The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Lost Giant and Other American Indian Tales Retold, by Violet Moore Higgins This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title:The Lost Giant and Other American Indian Tales Retold Story Time Tales Author: Violet Moore Higgins Release Date: May 16, 2021 [eBook #65355] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: Charlene Taylor, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST GIANT AND OTHER AMERICAN INDIAN TALES RETOLD *** “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” ASKED THE BRIDEGROOM THE LOST GIANT AND OTHER AMERICAN INDIAN TALES RETOLD STORIES AND PICTURES by Violet Moore Higgins Author of “The Endless Story”, “The Little Juggler”, etc. WHITMAN PUBLISHING CO. RACINE, WISCONSIN COPYRIGHTED, 1918 BY Whitman Publishing Co. CONTENTS The Lost Giant 11 The Feathered Bridegroom 27 Mandowmin of the Maize 41 Awahnee and the Giant 57 ILLUSTRATIONS “What Are You Doing?” Asked the Bridegroom (frontispiece in color) Decorative Title Page 1 He Swung the Child Aloft on His Shoulder 13 They Came Flying Out of the Bag (color) 16 The Family Sat Before Its Tent 28 She Bade Him Welcome to Her Lodge (color) 32 As Tall as a Man It Stood 42 The Next Day the Young Brave Appeared (color) 49 He Carried Water in a Gourd 55 To My Beloved Father who was always ready with an answer to those questions of childhood: “Did you ever see a ‘really-truly’ Indian?” and “Will you tell me about when you were a little boy?” V.M.H. INTRODUCTION MONG the Indians who used to roam over our Western prairies in such vast numbers, story telling was of the greatest importance. From the opening of spring, through the summer, and far into the fall, the men and older boys of the tribe were out each day hunting the deer in the hills and the buffalo on the plains or spearing fish in the streams. The women and girls meantime were occupied with their household duties about the tepees. But at last came the long winter months when game was scarce, and the old trails were covered with a blanket of snow. Then the Indians would retreat to the snug wigwams, and there await the coming of spring again. They had no books to read or newspapers and magazines with which to while away those long winter days, and life would have been dull indeed had it not been for their ability to tell stories to each other. They never lacked material out of which to build those tales. Each bird and beast, each herb and flower; in fact, every living thing that ran, or crawled, or flew about their native forests was known to the Indians. They studied the habits of the wild creatures to an extent that we might well follow. Then there were other forces that entered into their lives and stories. In the flash of lightning from a dark cloud, in the roll of thunder, in the rush of wind, or in the roar of waters tumbling over a cliff into the river below, they heard the voice of the Great Spirit, unseen but powerful. And so all their legends were woven around these things and were full of strange incidents that had happened to them on their hunting trips. Many included adventures that had been related by their fathers and grandfathers around the winter camp fires years and years before. Let us imagine that we, too, are curled up comfortably on a deer-skin in a chief’s tepee, close beside the glowing campfire, whose flames cast a ruddy light on the circle of dark faces all about it, especially on that of the chief who, pipe in hand, is just about to relate some of these old legends of the American Indians. V. M. H. [ix] [x] O The Lost Giant NCE upon a time, far back in the days when the elk, the moose, and the buffalo roamed over the hills and plains of North America, and little Indian children could call all the animals by name, there lived among one of the northern tribes a very unhappy little boy named Wasewahto. His mother had been a chieftain’s daughter, but she had died when the boy was a mere baby. His father had taken another wife, Wapiti—“the elk”—so called by reason of her large ugly head. Wasewahto’s father was dead now, too, and the little boy lived alone with his stepmother, who had no love for him and treated him very badly. He was too small to hunt and fish for his own food, and often Wapiti refused to share hers with him, giving him only a few bones to gnaw. One day she rolled up her belongings into a bundle and, without a word to Wasewahto, went away. Two days passed without a sign of her return. Then the little boy, hungry and frightened, sat down before his tent and cried bitterly. HE SWUNG THE CHILD ALOFT ON HIS SHOULDER As he sat there sobbing and crying he felt the earth quiver beneath him, and looking up, he saw through his tears, a giant Indian who towered up to the very tree tops. “Why are you crying?” asked the giant in a voice like distant thunder. “Because I am all alone,” answered Wasewahto. “My stepmother has been gone two days and I have no food.” “You are the stepson of Wapiti?” asked the giant. The little boy nodded, and the giant continued: “Then she will never come back—she has gone to another tribe. Come home with me.” And he swung the child aloft