WASSAMO was living with his parents on the shore of a large bay far out in the north-east. One day, when the season had commenced for fish to be plenty, the mother of Wassamo said to him: "My son, I wish you would go to yonder point and see if you cannot procure me some fish, and ask your cousin to accompany you."
Wassamo did so. He set out with his cousin, and in the course of the afternoon they arrived at the fishing-ground.
The cousin, being the elder, attended to the nets. When these were set in the lake, the youths encamped near-by, using the bark of the birch for a lodge to shelter them through the night.
They lit a fire, and while they sat conversing with each other, the moon arose. Not a breath of wind disturbed the smooth surface of the lake. Not a cloud was seen. Wassamo looked out on the water toward their nets, and he saw that the little black spots, which were no other than the floats, had disappeared.
"Netawis," he said, "let us visit our nets; perhaps we are fortunate."
When they drew up the nets they were rejoiced to see the meshes shining white, all over, with the glittering prey. They landed in fine spirits, and put away their canoe in safety from the winds.
"Wassamo," said the cousin, "you cook that we may eat."
Wassamo set about the work at once and soon had his great kettle swung upon its branch, while the cousin lay at his ease upon the other side of the fire.
"Cousin," Said Wassamo, "tell me stories or sing me some love-songs."
The cousin obeyed, and sang his plaintive songs, frequently breaking off in the midst of a mournful chant to recite a mirthful story, then in the midst of Wassamo's laughter returning to the plaintive ditty—just as it suited his fancy; for Netawis was gay of spirit and shifted his humor faster than the fleecy clouds that appeared and disappeared in the night-sky over their heads. In this changeful pastime the cousin ran his length and then fell away into a silvery sleep, murmuring parts of his song or story, while the moon glided through the branches and gilded his face as though she were enamored of his fair looks.
Wassamo in the meanwhile had lost the sound of his cousin's voice in the rich simmer of the kettle; and when its music pleased his ear the most, as announcing that the fish were handsomely cooked, he lifted the kettle from the fire. He spoke to his cousin, but he received no answer.
He went on with his housekeeping alone and took the wooden ladle and skimmed the kettle neatly, for the fish were very plump and fat. But he had a torch of twisted hark in one hand to give light, and when he came to take out the fish, there was no one to have charge of the torch.
The cousin was so happy in his sleep, with the silver moon kissing his cheeks, that Wassamo had not the heart to call him up.
Binding his girdle upon his brow, in this he thrust the torch and went forward to prepare the evening meal with the light dancing through the green leaves at every turn of his head.
He again spoke to his cousin, but gently, to learn whether he was in truth asleep. The cousin murmured, but made no reply; and Wassamo stepped softly about with the dancing fire-plume lighting up the gloom of the forest at every turn he made.
Suddenly he heard a laugh. It was double, or the one must be the perfect echo of the other. To Wassamo there appeared to be two persons at no great distance.
"Cousin," said Wassamo, "some person is near us. I hear a laugh; awake and let us look out!"
The cousin made no answer.
Again Wassamo heard the laughter in mirthful repetition, like the ripple of the water-brook upon the shining pebbles of the stream. Peering out as far as the line of the torchlight pierced into the darkness, he beheld two beautiful young maidens smiling on him.
Their countenances appeared to be perfectly; white, like the fresh snow.
He crouched down and pushed his cousin, saying in a low voice, "Awake! awake! here are two young women."
But he received no answer. His cousin seemed lost to all earthly sense and sound; for he lay unmoved, smiling, in the calm light of the moon. Wassamo started up alone and glided toward the strange maidens.
As he approached them he was more and more enraptured with their beauty; but just as he was about to speak to them, he suddenly fell to the earth, and they all three vanished together. The moon shone where they had just stood, but saw them not. Only a gentle sound of music and soft voices accompanied their vanishing, and this wakened the cousin.
As Netawis opened his eyes in a dreamy way, he saw the kettle near him. Some of the fish, he observed, were in the bowl. The fire flickered and made light and shadow; but nowhere was Wassamo to be seen. He waited, and waited again, in the expectation that Wassamo would appear.
"Perhaps," thought the cousin, "he is gone out again to visit the nets."
He looked off that way, but the canoe still lay close by the rock at the shore. He searched and found footsteps in the ashes, and out upon the green ground a little distance, and then they were utterly lost.
He was now greatly troubled in spirit, and he called aloud, "Wassamo! cousin! cousin!" but there was no answer to his call. He called again in his sorrow, louder and louder, "Wassamo! Wassamo! cousin! cousin! whither are you gone?" But no answer came to his voice of wailing. He started for the edge of the woods, crying as he ran, "My cousin!" and "Oh, my cousin!"
Hither and thither through the forest he sped with all his fleetness of foot and quickness of spirit; and when at last he found that no voice would answer him, he burst into tears and sobbed aloud.
He returned to the fire and sat down. He mused upon the absence of Wassamo with a sorely troubled heart. "He may have been playing me a trick," he thought; but it was full time that the trick should be at an end, and Wassamo returned not. The cousin cherished other hopes, but they all died away in the morning light, when he found himself alone by the Hunting-fire.
