Chapter I: FANCY that if almost any of us were asked, “When did people begin (2)

“Thank you, friend Coyote,” said the Woodpecker; “we will come with joy.”

So that evening, when the Coyote-mother had made supper ready, there came the Woodpecker-father and the Woodpecker-mother with their three children. When they had come in, all five of the Woodpeckers stretched themselves as they do after flying, and by that showed their pretty feathers--for the Hloo-rée-deh has yellow and red marks under its wings. While they were eating supper, too, they sometimes spread their wings, and displayed their bright under-side. They praised the supper highly, and said the Coyote-mother was a perfect housekeeper. When it was time to go, they thanked the Coyotes very kindly and invited them to come to supper at their house the following evening. But when they were gone, the Coyote-father could hold himself no longer, and he said:

“Did you see what airs those Woodpeckers put on? Always showing off their bright feathers? But I want them to know that the Coyotes are equal to them. _I’ll_ show them!”

Next day, the Coyote-father had all his family at work bringing wood, and built a great fire in front of his house. When it was time to go to the house of the Woodpeckers he called his wife and children to the fire, and lashed a burning stick under each of their arms, with the burning end pointing forward; and then he fixed himself in the same way.

“Now,” said he, “we will show them! When we get there, you must lift up your arms now and then, to show them that we are as good as the Woodpeckers.”

When they came to the house of the Woodpeckers and went in, all the Coyotes kept lifting their arms often, to show the bright coals underneath. But as they sat down to supper, one Coyote-girl gave a shriek and said:

“Oh, _tata_! My fire is burning me!”

“Be patient, my daughter,” said the Coyote-father, severely, “and do not cry about little things.”

“Ow!” cried the other Coyote-girl in a moment, “my fire has gone out!”

This was more than the Coyote-father could stand, and he reproved her angrily.

“But how is it, friend Coyote,” said the Woodpecker, politely, “that your colors are so bright at first, but very soon become black?”

“Oh, that is the beauty of our colors,” replied the Coyote, smothering his rage; “that they are not always the same--like other people’s--but turn all shades.”

But the Coyotes were very uncomfortable, and made an excuse to hurry home as soon as they could. When they got there, the Coyote-father whipped them all for exposing him to be laughed at. But the Woodpecker-father gathered his children around him, and said:

“Now, my children, you see what the Coyotes have done. Never in your life try to appear what you are not. Be just what you really are, and put on no false colors.”

* * * * *

“Is that so?” cried the boys.

“That is so; and it is as true for people as for birds. Now, _tóo-kwai_--for it is bedtime.”

VIII

THE MAN WHO MARRIED THE MOON

AMONG the principal heroes of the Tée-wahn folk-lore, I hear of none more frequently in the winter story-tellings to which my aboriginal neighbors admit me, than the mighty Nah-chu-rú-chu. To this day his name, which means “The Bluish Light of Dawn,” is deeply revered by the quaint people who claim him as one of their forefathers. He had no parents, for he was created by the Trues themselves, and by them was given such extraordinary powers as were second only to their own. His wonderful feats and startling adventures--as still related by the believing Isleteños--would fill a volume. One of these fanciful myths has interested me particularly, not only for its important bearing on certain ethnological matters, but for its intrinsic qualities as well. It is a thoroughly characteristic leaf from the legendary lore of the Southwest.

Long before the first Spaniards came to New Mexico (and _that_ was three hundred and fifty years ago) Isleta stood where it stands to-day--on a lava ridge that defies the gnawing current of the Rio Grande.[31] In those far days, Nah-chu-rú-chu dwelt in Isleta, and was a leader of his people. A weaver by trade,[32] his rude loom hung from the dark rafters of his room; and in it he wove the strong black _mantas_ which are the dress of Pueblo women to this day.

[31] Bandelier has published a contrary opinion, to which I do
not think he would now cling. The folk-lore and the very name
of the town fully prove to me that its site has not changed in
historic times.

[32] In the ancient days, weaving was practised only by the
men, among the Pueblos. This old usage is now reversed, and it
is the women who weave, except in the pueblos of Moqui.

Besides being very wise in medicine, Nah-chu-rú-chu was young, and tall, and strong, and handsome; and all the girls of the village thought it a shame that he did not care to take a wife. For him the shyest dimples played, for him the whitest teeth flashed out, as the owners passed him in the plaza; but he had no eyes for them. Then, in the naïve custom of the Tée-wahn, bashful fingers worked wondrous fringed shirts of buckskin, or gay awl-sheaths, which found their way to his house by unknown messengers--each as much as to say, “She who made this is yours, if you will have her.” But Nah-chu-rú-chu paid no more attention to the gifts than to the smiles, and just kept weaving and weaving such _mantas_ as were never seen in the land of the Tée-wahn before or since.