on his big broad shoulder. Away they went to the giant’s wigwam, and there Wasewahto lived happily for many moons. But one night the giant had a dream, in which the spirit of Wasewahto’s father appeared to him, and told him to return the boy to his stepmother. The dream was so vivid that it troubled him, and he began to break camp the next morning, and prepare for a march. But when Wasewahto heard what his friend proposed to do, he cried and cried, and clung to the giant, and begged him not to go, but the big man was still worried over his dream, and insisted upon going. “But I will not leave you unless I find a tribe which will be kind to you,” he said at last, as they were starting, and with that promise Wasewahto had to be satisfied. The giant swung the boy to his shoulder and set out. After four days’ travel they reached a strange camp, and here they found Wapiti. She was furiously angry when she saw the boy, but a fear of the giant kept her silent. When he had told her his dream, she too felt uneasy, and pretended to welcome Wasewahto. But when the giant left him with his stepmother, and prepared to leave, the child sobbed and cried so hard and pleaded so earnestly with his friend to stay and live near him, that the big man paused. IN ANOTHER INSTANT THEY CAME FLYING OUT OF THE BAG “I will stay if the tribe will have me,” he said at last, and no one dared refuse. When they had given their consent the giant said: “I will work for the tribe—I will hunt and fish and fight—but one thing you must promise me. Never give me otter’s flesh to eat or I will go away and never return.” So the tribe promised, and little Wasewahto was happy. The giant taught him to hunt and fish, so that never again would he have to starve if Wapiti should desert him. The little boy soon had many friends. He was so merry and bright, his aim with an arrow was so true and he was such a brave little warrior, that all the tribe loved him. All but Wapiti—she still hated the boy, and she hated the giant even more, for she felt that had it not been for him, she would long ago have been rid of the unwelcome child. In her heart she was always trying to make some plan whereby she might be freed from both of them. One day a hunter brought in a freshly killed deer for the giant, who was very fond of roast venison, and Wapiti at last had her chance. She prepared a splendid roast, but here and there among the deer meat she made a tiny slit with a sharp knife, and slid in pieces of otter flesh. The giant returned from fishing, with a ravenous appetite, and sat down to the meal with a relish. But the first bite revealed the trickery of Wapiti, and with a furious glare at her, the giant leaped to his feet, strode from the camp, and never was seen again by the tribe. Soon the warriors returned, and when they learned what had happened, Wapiti had no further chance to carry out her cruel plans against Wasewahto, for they drove her from the camp with stones and arrows, and said if ever she returned her life would be forfeited. Then they adopted her stepson as the child of the tribe. Poor little Wasewahto! Though he was among friends, he grieved continually for the loss of his dear giant, as did all the tribe, though not as bitterly. He could not be tempted with even the daintiest foods, and he did not care to play any more. The Indians made him splendid bows and arrows, and the medicine-man carved a rattle for him out of a buffalo bone, but nothing seemed to make him happy. As winter came on he grew thinner and paler and sadder every day, and shivered at the slightest breeze. [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] At last his friends could bear it no longer, and begged him to tell them what, next to having the giant back again, would make him happiest. He answered at once, “Take me where the summer is. If I could see flowers in the woods, and could shoot at the birds with my bow and arrows again, I believe I could be happy.” “Then we will hunt for the summer-land, oh little Wasewahto,” they cried, and set out the next day at sunrise. For many days they traveled toward the south, and at last, on the shores of a great lake, they came upon a strange tepee. It was that of a hostile tribe, however, and so Wasewahto’s friends hid themselves in the rushes by the water’s edge, and called on the beaver to help them. “What you seek is indeed here,” said the wise old animal, when they had told him their story, “And I will help you.” Accordingly he asked the moose to swim to the middle of the lake, and in the meantime he began gnawing busily at the canoe paddles of the hostile tribe, not enough to saw them off entirely, but merely to weaken them. Suddenly there was a shout from the tepee. Someone had seen the moose and all were eager to chase him. The enemies of Wasewahto and his friends ran to the shore, leaped into their canoes, and put out after the moose. When they were well out into the middle of the lake the beaver led Wasewahto and his friends into the tepee by a hidden tent flap, so that they might not be seen from the water side. From the very top of the highest tent pole there hung a great leather bag. As soon as he