"How shall I answer to his friends for Wassamo?" thought the cousin. "Although his parents are my kindred and are well assured that their son is my bosom-friend, will they receive that belief in the place of him who is lost? No, no; they will say that I have slain him, and they will require blood for blood. Oh! my cousin, wither are you gone?"
He would have rested to restore his mind to its peace, but he could not sleep; and without further regard to net or canoe, he set off for the village, running all the way.
As they saw him approaching at such speed and alone, they said, "Some accident has happened."
When he had come into the village, he told them how Wassamo had disappeared. He stated all the circumstances. He kept nothing to himself. He declared all that he knew.
Some said, "He has killed him in the dark." Others said, "It is impossible; they were like brothers; they would have fallen for each other. It cannot be."
At the cousin's request, many of the men visited the fish-fire. There were no marks of blood. No hasty steps were there to show that any conflict or struggle had occurred. Every leaf on every tree was in its place; and they saw, as the cousin had seen, that the foot-prints of Wassamo stopped in the wood, as if he had gone no farther upon the earth but had ascended into the air.
They returned to the village, and no man was the wiser as to the strange and sudden vanishing of Wassamo. None ever looked to see him more; only the parents, who still hoped and awaited their son's return.
The Spring, with all its blossoms and its delicate newness of life, came among them; the Indians assembled from all the country round to celebrate their spring feast.
Among them came the sad cousin of Wassamo. He was pale and thin as the shadow of the shaft that flies. The pain of his mind had changed his features, and wherever he turned his eyes, they were dazzled with the sight of the red blood of his friend.
The parents of Wassamo, far gone in despair and weary with watching for his return, now demanded the life of Netawis. The village was stirred to its very heart by their loud lamentings; and after a struggle of pity, they decided to give the young man's life to the parents. They said that they had waited long enough. A day was appointed on which the cousin was to yield his life for his friend's.
He was a brave youth, and they bound him only by his word to be ready at the appointed hour. He said that he was not afraid to die; for he was innocent of the great wrong they laid to his charge.
A day or two before the time set to take his life, he wandered sadly along the shore of the lake. He looked at the glassy water, and more than once the thought to end his griefs by casting himself in its depths came upon him with such sudden force that only by severe self-control was he able to turn his steps in another direction. He reflected—
"They will say that I was guilty if I take my own life. No. I will give them my blood for that of my cousin."
He walked on with slow steps, but he found no comfort, turn where he would; the sweet songs of the forest jarred upon his ear; the beauty of the blue sky pained his sight; and the soft green earth, as he trod upon it, seemed harsh to his foot and sent a pang through every nerve.
"Oh, where is my cousin?" he kept saying to himself.
Meanwhile, when Wassamo fell senseless before the two young women in the wood, he lost all knowledge of himself until he awakened in a distant scene. He heard persons conversing. One spoke in a tone of command, saying:
"Foolish ones, is this the way that you rove about at nights without our knowledge? Put that person you have brought on that couch of yours, and do not let him lie upon the ground."
Wassamo felt himself moved, he knew not how, and placed upon a couch. Some time after, the spell seemed to be a little lightened, and on opening his eyes, he was surprised to find that he was lying in a spacious and shining lodge extending as far as the eye could reach. One spoke to him and said:
"Stranger, awake, and take something wherewith to refresh yourself."
He obeyed the command and sat up. On either side of the lodge he beheld rows of people seated in orderly array. At a distance he could see two stately persons, who looked rather more in years than the others, and who appeared to exact obedience from all around them. One of them, whom he heard addressed as the Old Spirit-man, spoke to Wassamo.
"My son," said he, "know it was those foolish maidens who brought you hither. They saw you at the fishing-ground. When you attempted to approach them you fell senseless, and at the same moment they transported you to this place. You are now under the earth. But be at ease. We will make your stay with us pleasant. I am the Guardian Spirit of the Sand Mountains. They are my charge. I pile them up and blow them about and do whatever I will with them. It keeps me very busy, but I am hale for my age, and I love to be employed. I have often wished to get one of your race to marry among us. If you can make up your mind to remain, I will give you one of my daughters—the one who smiled on you first the night you were brought away from your parents and friends."
Wassamo dropped his head and made no answer. The thought that he should behold his kindred no more made him sad.
He was silent, and the Old Spirit continued: "Your wants will all be supplied; but you must be careful not to stray far from the lodge. I am afraid of that Spirit who rules all islands lying in the lakes. He is my bitter enemy, for I have refused him my daughter in marriage; and when he learns that you are a member of my family, he will seek to harm you. There is my daughter," added the Old Spirit, pointing toward her. "Take her. She shall be your wife."
Forthwith Wassamo and the Old Spirit's daughter sat near each other in the lodge, and they were man and wife.
One evening the Old Spirit came in after a busy day's work ont among the sand-hills, in the course of which he had blown them all ont of shape with great gusts of wind, strewn them about in a thousand directions and brought them back and piled them up in all sorts of misshapen heaps.
