great circles

against the blue.

I feel

and see

and listen,

but I do not talk.

There is no one to hear me.

There is no one to play with me,

only the lambs and the baby goats

and they like each other

better than me,

I think.

I am alone.

PLAYMATES

But look!!

There are butterflies,

small white butterflies

above the flower plants

of purple iris.

I sit among the iris.

I hear the whispering

of white wings flying.

I think they like my velvet blouse.

I think they like my long black hair

because they come to me

and to the purple iris,

those small white butterflies.

A little fat chipmunk

in a brown striped blanket

comes close to me.

He sits on his feet.

He holds his hands out.

He wrinkles his nose and looks at me.

I give him bread.

He holds it in his hands

and with little quick bites

stores it away

in his fat brown cheeks.

Funny little chipmunk

in his brown striped blanket

with storerooms in his face!

Gray squirrels with bushy tails

run up and down the trees.

They chatter to me.

They make me laugh.

I pull my skirts around me

and follow the squirrels.

Now I know where they live.

Now I know where I can find

piñon nuts this autumn.

I feel the warmth

of Sun-Bearer's shield

against my back.

And on my face

I feel cool fingers

of rain-cloud shadows.

With my hands on the warm earth

beside me,

almost,

I can feel things growing.

Why did I think

I was alone?

POSSESSIONS

I am making a song

to sing to myself.

It is about my possessions.

I have a woven hair tie.

I have a woven belt.

My mother made them for me.

My mother gave them to me.

They are my possessions.

I have silver rings on my fingers.

I have silver bracelets on my arms.

My father made them for me.

My father gave them to me.

They are my possessions.

Soft things

and hard things

I have for my possessions.

A song,

a song,

I am singing a song about them.

STORM

A storm wind comes to stop my song.

It comes through the trees

with the strength of anger.

It sways me forward.

It sways me backward.

It turns me when I am walking.

Black clouds gather

to blanket the thunder.

Zig-zag lightning

cuts the clouds in two.

My sheep crowd near me.

With soft words I speak to them.

I tell them

not to be afraid

for I am here.

LIGHTNING

Lightning darts

like an arrow,

an arrow of fire,

from an unseen bow.

It darts in flame

from the gray sky

to the gray earth.

It strikes a tree.

Lightning strikes a tree.

My sheep,

my sheep,

I must save my sheep

from this evil around them.

I must save them,

my sheep,

my poor frightened sheep.

FIRE

Fire runs up the tall tree trunk

and into the branches.

The tree is on fire.

The tree is aflame.

It blazes.

It crackles.

It burns.

The sheep look to me to protect them.

My poor frightened sheep,

I do not know which way

to take them.

RAIN

But wait!

The sky is opening.

Rain comes through.

Male rain comes through,

comes down in sheets of water,

pours down in sheets of water

drenching the flames

of the burning tree.

My mother comes running

between the trees.

She is frightened for the sheep

and for me.

I tell her

all things are good.

Lightning did not touch the sheep.

Male rain saved the trees from fire.

Male rain saved us from forest fire.

Now male rain has gone

down into the valley.

Female rain follows

with soft footsteps.

Flowers turn upward

Leaves turn upward

lifting their hands

to catch the gentle rain.

It is good.

The rain is good.

I open my hands

to catch the gentle rain.

EVENING

Sun-Bearer parts the clouds

and looks down on the rain.

He turns each raindrop

into a silver bead.

He turns each rainstreak

into a silver necklace.

He makes a rainbow path

for the gods

across the sky.

I go among the sheep,

the huddled, wet sheep.

I sing to them.

I sing to the sheep,

a song, a song,

a song about my possessions,

my ceremonial goods.

I have a little buckskin bag

filled with things,

with things.

My grandfather filled it for me.

My grandfather gave it to me.

Wherever I go

I carry my little buckskin bag

to keep me safe,

to keep my feet

on the Trail of Beauty.

A song,

a song,

I am singing a song

to my sheep.

Just now on the home trail,

a young deer,

a beautiful young deer,

stood in the bushes

and looked at me.

His eyes were big and dark

and full of questions.

A song,

a song,

I am singing a song

on the home trail.

I have a necklace of

turquoise and coral.

I have a necklace of

white shell and coral.

My grandmother traded for them.

My grandmother gave them to me.

They are possessions.

I have turquoise in my ears,

silver bells on my belt fringe.

My uncle made them for me.

My uncle gave them to me.

They are my possessions.

A song,

a song,

I am singing a song

to my sheep.

My father has five kinds

of possessions.

He has hard goods

and soft goods,

ceremonial goods

and land

and game.

But I am little.

I do not have five kinds.

I have three.

I made a song about them

to sing the sheep home.

At last we reach the home camp.

The sheep are safe in their corral.

I am safe with my mother.

Summer shade is at my back.

In front of me is my mother's fire.

I am dry and warm.

Good food is cooking.

My mother sings,

and all around me

there is beauty.

SUPPER

My father and my uncle

ride up from the Trading Post,

the Red Rock Trading Post

down near the winter hogan.

Long before I heard them

I could feel them coming.

Long before I saw them

I could hear them singing.

Now they ride into the firelight,

my father and my uncle.

My father brought salt

and baking powder

and lard

for my mother

from the Trading Post.

He brought candy

for me.

My father brought news,

much news.

Things he had seen,

things that were told to him

at the Trading Post.