saw it, Wasewahto began to smile, a little at first, then more and more, and at last, laughing aloud, he caught up his little bow and arrows and aimed straight at the hanging pouch. As the dart pierced the leather, the wigwam was suddenly filled with the twittering of birds, and in another instant they came flying out of the bag and out of the tepee—thousands of them, robins, woodpeckers, swallows, orioles, jays, wrens, bluebirds, and many others. For summer had been tied up in the leather pouch, there to hang quietly until another year. The Indians on the lake had by this time discovered that there were intruders in their camp, and that summer, placed in their keeping, had been set free. Desperately they began to head for shore, but now under the strain all the paddles broke, and the Indians were left floating on the lake, screaming with helpless rage, while the moose swam away to cover. Now it began to be summer everywhere. The snow and ice melted away; the brook, which had been locked up under layers of ice, began to gurgle and laugh again; the green leaves came out on the trees, and even the flowers began to spring up in the woods. Wasewahto was perfectly happy. He grew plump and rosy, and he laughed with joy as he shot his arrows and threw the harpoon for fish. But the beaver and the moose came presently to think that perhaps they had meddled with things that were not their affair, and that if the Great Spirit had intended it to be summer all the time, he would not have tied it up in a bag part of the year. So they decided to correct their mistake; but when at last they had fixed upon a plan, they found they could not agree upon the length of time summer should be allowed out of its prison. So they called all the animals together and asked for their advice. Everyone had a different idea. Some advised a month, some ten, some eleven. At last up jumped an old frog, and holding out his webbed foot, with its four toes, so that all might see it, he croaked in his deep voice, “Have four—have four—have four—” over and over again, until he drowned out the voices of the others. His persistence so wearied them that at last they gave in to him and decided on four, as he wished. So now there are but four months of summer in the Northland, and little Wasewahto is perfectly happy during those days. Then he smiles all the time, as he works and plays. That is why the sunshine is so pleasant, and why the brooks seem to gurgle with joy in the summer time. But when the winter days come, and the cold rains of autumn fall, those are the tears of Wasewahto, sitting by the fire and weeping for his lost friend, the giant. [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [25] [26] The Feathered Bridegroom [27] THE FAMILY SAT BEFORE ITS TENT [28] L The Feathered Bridegroom ONG, long ago, before the coming of the white man to the shores of America, there lived, far up in the north country, near the banks of a broad river, a squaw named Speckled Eagle, with her little son Running Buffalo and her beautiful daughter Deerfoot, a maiden of fifteen. Speckled Eagle was the widow of a great warrior and she determined that her daughter should never marry until there came to woo her some mighty chieftain of a powerful tribe. Many a young brave came to the tepee, for Deerfoot was as good as she was lovely. Many a one would have wed her, but none were ever rich or noble enough to please Speckled Eagle. But one day as the family sat before its tent, weaving mats of sweet grass, a white canoe came gliding down the broad river, and in it there sat a handsome stranger. He was clad all in white, in garments made of deer-skin, sewed over with beads and shells and trimmed with ermine tails. Speckled Eagle looked at him eagerly. Ah, if only he were coming to woo Deerfoot! As she watched, the stranger gave a few skillful strokes of his paddle that sent his canoe out of the current and brought it gliding toward the shore before Speckled Eagle’s lodge. In another moment he was stepping out upon the pebbly shore. All a-flutter with excitement Speckled Eagle went hurrying down to meet him, not forgetting in her haste to snatch up a bundle of bark which hung in the tepee. When she had greeted the strange brave and bade him welcome to her lodge, she spread pieces of the bark before him on the ground from the landing to the tepee, to do him honor. When he had reached the campfire, she begged him to rest on a soft pile of skins while she and her daughter prepared a feast for him. Everyone in her camp was delighted with the handsome stranger—all but one old dog which growled and showed his teeth from the moment the unknown brave stepped ashore. The man trembled at the dog’s angry snarls, and said he could not eat a bit of the feast until that ugly animal was taken away. DEERFOOT GREETS THE STRANGER Anxious to please her noble guest, Speckled Eagle led the old dog out into the bushes and killed him, though she dared not tell Deerfoot what she had done, for the girl was fond of the faithful dog. Soon the stranger made it known that he was a chieftain from the far north, who had made a temporary camp down the river a few miles below Speckled