At the close of this busy day, when the Old Spirit came in very much out of breath, he said to Wassamo:
"Son-in-law, I am in want of tobacco. None grows about this dry place of mine. You shall return to your people and procure me a supply. It is seldom that the few who pass these sand-hills offer me a piece of tobacco—it is a rare plant in these parts—but when they do, it immediately comes to me. Just so," he added, putting his hand out of the side of the lodge and drawing in several pieces of tobacco. Some one passing at that moment had offered it as a fee to the Old Spirit, to keep the sand-hills from blowing about till they had got by.
Other gifts besides tobacco came in the same way to the side of the lodge—sometimes a whole bear, then a wampum-robe, then a string of birds—and the Sand-Spirits altogether led an easy life; for they were not at the trouble to hunt or clothe themselves; and whenever the housekeeping began to fall short, nothing would happen but a wonderful storm of dust, all the sand-hills being straightway put in an uproar, and the contributions would at once begin to pour in at the side windows of the lodge, till all wants were supplied.
After Wassamo had been among these curious people several months, the old Sand-Spirit said to him:
"Son-in-law, you must not be surprised at what you will see next; for since you have been with us you have never known us to go to sleep. It has been summer, when the sun never sets here where we live. But now, what you call winter is coming on. You will soon see us lie down, and we shall not rise again till the spring. Take my advice. Do not leave the lodge. I have sure knowledge that that knavish Island Spirit is on the prowl, and as he has command of a particular kind of storm, which comes from the south-west, he only waits his opportunity to catch you abroad and do you mischief. Try and amuse yourself. That cupboard," pointing to a corner of the lodge, "is never empty; for it is there that all the offerings are handed in while we are asleep. It is never empty, and—" But ere the old Sand-Spirit could utter another word, a loud rattling of thunder was heard, and instantly not only the Old Spirit but every one of his family vanished out of sight.
When the storm had passed by, they all reappeared in the lodge. This sudden vanishing and reappearance occurred at every tempest.
"You are surprised," said the Old Spirit, "to see us disappear when it thunders. The reason is this: that noise which you fancy is thunder is our enemy the Island Spirit hallooing on his way home from the hunt. We get out of sight that we may escape the necessity of asking him to come in and share our evening meal. We are not afraid of him, not in the least."
Just then it chanced to thunder again, and Wassamo observed that his father-in-law made, extraordinary despatch to conceal himself, although no stranger was in view, at all resembling in any way the Island Spirit.
Shortly after this the season of sleep began, and one by one they laid themselves down to the long slumber.
The Old Spirit was the last to drop away; and before he yielded, he went forth and had his last sport with the sand-hills. He so tossed and vexed the poor hills, scattered them to and fro, and whirled them up in the air and far over the land, that it was days and days before they got hack to anything like their natural shape.
While his relations were enjoying this long sleep, Wassamo amused himself as best he could. The cupboard never failed him once; for visit it when he i would, he always found a fresh supply of game and every other dainty which his heart desired.
But his chief pastime was to listen to the voices of the travelers who passed by the window at the side of the lodge, where they made their requests for comfortable weather and an easy journey.
These were often mingled with loud complainings, such as "Ho! how the sand jumps about!"
"Take away that hill!"
"I am lost!"
"Old Sand-Spirit, where are you? Help this way!" which indicated that such as were journeying through the hills had their own troubles to encounter.
As the spring-light of the first day of spring shone into the lodge, the whole family arose and went about the affairs of the day as though they had been slumbering only for a single night. The rest seemed to have done the Old Spirit much good, for he was very cheerful. Putting his head forth from the window for a puff at a sand-hill, which was his prime luxury in a morning, he said to Wassamo:
"Son-in-law, you have been very patient with our long absence from your company, and you shall be rewarded. In a few days you may start with your wife to visit your relations. You can be absent one year, but at the end of that time, you must return. When you get to your home village, you must first go in alone. Leave your wife at a short distance from the lodge, and when you are welcome, then send for her. When there, do not be surprised that she disappears whenever you hear it thunder." He added, with a sly look, "That old Island Spirit has a brother down in that part of the country. You will prosper in all things, for my daughter is very diligent. All the time that you pass in sleep, she will be at work. The distance is short to your village. A path leads directly to it, and when you get there, do not forget my wants as I stated to you before."
Wassamo promised obedience to these directions, and at the appointed time set out in company with his wife. They traveled on a pleasant course, his wife leading the way, until they reached a rising ground.
At the highest point of this ground, she said, "We shall soon get to your country."
It suddenly became broad day, as they came upon a high bank. Then they passed, unwet, for a short distance under the lake and presently emerged from the water at the sand-banks, just off the shore where Wassamo had set his nets on the night when he had been borne away by the two strange females.
Wassamo now left his wife sheltered in a neighboring wood, while he advanced toward the village alone. When he turned the first point of land by the lake he beheld his cousin as he walked the shore, musing sadly, and from time to time breaking forth in mournful cries.
With the speed of lightning the cousin rushed forward. "Wassamo! Wassamo!" he cried, "is it indeed you? Whence have you come, oh, my cousin?" They fell upon each other's necks and wept aloud. And then, without further delay or question, the cousin ran off with breathless despatch to the village. He seemed like a shadow upon the open ground, he sped so fast.