He brought them back

for us to hear.

Then we washed our hands.

We sat away from the fire.

My mother placed the evening food

before us.

When we had eaten

my father gave thanks

to the Holy Ones.

We washed our hands again.

My uncle put new wood upon the fire.

Then the best part of the day began.

My father and my uncle talked.

TALKING

My father said

in ten days

would be the time

for dipping the sheep.

He and my uncle

would help my mother and me

drive the sheep to the dipping.

Sheep must be dipped

in medicine-water.

There is no pollen.

There is no Holy Song.

There is no Trail of Beauty

in this medicine water.

But my father says

it is good for the sheep.

Sheep get lice

hidden in their thick wool.

Lice make the sheep unhappy.

Lice make the sheep bite their wool.

Lice are bad for sheep.

Dipping the sheep

in medicine-water

kills the lice.

Ticks are bad for sheep.

Ticks live

on the sheep's good blood.

Ticks make the sheep thin

and weak.

If the sheep are robbed

of their good blood

they cannot stand

the cold of winter.

They cannot stand

the heat of summer.

They sicken.

Their wool is not good.

Dipping the sheep

in medicine-water

kills the lice and the ticks.

It is good for the sheep.

My mother does not like dipping

because she does not understand

why the sheep are dipped.

But my father talks to her.

He tells her about lice and ticks.

He tells her too

that she is quickest and best

of all the women

at dipping her sheep

in the medicine-water.

SHEEP DIPPING

All the people

with their sheep and goats

and horses and wagons

and children and dogs

go to the dipping.

There is much dust and work

and singing and eating

at dipping time.

I like it.

Sheep do not like dipping.

They do not like to take a bath

in the medicine-water

even though it is good for them.

When grandfather goat gets dipped

he is angry, very angry.

He does not like

to get his whiskers wet.

Tomorrow, first thing,

I will tell old goat, old goat,

that in ten days

Washington will

wash his whiskers.

My father talks of other things

besides the dipping.

His voice goes on and on

like wind in trees,

like water running,

like soft rain falling,

like drum beats pounding,

talk,

talk,

talking.

BEDTIME

After a time

my mother and I

unroll our blankets.

We go to bed

beneath the cottonwood shade.

I have my own prayer

to the night.

I whisper it,

whisper it,

but only the night wind hears.

The horses move

within the shadows.

My father sings.

It is night.

The sheep move

within the circle of branches.

My mother sleeps.

It is night.

THE STAR SONG

Softly my father sings

the Star Song

to the stars and me.

"When the world was being made,

being made,

when the gods were

placing stars,

the stars,

the stars in patterns

in the sky,

coyote stole the star bag,

coyote spilled the stars out

in the sky,

helter skelter in the sky,

when the world

was being made."

Softly my father sings it,

the Star Song,

to the stars and me.

Darkness covers me.

Beauty covers me.

My mother is near.

My father is near.

The sheep are safe.

The words of the Holy Song

come to me,

"On top of the mountain

I found the gods."

It is night.

It is night.

Happiness comes to me.

I sleep.

THE ARTIST

The artist, Hoke Denetsosie, is a full-blood Navaho boy of twenty years, born and raised near Tuba City in the western part of the reservation. He was a student at the Tuba school, and transferred to Phoenix Indian School for high school work. Hoke has been drawing for a number of years, during which time he has had little instruction. He finds the landscape of his native country a source of never-tiring interest. Prior to undertaking the problem of illustrating this series of stories, Hoke had done no work in black and white, but has developed his technique as he has proceeded.

When Hoke was invited to prepare the illustrations for these stories, he was given the manuscripts to read, and then talked over with the author the things she had in mind in writing the various episodes of the story. By the variety of the story, many problems of illustration were encountered which an artist might avoid for many years if simply drawing in response to his own interest. Hoke has had full freedom in the solution of these problems, often preparing several sketches for a single episode, and then selecting between them for the final drawing. Some of the drawings have been frankly experimental—showing a snow scene in the simple black and white technique developed by Hoke, for example; or distinguishing between night and day. The style is the artist's own, and is neither the flat stylized drawing of many Pueblo artists, nor the minutely shaded drawing of the white man. The artist was chosen because he possesses a sure skill and inquiring mind. It is believed that his present pictures will illuminate the text, and give pleasure to many; and that he may have before him an artistic future. He has the following brief statement to make about his own work:

"I shall always remember the day when I received the first manuscript of the Little Herder series. The only instructions and suggestions I received before I began were; 'Here are the manuscripts, let's see what you can do with them.'

"So not knowing the first thing about the fundamentals and principles of illustration the work really launched several months of extensive experimentation, the result of which was the black and white technique finally achieved. The use of simple black and white technique was employed because it is more readily understandable for a child.

"The nature of the stories, being concerned with Navaho life, called for illustration genuine in every sense of the word. I had to observe and incorporate in pictures those characteristics which serve to distinguish the Navaho from other tribes. Further, the setting of the pictures had to change to express local changes as the family moved from place to place. The domestic animals raised by the Navaho had to be shown in a proper setting just as one sees them on the reservation. The sheep could not be shown grazing in a pasture, nor the horses in a stable, because such things are not Navaho.

"In other words the ideas were represented in an earnest attempt to express as far as possible the author's feelings, but without hindering the illustrator's freedom."

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors.
2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.