Eagle’s tepee. Furthermore he said that he wished to wed the lovely Deerfoot. The girl was so charmed by his handsome face, his well-built figure and splendid carriage that she consented at once. Speckled Eagle was more than satisfied to have so fine a son-in-law. So a great wedding feast was held and Deerfoot married the strange brave that night. On the following morning when Speckled Eagle was ready to make a fire, she went out into the bushes to get some dry faggots. There lay the body of the old dog she had killed, pecked full of holes as if a great bird had feasted on it. The soft earth round about was marked by strange three-toed prints. A sudden fear came to Speckled Eagle’s heart. She hurried back to the camp, and asked all present to take off their moccasins or shoes. All did as she bade—all but the stranger. “I never take off my shoes,” he said haughtily, “It is a custom of my tribe.” “But see the beautiful moccasins I have made for you,” insisted Speckled Eagle. For many moons she had worked on them, intending them to be a wedding gift for her noble son-in-law, whenever he should appear. They were of the softest leather, heavily beaded and worked in quills of the porcupine, and the stranger’s eyes began to glisten as he looked at them. Like a flash he whipped off his own moccasins, and put on the new ones before Speckled Eagle could see his feet. But the little brother’s eyes were sharp. “Mother,” he cried in terror, “he has feet like a bird—he has only three toes.” At this the stranger grew angry and looked at the little boy so fiercely that he said no more, but Speckled Eagle was strangely troubled and felt that all was not right. When they had breakfasted the stranger ordered his bride to follow him to his camp, far down the river, where he had many beautiful gifts for her. Deerfoot did not want to go. The incident of the moccasins had frightened her, but her husband promised her they should return by sundown, so at last she climbed into the stern of his canoe, while the stranger took his place at the bow, and they paddled away down stream. Deerfoot looked back at the camp as long as she could see it, and watched Speckled Eagle and the little brother, Running Buffalo, waving to her from the shore. But at last a turn of the river hid them from view. For several hours Deerfoot and her husband went on down the river with the current, he paddling, she giving an occasional stroke, where the stream did not run as fast as usual. About noon-day it began to rain, a shower at first, then a downpour. As the rain continued to fall harder and harder, the bride suddenly noticed that the water was washing away her husband’s splendid white coat, and beneath it she could see black feathers and a long black tail. Then she knew what evil had befallen her. She had married a Crow, the bird of wickedness, whose tricky ways oft deceived the Indians. [29] [30] [31] [32] [33] [34] [35] [36] [37] Deerfoot was very much frightened, but she began to plan her escape at once. With her small deft hands she tied the long black tail to the crossbar of the canoe, using a leather thong from her moccasins. “What are you doing?” asked the Crow, as he felt her fingers among his feathers. “Smoothing down your beautiful coat, and sewing on some of the beads that have become loosened,” she replied. “Ah, I see you are industrious, as a good wife should be,” he answered with a sly grin, but without turning. All the long afternoon they floated down the river, and as it drew on toward sunset the canoe glided along into a rushy, reed-covered marsh where the wild ducks made their nests. As the canoe slipped among the grasses, dozens of frightened birds rose in great flocks and flew across the marshes. “These shores are full of duck eggs, husband,” said Deerfoot, as she watched the circling birds. Seized by a sudden idea she cried: “Let me land here for a moment, and I will soon find a dozen for your supper.” Now the Crow was hungry, and the prospect of a dozen roasted duck eggs pleased him immensely. “You are a good wife,” he said, “but make haste—we still have far to go,” and he ran the canoe close to the shore. Before the keel had even grated on the pebbles, like the swift-footed deer for whom she was named, the Indian maid had sprung ashore and darted up the bank into the forest. She was soon out of sight speeding like an arrow through the woods, back to her mother, her brother, and her home. The Crow gave a harsh cry, which resembled a caw, as he saw her go, and began screaming at the top of his voice: “Stop—stop—I’ll bring you back, and punish you for this.” But he could not free himself to follow her. Deerfoot had fastened his tail too securely to the crossbar for him to loosen it easily. It took him nearly an hour to untie the last knot, for it was no easy task to reach around behind his back, and, by the sense of touch alone, pick out countless knots tied in wet leather. By the time the Crow had untied all the thongs that held him. Deerfoot was far away in the forest, so he sunk his canoe, resumed his bird shape once more and flew off screeching as he went: “Again I have tricked my enemy—man.” [38] [39] [40]