The most persistent of his admirers were two sisters who were called _Ee-eh-chóo-ri-ch’áhm-nin_--the Yellow-Corn-Maidens. They were both young and pretty, but they “had the evil road”--which is the Indian way of saying that they were possessed of a magic power which they always used for ill. When all the other girls gave up, discouraged at Nah-chu-rú-chu’s indifference, the Yellow-Corn-Maidens kept coming day after day, trying to attract him. At last the matter became such a nuisance to Nah-chu-rú-chu that he hired the deep-voiced town-crier to go through all the streets and announce that in four days Nah-chu-rú-chu would choose a wife.

For dippers, to take water from the big earthen _tinajas_, the Tée-wahn used then, as they use to-day, queer little ladle-shaped _omates_ made of a gourd; but Nah-chu-rú-chu, being a great medicine-man and very rich, had a dipper of pure pearl, shaped like the gourds, but wonderfully precious.

“On the fourth day,” proclaimed the crier, “Nah-chu-rú-chu will hang his pearl _omate_ at his door, where every girl who will may throw a handful of corn-meal at it. And she whose meal is so well ground that it sticks to the _omate_, she shall be the wife of Nah-chu-rú-chu!”

When this strange news came rolling down the still evening air, there was a great scampering of little moccasined feet. The girls ran out from hundreds of gray adobe houses to catch every word; and when the crier had passed on, they ran back into the store-rooms and began to ransack the corn-bins for the biggest, evenest, and most perfect ears. Shelling the choicest, each took her few handfuls of kernels to the sloping _metate_,[33] and with the _mano_, or hand-stone, scrubbed the grist up and down, and up and down, till the hard corn was a soft, blue meal. All the next day, and the next, and the next, they ground it over and over again, until it grew finer than ever flour was before; and every girl felt sure that her meal would stick to the _omate_ of the handsome young weaver. The Yellow-Corn-Maidens worked hardest of all; day and night for four days they ground and ground, with all the magic spells they knew.

[33] The slab of lava which still serves as a hand-mill in
Pueblo houses.

Now, in those far-off days the Moon had not gone up into the sky to live, but was a maiden of Shee-eh-whíb-bak. And a very beautiful girl she was, though blind of one eye. She had long admired Nah-chu-rú-chu, but was always too maidenly to try to attract his attention as other girls had done; and at the time when the crier made his proclamation, she happened to be away at her father’s ranch. It was only upon the fourth day that she returned to town, and in a few moments the girls were to go with their meal to test it upon the magic dipper. The two Yellow-Corn-Maidens were just coming from their house as she passed, and told her of what was to be done. They were very confident of success, and told the Moon-girl only to pain her; and laughed derisively as she went running to her home.

By this time a long file of girls was coming to Nah-chu-rú-chu’s house, outside whose door hung the pearl _omate_. Each girl carried in her left hand a little jar of meal; and as they passed the door one by one, each took from the jar a handful and threw it against the magic dipper. But each time the meal dropped to the ground, and left the pure pearl undimmed and radiant as ever.

At last came the Yellow-Corn-Maidens, who had waited to watch the failure of the others. As they came where they could see Nah-chu-rú-chu sitting at his loom, they called: “Ah! Here we have the meal that will stick!” and each threw a handful at the _omate_. But it did not stick at all; and still from his seat Nah-chu-rú-chu could see, in that mirror-like surface, all that went on outside.

The Yellow-Corn-Maidens were very angry, and instead of passing on as the others had done, they stood there and kept throwing and throwing at the _omate_, which smiled back at them with undiminished luster.

Just then, last of all, came the Moon, with a single handful of meal which she had hastily ground. The two sisters were in a fine rage by this time, and mocked her, saying:

“Hoh! _P’áh-hlee-oh_,[34] you poor thing, we are very sorry for you! Here we have been grinding our meal four days and still it will not stick, and you we did not tell till to-day. How, then, can you ever hope to win Nah-chu-rú-chu? Pooh, you silly little thing!”

[34] Tée-wahn name of the moon; literally, “Water-Maiden.”