He entered the lodge where sat the mother of Wassamo in mourning for her son. "Hear me," said the cousin. "I have seen him whom you accuse me of having killed. He will be here even while we speak."
He had scarcely uttered these words when the whole village was astir in an instant. All ran out and strained their eyes to catch the first view of him whom they had thought dead. And when Wassamo came forward, they at first fell from him as though he had been in truth one returned from the Spiritland. He entered the lodge of his parents. They saw that it was Wassamo, living, breathing and as they had ever known him. And joy lit up the lodge-circle as though a new fire had been kindled in the eyes of his friends and kinsfolk.
He related all that had happened to him from the moment of his leaving the temporary night-lodge with the flame on his head. He told them of the strange land in which he had sojourned during his absence. He added to his mother, apart from the company, that he was married, and that he had left his wife at a short distance from the village.
She went out immediately in search of her; they soon found her in the wood, and all the women in the village conducted her in honor to the lodge of her new relations. The Indian people were astonished at her beauty, at the whiteness of her skin, and still more, that she was able to talk with them in their own language.
The village was happy, and the feast went on as long as the supply held out. All were delighted to make the acquaintance of the old Sand-Spirit's daughter; and as they had heard that he was a magician and guardian of great power, the tobacco which he had sent for by his son-in-law came in great abundance with every visitor.
The summer and fall which Wassamo thus passed with his parents and the people of his tribe were prosperous with all the country.
The cousin of Wassamo recovered heart and sang once more his sad or mirthful chants, just as the humor was upon him; but he kept close by Wassamo and watched him in all his movements. He made it a point to ask many questions of the country he came from; some of which his cousin replied to, but others he left entirely unanswered.
At every thunderstorm, as the old Sand-Spirit had foreboded, the wife of Wassamo disappeared, much to the astonishment of her Indian company. And to their greater wonder she was never idle, night or day.
When the winter came on, Wassamo prepared for her a comfortable lodge to which she withdrew for her long sleep; and he gave notice to his friends that they must not disturb her, as she would not be with them again until the spring returned.
Before lying down, she said to her husband, "No one but yourself must pass on this side of the lodge." The winter passed away with snows outside, and sports and stories in the lodge; and when the sap of the maple began to flow, the wife of Wassamo wakened and immediately set about work as before. She helped at the maple-trees with the others; and as if luck were in her presence, the sugar-harvest was greater than had been ever known in all that region.
The gifts of tobacco after this came in even more freely than they had at first; and as each giver brought his bundle to the lodge of Wassamo, he asked for the usual length of life, for success as a hunter, and for a plentiful supply of food. They particularly desired that the sand-hills might be kept quiet, so that their lands might be moist and their eyes clear of dust to sight the game.
Wassamo replied that he would mention each of their requests to his father-in-law.
The tobacco was stored in sacks, and on the outside of the skins, that there might be no mistake as to their wants, each one who had given tobacco had painted and marked in distinct characters the totem or family emblem of his family and tribe. These the old Sand-Spirit could read at his leisure and do what he thought best for each of his various petitioners.
When the time for his return arrived, Wassamo warned his people that they should not follow him or attempt to take note how he disappeared. He then took the moose-skin sacks filled with tobacco and bade farewell to all but Netawis. The latter insisted on the privilege of attending Wassamo and his wife for a distance, and when they reached the sand-banks he expressed the strongest wish to proceed with them on their journey. Wassamo told him that it could not be; that only spirits could exert the necessary power, and that there were no such spirits at hand.
They then took an affectionate leave of each other, Wassamo enjoining upon his cousin, at risk of his life, not to look back when he had once started to return.
The cousin, sore at heart but constrained to obey, parted from them; and as he walked sadly away, he heard a gliding noise as of the sound of waters that were cleaved.
He returned home and told his friends that Wassamo and his wife had disappeared, but that he knew not how. No one doubted his word in anything now.
Wassamo with his wife soon reached their home at the hills. The old Sand-Spirit was in excellent health and delighted to see them. He hailed their return with open arms; and he opened his arms so very wide, that when he closed them he not only embraced Wassamo and his wife, but all of the tobacco-sacks which they had brought with them.
The requests of the Indian people were made known to him; he replied that he would attend to all, but that he must first invite his friends to smoke with him. Accordingly he at once despatched his pipe-bearer and confidential aid to summon various Spirits of his acquaintance, and set the time for them to come.
Meanwhile he had a word of advice for his son-inlaw, Wassamo. "My son," said he, "some of these Manitos that I have asked to come here are of a very wicked temper, and I warn you especially of that Island Spirit who wished to marry my daughter. He is a very bad-hearted Monedo, and would like to do you harm. Some of the company, however, you will find to be very friendly. A caution for you. When they come in, do you sit close by your wife; if you do not, you will be lost. She only can save you; for those who are expected to come are so powerful that they will otherwise draw you from your seat and toss you out of the lodge as though you were a feather. You have only to observe my words and all will be well."
Wassamo took heed to what the Old Spirit said and answered that he would obey.
About midday the company began to assemble; and such a company Wassamo had never looked on before. There were Spirits from all parts of the country; such strange-looking persons, and in dresses so wild and outlandish! One entered who smiled on him. This, Wassamo was informed, was a Spirit who had charge of the affairs of a tribe in the North, and he was as pleasant and cheery a Spirit as one would wish to see. Soon after, Wassamo heard a great rumbling and roaring, as of waters tumbling over rocks; and presently, with a vast bluster, and fairly shaking the lodge with his deep-throated hail of welcome to the old Sand-Spirit, in rolled another, who was the Guardian Spirit and special director of a great cataract or water-fall not far off.
Then came with crashing steps the owner of several whirlwinds, which were in the habit of raging about in the neighboring country. And following this one glided in a sweet-spoken, gentle-faced little Spirit, who was understood to represent a summer gale that was accustomed to blow in at the lodge-doors, toward evening, and to be particularly well disposed toward young lovers.
The last to appear was a great rocky-headed fellow; and he was twice as stony in his manners. He swaggered and strided in, and raised such a commotion with his great green blanket when he shook it, that Wassamo was nearly taken off his feet; and it was only by main force that he was able to cling by his wife. This, which was the last to enter, was that wicked Island Spirit, who looked grimly enough at Wassamo's wife as he passed in.
Soon after, the old Sand-Spirit, who was a great speech-maker, arose and addressed the assembly.
"Brothers," he said, "I have invited you to partake with me of the offerings made by the mortals on earth, which have been brought by our relation," pointing to Wassamo. "Brothers, you see their wishes and desires plainly set forth here," laying his hand upon the figured moose-skins. "The offering is worthy of our consideration. Brothers, I see nothing on my part to hinder our granting their requests; they do not appear to be unreasonable. Brothers, the offer is gratifying. It is tobacco—an article which we have lacked until we scarcely knew how to use our pipes. Shall we grant their requests? One thing more I would say. Brothers, it is this: There is my son-in-law; he is mortal. I wish to detain him with me, and it is with us jointly to make him one of us."
"Hoke! hoke!" ran though the whole company of Spirits, and "Hoke! hoke!" they cried again. And it was understood that the petitioners were to have all they asked, and that Wassamo was thenceforward fairly accepted as a member of the great family of Spirits.
As a wedding-gift the Old Spirit promised his son-in-law one request, which should be promptly granted.
"Let there be no sand-squalls among my father's people for three months to come," said Wassamo.
"So shall it be," answered the old Sand-Spirit.
The tobacco was now divided in equal shares among the company. They filled their pipes—and huge pipes they were! And such clouds they blew, that they rushed forth out of the lodge and brought on night in all the country round about, several hours before its time.
After a time passed in silence, the Spirits rose up, and bearing off their tobacco-sacks, went smoking through the country, losing themselves in their own fog, till a late hour in the morning, when all of their pipes being burned out, each departed on his own business.
The very next day the old Sand-Spirit, who was very much pleased with the turn affairs had taken at his entertainment, addressed Wassamo:
"Son-in-law, I have made up my mind to allow you another holiday as an acknowledgment of the handsome manner in which you acquitted yourself of your embassy. You may visit your parents and relatives once more, to tell them that their wishes are granted and to take your leave of them forever. You can never, after, visit them again."
Wassamo at once set out, reached his people, and was heartily welcomed.
They asked for his wife, and Wassamo informed them that she had tarried at home to look after a son, a fine little Sand-Spirit, who had been born to them since his return.
Having delivered all of his messages and passed a happy time, Wassamo said, "I must now bid you all farewell forever."
His parents and friends raised their voices in loud lamentation; they clung to him, and as a special favor, which he could now grant, being himself a spirit, he allowed them to accompany him to the sand-banks.
They all seated themselves to watch his last farewell. The day was mild, the sky clear, not a cloud appearing to dim the heavens, or a breath of wind to ruffle the tranquil waters. A perfect silence fell upon the company. They gazed with eager eyes fastened on Wassamo, as he waded ont into the water, waving his hands. They saw him descend, more and more, into the depths. They beheld the waves close over his head, and a loud and piercing wail went up which rent the sky.
They looked again; a red flame, as if the sun had glanced on a billow, lighted the spot for an instant; but the Feather of Flames, Wassamo of the Fire-Plume, had disappeared from home and kindred and the familiar paths of his youth, forever.
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IN a region of country where the forest and the prairie strove which should be the most beautiful—the open plain with its free sunshine and winds and flowers, or the close wood with its delicious twilight walks and green hollows—there lived a wicked manito in the disguise of an old Indian.
Although the country furnished an abundance of game and whatever else a good heart could wish for, it was the study of this wicked genius to destroy such people as fell into his hands. He made use of all his arts to decoy men into his power for the purpose of killing them. The country had been once thickly peopled, but this Mudjee Monedo had so thinned it by his cruel practices that he now lived almost solitary in the wilderness.