But the Moon paid no attention whatever to their taunts. Drawing back her little dimpled hand, she threw the meal gently against the pearl _omate_, and so fine was it ground that every tiniest bit of it clung to the polished shell, and not a particle fell to the ground.

When Nah-chu-rú-chu saw that, he rose up quickly from his loom and came and took the Moon by the hand, saying, “You are she who shall be my wife. You shall never want for anything, since I have very much.” And he gave her many beautiful _mantas_, and cotton wraps, and fat boots of buckskin that wrap round and round, that she might dress as the wife of a rich chief. But the Yellow-Corn-Maidens, who had seen it all, went away vowing vengeance on the Moon.

Nah-chu-rú-chu and his sweet Moon-wife were very happy together. There was no other such housekeeper in all the pueblo as she, and no other hunter brought home so much buffalo-meat from the vast plains to the east, nor so many antelopes, and black-tailed deer, and jack-rabbits from the Manzanos as did Nah-chu-rú-chu. But he constantly was saying to her:

“Moon-wife, beware of the Yellow-Corn-Maidens, for they have the evil road and will try to do you harm, but you must always refuse to do whatever they propose.” And always the young wife promised.

One day the Yellow-Corn-Maidens came to the house and said:

“Friend Nah-chu-rú-chu, we are going to the _llano_[35] to gather _amole_.[36] Will you not let your wife go with us?”

[35] Plain.

[36] The soapy root of the palmilla, used for washing.

“Oh, yes, she may go,” said Nah-chu-rú-chu; but taking her aside, he said, “Now be sure that you refuse whatever they may propose.”

The Moon promised, and started away with the Yellow-Corn-Maidens.

In those days there was only a thick forest of cottonwoods where are now the smiling vineyards, and gardens, and orchards of Isleta, and to reach the _llano_ the three women had to go through this forest. In the very center of it they came to a deep _pozo_--a square well, with steps at one side leading down to the water’s edge.

“Ay!” said the Yellow-Corn-Maidens, “how hot and thirsty is our walk! Come, let us get a drink of water.”

But the Moon, remembering her husband’s words, said politely that she did not wish to drink. They urged in vain, but at last, looking down into the _pozo_, called:

“Oh, Moon-friend! Come and look in this still water, and see how pretty you are!”

The Moon, you must know, has always been just as fond of looking at herself in the water as she is to this very day, and forgetting Nah-chu-rú-chu’s warning, she came to the brink, and looked down upon her fair reflection. But at that very moment, the two witch-sisters pushed her head foremost into the _pozo_, and drowned her; and then filled the well with earth, and went away as happy as wicked hearts can be.

* * * * *

Nah-chu-rú-chu began to look oftener from his loom to the door as the sun crept along the adobe floor, closer and closer to his seat; and when the shadows were very long, he sprang suddenly to his feet, and walked to the house of the Yellow-Corn-Maidens with long, strong strides.

“_Ee-eh-chóo-ri-ch’áhm-nin_,” he said, very sternly, “where is my little wife?”

“Why, isn’t she at home?” asked the wicked sisters as if in great surprise. “She got enough _amole_ long before we did, and started home with it. We supposed she had come long ago.”

“Ah,” groaned Nah-chu-rú-chu within himself; “it is as I thought--they have done her ill.” But without a word to them he turned on his heel and went away.

From that hour all went ill with Isleta, for Nah-chu-rú-chu held the well-being of all his people, even unto life and death. Paying no attention to what was going on about him, he sat motionless upon the very crosspiece of the _estufa_ ladder--the highest point in all the town--with his head bowed upon his hands. There he sat for days, never speaking, never moving. The children that played along the streets looked up to the motionless figure, and ceased their boisterous play. The old men shook their heads gravely, and muttered: “We are in evil times, for Nah-chu-rú-chu is mourning, and will not be comforted. And there is no more rain, so that our crops are drying in the fields. What shall we do?”

At last all the councilors met together, and decided that there must be another effort made to find the lost wife. It was true that the great Nah-chu-rú-chu had searched for her in vain, and the people had helped him; but perhaps some one else might be more fortunate. So they took some of the sacred smoking-weed wrapped in a corn-husk and went to Shée-wid-deh, who has the sharpest eyes in all the world. Giving him the sacred gift they said:

“Eagle-friend, we see Nah-chu-rú-chu in great trouble, for he has lost his Moon-wife. Come, search for her, we pray you, if she be alive or dead.”