The secret of his success lay in his great speed. He had the power to assume the shape of any four-footed creature, and it was his custom to challenge to a race all those he sought to destroy. He had a beaten path on which he ran, leading around a large lake, and he always ran around this circle so that the starting and the winning-post was the same. Whoever failed, as every one had, yielded up his life at this post; and although he ran every day, no man was ever known to beat this evil genius; for whenever he was pressed hard, he changed himself into a fox, wolf, deer, or other swift-footed animal, and was thus able to leave his competitor behind.
The whole country was in dread of this same Mudjee Monedo, and yet the young men were constantly running with him; for if they refused, he called them cowards, which was a reproach they could not bear. They would rather die than be called cowards.
To keep up his sport, the manito made light of these deadly foot-matches. Instead of assuming a braggart air and going about in a boastful way with the blood of such as he had overcome upon his hands, he adopted very pleasing manners and visited the lodges around the country as any other sweet-tempered and harmless old Indian might.
His secret object in these friendly visits was to learn whether the young boys were getting old enough to run with him; he kept a very sharp eye upon their growth, and the day he thought them ready, he did not fail to challenge them to a trial on his racing-ground.
There was not a family in all that beautiful region which had not in this way been visited and thinned out; and the manito had quite naturally come to be held in abhorrence by all the Indian mothers in the country.
It happened that there lived near him a poor widow woman whose husband and seven sons he had made way with. She was now living with an only daughter and a son of ten or twelve years old.
This widow was very poor and feeble, and she suffered so much from lack of food and other comforts of the lodge, that she would have been glad to die but for her daughter and her little son. The Mudjee Monedo had already visited her lodge to observe whether the boy was sufficiently grown to be challenged to the race; and so crafty in his approaches and so soft in his manners was the monedo, that the mother feared he would yet decoy the son in spite of all her struggles and make way with him as he had done with her husband and the seven elder sons.
And yet she strove with all her might to strengthen her son in every good course. She taught him, as best she could, what was becoming for the wise hunter and the brave warrior. She remembered and set before him all that she could recall of the skill and the craft of his father and his brothers who were lost.
The widow woman also instructed her daughter in whatever would make her useful as a wife; and in the leisure-time of the lodge, she gave her lessons in the art of working with the quills of porcupine, and bestowed on her such other accomplishments as should make her an ornament and a blessing to her husband's household. The daughter, Minda by name, disdained no labor of the lodge, was kind and obedient to her mother, and never failed in her duty. Their lodge stood high up on the banks of a lake, which gave them a wide prospect of country embellished with groves and open fields, which waved with the blue light of their long grass, and made, at all hours of sun and moon, a cheerful scene to look upon.
Across this beautiful prairie, Minda had one morning made her way to gather dry limbs for their fire. And while enjoying the sweetness of the air and the green beauty of the woods, she strolled far away.
She had come to a bank painted with flowers of every hue, and was reclining on its fragrant couch, when a bird, of red and deep-blue plumage softly blended, alighted on a branch near-by and began to pour forth its carol. It was a bird of strange character, such as she had never before seen. Its first note was so delicious to the ear of Minda, it so pierced to her young heart, that she listened as she had never before to any mortal or heavenly sound. It seemed like the human voice, forbidden to speak and uttering its language through this wild wood-chant with a mournful melody, as if it bewailed the lack of the power or the right to make itself more plainly intelligible.
The voice of the bird rose and fell and circled round and round; but whithersoever floated or spread out its notes, they seemed ever to have their center where Minda sat; and she looked with sad eyes into the sad eyes of the mournful bird, that sat in his red and deep-blue plumage just opposite to the flowery bank.
The poor bird strove more and more with his voice and seemed ever more and more anxiously to address his notes of lament to Minda's ear, till at last she could not refrain from speaking to him.
"What aileth thee, sad bird?" she asked.
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As if he had but waited to be spoken to, the bird left his branch, and alighting upon the bank, smiled on Minda. Shaking his shining plumage, he answered:
"I am bound in this condition until a maiden shall accept me in marriage. I have wandered through these forests and sung to many and many of the Indian girls, but none ever heeded my voice till you. Will you be mine?" he added, and poured forth a flood of melody which sparkled and spread itself with its sweet murmurs over all the scene, fairly entrancing the young Minda, who sat silent, as if she feared to break the charm by speech.
The bird, approaching nearer, asked her, if she loved him, to get her mother's consent to their marriage. "I shall be free then," said the bird, "and you shall know me as I am."
Minda lingered and listened to the sweet voice of the bird, either in its own forest notes, or else filling each pause with gentle human discourse. For it questioned her as to her home, her family, and the little incidents of her daily life.
She returned to the lodge later than usual, but she was too timid to speak to her mother of that which the bird had charged her. She returned again and again to the fragrant haunt in the wood; and every day she listened to the songs of her bird admirer with more pleasure, and he every day besought her to speak to her mother of the marriage. This she could not, however, muster heart and courage to do.
At last the widow began herself to have a suspicion that her daughter's heart was in the wood, from her long delays in returning and the little success she had in gathering the fire-branches for which she went in search.
Then, in answer to her mother's questions, Minda revealed the truth and made known her lover's request; and the mother gave her consent, considering the lonely and destitute condition of her little household.