So the Eagle took the offering, and smoked the smoke-prayer; and then he went winging upward into the very sky. Higher and higher he rose, in great upward circles, while his keen eyes noted every stick, and stone, and animal on the face of all the world. But with all his eyes, he could see nothing of the lost wife; and at last he came back sadly, and said:

“People-friends, I went up to where I could see the whole world, but I could not find her.”

Then the people went with an offering to the Coyote, whose nose is sharpest in all the world; and besought him to try to find the Moon. The Coyote smoked the smoke-prayer, and started off with his nose to the ground, trying to find her tracks. He trotted all over the earth; but at last he too came back without finding what he sought.

Then the troubled people got the Badger to search, for he is best of all the beasts at digging--and he it was whom the Trues employed to dig the caves in which the people first dwelt when they came to this world. The Badger trotted and pawed, and dug everywhere, but he could not find the Moon; and he came home very sad.

Then they asked the Osprey, who can see farthest under water, and he sailed high above all the lakes and rivers in the world, till he could count the pebbles and the fish in them, but he too failed to discover the lost Moon.

By now the crops were dead and sere in the fields, and thirsty animals walked crying along the dry river. Scarcely could the people themselves dig deep enough to find so much water as would keep them alive. They were at a loss which way to turn; but at last they thought: We will go to P’ah-kú-ee-teh-áy-deh,[37] who can find the dead--for surely she is dead, or the others would have found her.

[37] Turkey-buzzard; literally, “water-goose-grandfather.”

So they went to him and besought him. The Turkey-buzzard wept when he saw Nah-chu-rú-chu still sitting there upon the ladder, and said: “Truly it is sad for our great friend; but for me, I am afraid to go, since they who are more mighty than I have already failed; but I will try.” And spreading his broad wings he went climbing up the spiral ladder of the sky. Higher he wheeled, and higher, till at last not even the Eagle could see him. Up and up, till the hot sun began to singe his head, and not even the Eagle had ever been so high. He cried with pain, but still he kept mounting--until he was so close to the sun that all the feathers were burned from his head and neck. But he could see nothing; and at last, frantic with the burning, he came wheeling downward. When he got back to the _estufa_ where all the people were waiting, they saw that his head and neck had been burnt bare of feathers--and from that day to this the feathers would never grow out again.

“And did you see nothing?” they all asked, when they had bathed his burns.

“Nothing,” he answered, “except that when I was half-way down I saw in the middle of yon cottonwood forest a little mound covered with all the beautiful flowers in the world.”

“Oh!” cried Nah-chu-rú-chu, speaking for the first time. “Go, friend, and bring me one flower from the very middle of that mound.”

Off flew the Buzzard, and in a few minutes returned with a little white flower. Nah-chu-rú-chu took it, and descending from the ladder in silence, walked to his house, while all the wondering people followed.

When Nah-chu-rú-chu came inside his home once more, he took a new _manta_ and spread it in the middle of the room; and laying the wee white flower tenderly in its center, he put another new _manta_ above it. Then, dressing himself in the splendid buckskin suit the lost wife had made him, and taking in his right hand the sacred _guaje_ (rattle), he seated himself at the head of the _mantas_ and sang:

“_Shú-nah, shú-nah!
Aí-ay-ay, aí-ay-ay, aí-ay-ay!_”

(Seeking her, seeking her!
There-away, there-away!)

When he had finished the song, all could see that the flower had begun to grow, so that it lifted the upper _manta_ a little. Again he sang, shaking his gourd; and still the flower kept growing. Again and again he sang; and when he had finished for the fourth time, it was plain to all that a human form lay between the two _mantas_. And when he sang his song the fifth time, the form sat up and moved. Tenderly he lifted away the over-cloth, and there sat his sweet Moon-wife, fairer than ever, and alive as before![38]

[38] Nah-chu-rú-chu’s incantation followed the exact form
still used by the Indian conjurors of the Southwest in their
wonderful trick of making corn grow and mature from the kernel
in one day.

For four days the people danced and sang in the public square. Nah-chu-rú-chu was happy again; and now the rain began to fall. The choked earth drank and was glad and green, and the dead crops came to life.

When his wife told him how the witch-sisters had done, he was very angry; and that very day he made a beautiful hoop to play the _mah-khúr_. He painted it, and put strings across it, decorated with beaded buckskin.

“Now,” said he, “the wicked Yellow-Corn-Maidens will come to congratulate you, and will pretend not to know where you were. You must not speak of that, but invite them to go out and play a game with you.”