The daughter hastened, with light steps, to carry the news to the wood. The bird lover, of course, heard it with delight and fluttered through the air in happy circles, pouring forth a song of joy which thrilled Minda to the heart.
He said that he would come to the lodge at sunset, and immediately took wing, while Minda hung fondly upon his flight, till he was lost far away in the blue sky.
With the twilight the bird lover appeared at the door of the lodge. But now his name was Monedowa, and he had returned to his true form of a hunter, with a red plume on his head and a mantle of blue upon his shoulders.
He addressed the widow as his friend, and she directed him to sit down beside her daughter, and they were regarded as man and wife.
Early on the following morning he asked for the bow and arrows of those who had been slain by the wicked manito, then went out a-hunting. As soon as he had got out of sight of the lodge, he changed himself into the wood-bird he had been before his marriage, and took his flight through the air.
Although game was scarce in the neighborhood of the widow's lodge, Monedowa returned at evening, in his character of a hunter, with two deer. This was his daily practice, and the widow's family never more lacked for food. It was noticed, however, that Monedowa himself ate but little, and that of a peculiar kind of meat flavored with berries, which fact, with other circumstances, convinced his wife that he was not as the Indian people around him. His mother-in-law told him that in a few days the manito would come to pay them a visit, to see how the young man, her son, prospered.
Monedowa answered that he should on that day be absent.
When the time arrived, he flew upon a tall pine-tree overlooking the lodge and took his station there as the wicked manito passed in.
The Mudjee Monedo cast sharp glances at the scaffolds so well laden with meat, and as soon as he had entered, he said, "Why, who is it that is furnishing you with meat so plentifully?"
"No one but my son," she answered. "He is just beginning to kill deer."
"No, no," he retorted; "some one is living with you."
"Kaween, no indeed!" replied the widow. "You are only making sport of my hapless condition. Who do you think would come and trouble themselves about me?"
"Very well," answered the manito, "I will go; but on such a day I will again visit you and see who it is that furnishes the meat, and whether it is your son or not."
He had no sooner left the lodge and got out of sight, than the son-in-law made his appearance with two more deer. On being made acquainted with the conduct of the manito, he said, "Very well, I will be at home the next time, to see him."
Both the mother and the wife urged Monedowa to beware of the manito. They made known all of his cruel courses, and assured him that no man could escape from his power.
"No matter," said Monedowa. "If he invites me to the race-ground, I will not be backward. What follows may teach him, my mother, to show pity on the vanquished and not to trample on the widow and those who are without fathers."
When the day of the visit of the manito arrived, Monedowa told his wife to prepare certain pieces of meat, which he pointed out to her, together with two or three buds of the birch tree, which he requested her to put in the pot. He directed also that the manito should be hospitably received, as if he had been just the kind-hearted old Indian he professed to be. Monedowa then dressed himself as a warrior, embellishing his visage with tints of red to show that he was prepared for either war or peace.
As soon as the Mudjee Monedo arrived, he eyed this strange warrior whom he had never seen before; but he dissembled, as usual, and with a gentle laugh said to the widow, "Did I not tell you that some one was staying with you? For I knew your son was too young to hunt."
The widow excused herself by saying that she did not think it necessary to tell him, inasmuch as he was a manito and must have known before he asked.
The manito was very pleasant with Monedowa, and after much other gentle-spoken discourse, he invited him to the racing-ground, saying it was a manly amusement, that he would have an excellent chance to meet there with other warriors, and that he should himself be pleased to run with him.
Monedowa would have excused himself, saying that he knew nothing of running.
"Why," replied the Mudjee Monedo, trembling in every limb as he spoke, "don't you see how old I look, while you are young and full of life? We must at least run a little to amuse others."
"Be it so, then," replied Monedowa. "I will oblige you. I will go in the morning."
Pleased with his crafty success, the manito would have now taken his leave, but he was pressed to remain and partake of their hospitality. The meal, consisting of one dish, was immediately prepared.
Monedowa partook of it first, to show his guest that he need fear nothing.
"It is a feast," he said, "and as we seldom meet, we must eat all that is placed on the dish, as a mark of gratitude to the Great Spirit, not only for permitting me to kill animals, but also for giving me the pleasure of seeing you and partaking of it with you." They ate and talked of this and that, until they had nearly despatched the meal, when the manito took up the dish and drank off the broth at a breath. On setting it down he immediately turned his head and commenced coughing with great violence. The old body in which he had disguised himself was well-nigh shaken in pieces, for he had, as Monedowa expected, swallowed a grain of the birch-bud, and this, relished by Monedowa because of his bird nature, greatly distressed the old manito, who partook of the character of an animal, or four-footed thing.
He was at last put to such confusion of face by his constant coughing that he was forced to leave, saying, or rather hiccoughing, as he left the lodge, that he should look for the young man at the racing-ground in the morning.
When the morning came, Monedowa was early astir, oiling his limbs and enamelling his breast and arms with red and blue, resembling the plumage in which he had first appeared to Minda. Upon his brow he placed a tuft of feathers of the same shining tints.
By his invitation his wife, her mother and her brother attended Monedowa to the manito's racing-ground.
The lodge of the manito stood upon a high ground, and near it stretched out a long row of other lodges, said to be possessed by wicked kindred of Mudjee Monedo, who shared in the spoils of his cruelty.
As soon as the young hunter and his party approached, the inmates appeared at their lodge-doors and cried out:
"We are visited."
At this cry, the Mudjee Monedo came forth and descended with his companions to the starting-post on the plain. From this the course could be seen, winding in a long girdle about the lake. As they were now all assembled, the old manito began to speak of the race, belting himself up and pointing to the post, which was an upright pillar of stone.
"But before we start," said he, "I wish it to be understood that when men run with me I make a wager, and I expect them to abide by it—life against life."
"Very well—be it so," answered Monedowa. "Aye shall see whose head is to be dashed against the stone."
"Aye shall," rejoined the Mudjee Monedo. "I am very old, but I shall try and make a run."
"Very well," again rejoined Monedowa; "I hope we shall both stand to our bargain."
"Good!" said the old manito. And at the same time he cast a sly glance at the young hunter and rolled his eyes toward where stood the pillar of stone.
"I am ready," said Monedowa.
The starting shout was given, and they set off at high speed, the manito leading and Monedowa pressing closely after. As he closed upon him, the old manito began to show his power, and changing himself into a fox he passed the young hunter with ease, then went leisurely along.
Monedowa now, with a glance upward, took the shape of the strange bird of red and deep-blue plumage, and with one flight, which took him some distance ahead of the manito, resumed his mortal shape.
The Mudjee Monedo espied his competitor before him. "Whoa! whoa!" he exclaimed; "this is strange," and he immediately changed himself into a wolf and sped past Monedowa.
As he galloped by, Monedowa heard a noise from his throat and knew that he was still in distress from the birch-bud which he had swallowed.
Monedowa again took wing, and shooting into the air, descended suddenly with great swiftness and took the path far ahead of the old manito.
As he passed the wolf he whispered in his ear:
"My friend, is this the extent of your speed?"
The manito began to be troubled with bad forebodings, for on looking ahead he saw the young hunter in his own manly form, running along at leisure. The Mudjee Monedo, seeing the necessity of more speed, now passed Monedowa in the shape of a deer.
They were now far around the circle of the lake and fast closing in upon the starting-post, when Monedowa, putting on his red and blue plumage, glided along the air and alighted upon the track far in advance.
To overtake him the old manito assumed the shape of the buffalo; and he pushed on with such long gallops that he was again the foremost on the course. The buffalo was the last change he could make, and it was in this form that he had most frequently conquered.
The young hunter, once more a bird, in the act of passing the manito, saw his tongue lolling from his mouth with fatigue.
"My friend," said Monedowa, "is this all your speed?"
The manito made no answer. Monedowa had resumed his character of a hunter and was within a run of the winning-post, when the wicked manito had nearly overtaken him.
"Bakah! bakah! nejee!" he called out to Monedowa. "Stop, my friend, I wish to talk to you."
Monedowa laughed aloud as he replied:
"I will speak to you at the starting-post. When men run with me I make a wager, and I expect them to abide by it—life against life."
One more flight as the blue and red bird, and Monedowa was so near to the goal that he could easily reach it in his mortal shape. Shining in beauty, his face lighted up like the sky, with tinted arms and bosom gleaming in the sun, and the parti-colored plume on his brow waving in the wind, Monedowa, cheered by a joyful shout from his own people, leaped to the post. The manito came on with fear in his face.
"My friend," he said, "spare my life"; and then added in a low voice, as if he would not that the others should hear it, "Let me live." And he began to move off as if the request had been granted.
"As you have done to others," replied Monedowa, "so shall it be done to you."
And seizing the wicked manito, he dashed him against the pillar of stone. His kindred, who were looking on in horror, raised a cry of fear and fled away in a body to some distant land, whence they have never returned.
The widow's family left the scene, and when they had all come out into the open fields, they walked on together until they had reached the fragrant bank and the evergreen wood where the daughter had first encountered her bird lover.
Monedowa, turning to her, said:
"My mother, here we must part. Your daughter and myself must now leave you. The Good Spirit, moved with pity, has allowed me to be your friend. I have done that for which I was sent. I am permitted to take with me the one whom I love. I have found your daughter ever kind, gentle and just. She shall be my companion. The blessing of the Good Spirit be ever with you. Farewell, my mother—my brother, farewell."
While the widow woman was still lost in wonder at these words, Monedowa and Minda his wife changed at the same moment and rose into the air as beautiful birds, clothed in shining colors of red and blue.
They caroled together as they flew, and their songs were happy, falling, falling, like clear drops, as the birds rose, and rose, and winged their way far upward. A delicious peace came into the mind of the poor widow woman, and she returned to her lodge deeply thankful at heart for all the goodness that had been shown to her by the Master of Life.
From that day forth she never knew want. Her young son proved a comfort to her lodge, and the tuneful carol of Monedowa and Minda, as it fell from heaven, was a music always sounding peace and joy in her ear, go whither she would.