In a day or two the witch-sisters did come, with deceitful words; and the Moon invited them to go out and play a game. They went up to the edge of the _llano_, and there she let them get a glimpse of the pretty hoop.

“Oh, give us that, Moon-friend,” they teased. But she refused. At last, however, she said:

“Well, we will play the hoop-game. I will stand here, and you there; and if, when I roll it to you, you catch it before it falls upon its side, you may have it.”

So the witch-sisters stood a little way down the hill, and she rolled the bright hoop. As it came trundling to them, both grasped it at the same instant; and lo! instead of the Yellow-Corn-Maidens, there were two great snakes, with tears rolling down ugly faces. The Moon came and put upon their heads a little of the pollen of the corn-blossom (still used by Pueblo snake-charmers) to tame them, and a pinch of the sacred meal for their food.

“Now,” said she, “you have the reward of treacherous friends. Here shall be your home among these rocks and cliffs forever, but you must never be found upon the prairie; and you must never bite a person. Remember you are women, and must be gentle.”

And then the Moon went home to her husband, and they were very happy together. As for the sister snakes, they still dwell where she bade them, and never venture away; though sometimes the people bring them to their houses to catch the mice, for these snakes never hurt a person.

IX

THE MOTHER MOON

AND do you know why it is that the Moon has but one eye? It is a short story, but one of the most poetic and beautiful in all the pretty folk-lore of the Pueblos.

P’áh-hlee-oh, the Moon-Maiden, was the Tée-wahn Eve[39]--the first and loveliest woman in all the world. She had neither father nor mother, sister nor brother; and in her fair form were the seeds of all humanity--of all life and love and goodness. The Trues, who are the unseen spirits that are above all, made T’hoor-íd-deh, the Sun, who was to be father of all things; and because he was alone, they made for him a companion, the first to be of maids, the first to be a wife. From them began the world and all that is in it; and all their children were strong and good. Very happy were the Father-all and the Mother-all, as they watched their happy brood. He guarded them by day and she by night--only there _was_ no night, for then the Moon had two eyes, and saw as clearly as the Sun, and with glance as bright. It was all as one long day of golden light. The birds flew always, the flowers never shut, the young people danced and sang, and none knew how to rest.

[39] She is honored in almost every detail of the Pueblo
ceremonials. The most important charm or implement of the
medicine-men, the holiest fetish of all, is typical of her. It
is called Mah-pah-róo, the Mother, and is the most beautiful
article a Pueblo ever fashioned. A flawless ear of pure white
corn (a type of fertility or motherhood) is tricked out with a
downy mass of snow-white feathers, and hung with ornaments of
silver, coral, and the precious turquoise.

But at last the Trues thought better. For the endless light grew heavy to the world’s young eyes that knew no tender lids of night. And the Trues said:

“It is not well, for so there is no sleep, and the world is very tired. We must not keep the Sun and Moon seeing alike. Let us put out one of his eyes, that there may be darkness for half the time, and then his children can rest.” And they called T’hoor-íd-deh and P’áh-hlee-oh before them to say what must be done.

But when she heard that, the Moon-Mother wept for her strong and handsome husband, and cried:

“No! No! Take my eyes, for my children, but do not blind the Sun! He is the father, the provider--and how shall he watch against harm, or how find us game without his bright eyes? Blind me, and keep him all-seeing.”

And the Trues said: “It is well, daughter.” And so they took away one of her eyes, so that she could never see again so well. Then night came upon the tired earth, and the flowers and birds and people slept their first sleep, and it was very good. But she who first had the love of children, and paid for them with pain as mother’s pay, she did not grow ugly by her sacrifice. Nay, she is lovelier than ever, and we all love her to this day. For the Trues are good to her, and gave her in place of the bloom of girlhood the beauty that is only in the faces of mothers.

So mother-pale above us
She bends, her watch to keep,
Who of her sight dear-bought the night
To give her children sleep.

X

THE MAKER OF THE THUNDER-KNIVES

YOU have perhaps seen the beautiful arrow-heads of moss-agate, petrified wood, or volcanic glass which were used, until very recently, by the Indians of the Southwest, and are still treasured by them. At least you are familiar with the commoner flint ones left by the aboriginal tribes farther eastward. And seeing them, you must have wondered how they were ever made from such fearfully stubborn stone--always the very hardest that was accessible to the maker. I have tried for six hours, with the finest drills, to make a little hole in the thinnest part of an agate arrow-head, to put it on a charm-ring; but when the drill and I were completely worn out, there was not so much as a mark on the arrow-head to show what we had been doing. If you will take one to your jeweler, he will have as poor luck.

But the _making_ of the arrow-heads is really a very simple matter; and I have fashioned many very fair ones. The only implements are part of a peculiarly shaped bone--preferably from the thigh of the elk--and a stick about the size of a lead-pencil, but of double the diameter. The maker of _puntas_ takes the bone in his left hand; in his right is the stick, against which the selected splinter of stone is firmly pressed by the thumb. With a firm, steady pressure against the sharp edge of the bone, a tiny flake is nicked from the splinter. Then the splinter is turned, and a nick is similarly made on the other side, just a little ahead of the first; and so on. It is by this alternate nicking from opposite sides that the stone-splinter grows less by tiny flakes, and is shaped by degrees to a perfect arrow-head. If you will notice the edge of an arrow-head, you will see plainly that the work was done in this way, for the edge is not a straight but a wavy line--sometimes even a zigzag, recalling the manner in which saw-teeth are “set.”

Every Indian, and every one who has studied the Indian, knows this. But if I ask one of my brown old _compadres_ here, where he got the arrow-head which he wears as a charm about his wrinkled neck, he will not tell me any such story as that. No, indeed!

Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh, the Horned Toad, gave it to him. So? Oh, yes! He talked so nicely to a Horned Toad on the mesa[40] the other day, that the little creature put a _punta_ where he could find it the next time he went thither.

[40] Table-land.

Whenever a Pueblo sees a Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh, he jumps from his horse or his big farm-wagon, and makes every effort to capture the _animalito_ before it can reach a hole. If successful, he pulls from his blanket or his legging-garters a red thread--no other color will do--and ties it necklace-fashion around the neck of his little prisoner. Then he invokes all sorts of blessings on the Horned Toad, assures it of his sincere respect and friendship, begs it to remember him with a _punta_, and lets it go. Next time he goes to the mesa, he fully expects to find an arrow-head, and generally _does_ find one--doubtless because he then searches more carefully on that broad reach where so many arrow-heads have been lost in ancient wars and hunts. Finding one, he prays to the Sun-Father and the Moon-Mother and all his other deities, and returns profound thanks to the Horned Toad. Some finders put the arrow-head in the pouch which serves Indians for a pocket.[41] Some wear it as an amulet on the necklace. In either case, the belief is that no evil spirit can approach the wearer while he has that charm about him. In fact, it is a sovereign spell against witches.

[41] The “left-hand-bag,” _shur-taí-moo_, because it always
hangs from the right shoulder and under the left arm.

The common belief of the Pueblos is that the Horned Toad makes these arrow-heads only during a storm, and deposits them at the very instant when it thunders. For this reason an arrow-head is always called _Kóh-un-shée-eh_, or thunder-knife. The strange appearance of this quaint, spiked lizard--which is really not a “hop-toad” at all--doubtless suggested the notion; for his whole back is covered with peculiar points which have very much the shape and color of Indian arrow-heads.

Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh is a very important personage in the Pueblo folk-lore. He not only is the inventor and patentee of the arrow-head and the scalping-knife,[42] but he also invented irrigation, and taught it to man; and is a general benefactor of our race.

[42] Which were formerly about the same thing--a large and
sharp-edged arrow-head or similar stone being the only knife of
the Pueblos in prehistoric times.

There is one very sacred folk-story which tells why boys must never smoke until they have proved their manhood. Pueblo etiquette is very strict on all such points.[43]

[43] See my “Strange Corners of Our Country” (The Century Co.),
chap. xviii.

Once upon a time there lived in Isleta two boys who were cousins. One day their grandfather, who was a True Believer (in all the ancient rites), caught them in a corner smoking the _weer_. Greatly shocked, he said to them:

“Sons, I see you want to be men; but you must prove yourselves before you are thought to be. Know, then, that nobody is born with the freedom of the smoke, but every one must earn it. So go now, each of you, and bring me Quée-hla-kú-ee, the skin of the oak.”

Now, in the talk of men, Quée-hla-kú-ee is another thing; but the boys did not know. They got their mothers to give them some tortillas,[44] and with this lunch they started for the Bosque (a 10,000-foot peak twenty miles east of Isleta). Reaching the mountain, they went to every kind of tree and cut a little piece of its bark--for they were not sure which was the oak. Then they came home, very tired, and carried the bark to their grandfather. But when he had looked at it all he said:

[44] A cake of unleavened batter cooked on a hot stone. They
look something like a huge flapjack, but are very tough and
keep a long time.

“Young men, you have not yet proved yourselves. So now it is for you to go again and look for the _oak_-bark.”

At this their hearts were heavy, but they took tortillas and started again. On the way they met an old Horned Toad, who stopped them and said:

“Young-men-friends, I know what trouble you are in. Your _tata_ has sent you for the skin of the oak, but you do not know the oak he means. But I will be the one to help you. Take these,” and he gave them two large thunder-knives, “and with these in hand go up that cañon yonder. In a little way you will see a great many of your enemies, the Navajos, camping. On the first hill from which you see their fire, there stop. In time, while you wait there, you will hear a Coyote howling across the cañon. Then is the time to give your enemy-yell [war-whoop] and attack them.”

The boys thanked the Horned Toad and went. Presently they saw the camp-fire of the Navajos, and waiting till the Coyote called they gave the enemy-yell and then attacked. They had no weapons except their thunder-knives, but with these they killed several Navajos, and the others ran away. In the dark and their hurry they made a mistake and scalped a woman (which was never customary with the Pueblos).

Taking their scalps, they hurried home to their grandfather, and when he saw that they had brought the real oak-skin (which is an Indian euphemy for “scalp”), he led them proudly to the Cacique, and the Cacique ordered the T’u-a-fú-ar (scalp-dance). After the inside days, when the takers of scalps must stay in the _estufa_, was the dance. And when it came to the round dance at night the two boys were dancing side by side.

Then a young woman who was a stranger came and pushed them apart and danced between them. She was very handsome, and both fell in love with her. But as soon as their hearts thought of love, a skeleton was between them in place of the girl--for they who go to war or take a scalp have no right to think of love.

They were very frightened, but kept dancing until they were too tired, and then went to the singers inside the circle to escape. But the skeleton followed them and stood beside them, and they could not hide from it.

At last they began to run away, and went to the east. Many moons they kept running, but the skeleton was always at their heels. At last they came to the Sunrise Lake, wherein dwell the Trues of the East.

The guards let them in, and they told the Trues all that had happened, and the skeleton stood beside them. The Trues said: “Young men, if you are men, sit down and we will protect you.”

But when the boys looked again at the skeleton they could not stop, but ran away again. Many moons they ran north till they came to where the Trues of the North dwell in the Black Lake of Tears.

The Trues of the North promised to defend them, but again the skeleton came and scared them away; and they ran for many moons until they came to the Trues of the West, who dwell in T’hoor-kím-p’ah-whée-ay, the Yellow Lake Where the Sun Sets. And there the same things happened; and they ran away again to the south, till they found the Trues of the South in P’ah-chéer-p’ah-whée-ay, the Lake of Smooth Pebbles.

But there again it was the same, and again they ran many moons till they came to the Trues of the Center, who live here in Isleta. And here the skeleton said to them:

“Why do you run from me now? For when you were dancing you looked at me and loved me, but now you run away.”

But they could not answer her, and ran into the room of the Trues of the Center, and told their story. Then the Trues gave power to the Cum-pa-huit-la-wid-deh[45] to see the skeleton,--which no one else in the world could see, except the Trues and the two young men,--and said to him:

[45] Guard at the door of the gods.

“Shoot this person who follows these two.”

So the Cum-pa-huit-la-wid-deh shot the skeleton through with an arrow from the left side to the right side,[46] and took the scalp.

[46] The only official method of killing a witch, which is one
of the chief duties of the Cum-pa-huit-la-wen.

That was the end of the skeleton, and the young men were free. And when the Trues had given them counsel, they came to their people, and told the Cacique all. He made a new scalp-dance, because they had not stayed to finish the first one.

And when the dance was done, they told all the people what had happened. Then the principals had a meeting and made a rule which is to this day, that in the twelve days of the scalp[47] no warrior shall think thoughts of love.

[47] The period of fasting and purification before and during
the scalp-dance.

For it was because they had love-thoughts of the Navajo girl that her skeleton haunted them. And at the same time it was made the law, which still is, that no one shall smoke till he has taken a scalp to prove himself a man.

For if the boys had not been smoking when they had not freedom to, their grandfather would not have sent them, and all that trouble would not have come. And that is why.

XI

THE STONE-MOVING SONG

THE Horned Toad is also a famous musician--a sort of Pueblo Orpheus, whose song charms the very stones and trees. A short folk-story of Isleta refers to this.

One day Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh was working in his field. There were many very large rocks, and to move them he sang a strong song as he pulled:

_Yah éh-ah, héh-ah háy-na,
Yah, éh-ah, heh-ah hay-na,
Wha-naí-kee-ay hee-e-wid-deh
Ah-kwe-ée-hee ai-yén-cheh,
Yahb-k’yáy-queer ah-chóo-hee._

When he sang this and touched the heaviest stone, it rose up from the ground, and went over his head and fell far behind him.

While he worked so, Too-wháy-deh came along; and seeing what happened, he wished to meddle, as his way is. So he said:

“Friend Quáh-le-kee-raí-deh, let _me_ do it.”

“No, friend,” said the Horned Toad. “It is better for every one to do what he knows, and not to put himself in the work of others.”

“Do not think so,” answered the Coyote. “For I can do this also. It is very easy.”

“It is well, then--but see that you are not afraid; for so it will be bad.”

Too-wháy-deh laid off his blanket and took hold of the largest rock there was, and sang the song. When he sang, the rock rose up in the air to go over his head; but he, being scared, ducked his head. Then at once the rock fell on him, and he had no bones left. Then the Horned Toad laughed, and gave the enemy-yell (war-whoop), saying: “We do this to one another!”

XII

THE COYOTE AND THE THUNDER-KNIFE

ANOTHER Isleta myth tells of an equally sad misadventure of the Coyote.

Once upon a time an old Coyote-father took a walk away from home; for in that season of the year his babies were so peevish they would not let him sleep. It happened that a Locust was making pottery, under a tree; and every time she moved the molding-spoon around the soft clay jar, she sang a song. The Coyote, coming near and hearing, thought: “Now that is the very song I need to put my _óo-un_ to sleep.” And following the sound he came to the tree, and found Cheech-wée-deh at work. But she had stopped singing.

“Locust-friend,” said he, “come teach me that song, so that I can soothe my children to sleep.” But the Locust did not move to answer; and he repeated:

“Locust-friend, come teach me that song.”

Still she did not answer, and the Coyote, losing his patience, said:

“Locust, if you don’t teach me that song, I will eat you up!”

At that, the Locust showed him the song, and he sang with her until he knew how.

“Now I know it, thank you,” he said. “So I will go home and sing it to my children, and they will sleep.”

So he went. But as he came to a pool, half-way home, a flock of Afraids-of-the-Water[48] flew up at his very nose, and drove out his memory. He went looking around, turning over the stones and peeping in the grass; but he could not find the song anywhere. So he started back at last to get the Locust to teach him again.

[48] The ironical Tée-wahn name for ducks.

But while he was yet far, the Locust saw him, so she shed her skin, leaving a dry husk, as snakes do, and filled it with sand. Then she made it to sit up, and put the molding-spoon in its hands, and the clay jars in front of it; and she herself flew up into the tree.

Coming, the Coyote said: “Friend Locust, show that song again; for I got scared, and the song was driven out of me.” But there was no answer.

“Hear, Locust! I will ask just once more; and if you do not show me the song, I’ll swallow you!”

Still she did not reply; and the Coyote, being angry, swallowed the stuffed skin, sand, spoon, and all, and started homeward, saying: “_Now_ I think I have that song in me!”

But when he was half-way home he stopped and struck himself, and said: “What a fool, truly! For now I am going home without a song. But if I had left the Locust alive, and bothered her long enough, she would have shown me. I think now I will take her out, to see if she will not sing for me.”

So he ran all around, hunting for a black thunder-knife,[49] and singing:

[49] One of obsidian, or volcanic glass.

Where can I find Shée-eh-fóon?
Where can I find Shée-eh-fóon?

At last he found a large piece of the black-rock, and broke it until he got a knife. He made a mark on his breast with his finger, saying: “Here I will cut, and take her out.”

Then he cut. “Mercy!” said he, “but it bites!” He cut again, harder. “Goodness! but how it bites!” he cried, very loud. And cutting a third time, he fell down and died. So he did not learn the song of the pottery-making.

* * * * *

The Quères Pueblos have exactly the same folk-story, except that they make the Horned Toad, instead of the Locust, the music-teacher. In their version, the Horned Toad, after being swallowed, kills the Coyote by lifting its spines. Remembering what I have said of the maker of the thunder-knives, you will readily see the analogy between this and the obsidian splinter of the Tée-wahn story. It is, indeed, one of the most characteristic and instructive examples of the manner in which a folk-story becomes changed.

XIII

THE MAGIC HIDE-AND-SEEK