pueblo?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will adopt them?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will bring out the feast?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will be the priest of initiation?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will be the song-master?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will be the dancers?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will draw the arrows and sacrifice them?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will strive for the sacrificed arrows?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will lead the dance of victory?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will be the dancers?”
“Why, I will.”
“Who will go to get the women to join the dance?”
“Why, I will.”
“What women will dance?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will take them to preside at the feast of their relatives-in-law?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will be their relatives-in-law?”
“Why, you will.”
“Who will be the priests of their Father Society?”
“Why, I will.”
And they might have talked that way till sunset had not the voices of the two boys, singing the song of victory, been heard coming over the hill. There they were, coming with two great strings of scalps as big as a bunch of buckskins.
“Oh! poor me! How shall I swing all those scalps round the pueblo?” groaned the poor old woman as she limped off to dress for the ceremony.
“Why, swing them,” answered the old Turtle, as he stretched himself up with the importance of being master of ceremonies.
So the boys brought the scalps up and the old Turtle strung them thickly on a long pole.
So day after day they danced and sang, to add strands to the width of the boys’ badges. And the old Turtle was master-priest of ceremonies and people, low priest, song-master, and dancers; sacrificer of arrows and striver after the arrows. He would beat the drum and sing a little, then run and dance out the measure; but it was very hard work.
And the old woman was mother of the children and sisters, and their clan, and somebody’s else clan, matron of ceremonials, and maidens of ceremonials—all at the same time;—but it was very hard work, consequently they didn’t get along very well.
That’s the reason why today we have so many song-masters and singers, dance leaders and dancers, priests and common people, father clans and mother clans, in the great Ceremony of Victory.
Thus it happened with Áhaiyúta and Mátsailéma and their old grandmother, and their grandfathers the Rainbow-worm and the old Turtle. That is the reason why rainbow-worms are no bigger than your finger now, because their great grandfather blew all his substance away at the Háwikuhkwe. That’s the reason why the great Turtles in the faraway Waters of the World are so much bigger than their brothers and sisters here, and have so many marks on their shells, where the arrows glanced across the shield of their great grandfather. For old Etawa was so proud after he had been the great master of ceremonies that he despised his old pond, and went off to seek a new home in the Western Waters of the World, and his grandchildren never grew any bigger after he went away, and their descendants are just as small as they were.
And thus shortens my story.
The Young Swift-Runner Who Was Stripped of His Clothing by the Aged Tarantula
A long, long time ago, in Kʻiákime, there lived a young man, the son of the priest-chief of the town. It was this young man’s custom to dress himself as for a dance and run entirely around Thunder Mountain each morning before the sun rose, before making his prayers. He was a handsome young man, and his costume was beautiful to behold.
Now, below the two broad columns of rock which stand at the southeastern end of Thunder Mountain, and which are called Akʻyapaatch-ella—below these, in the base of the mountain, an old, old Tarantula had his den. Of a morning, as the young man in his beautiful dress sped by, the old Tarantula heard the horn-bells which were attached to his belt and saw him as he passed, this young Swift-runner, and he thought to himself: “Ah, ha! Now if I could only get his fine apparel away from him, what luck it would be for me! I will wait for him the next time.”
Early the next morning, just as the sun peeped over the lid of the world, sure enough the old Tarantula heard the horn-bells, and, thrusting his head out of his den, waited. As the young man approached, he called out to him: “Hold, my young friend; come here!”
“What for?” replied the youth. “I am in a great hurry.”
“Never mind that; come here,” said the old Tarantula.
“What is it? Why do you detain me?” rejoined the youth.
“It is for this reason,” said the old Tarantula. “Wouldn’t you like to look at yourself today?—for if you would, I can show you how.”
“How?” asked the young man. “Make haste, for I am in a hurry.”
“Well, in this way,” was the reply. “Take off your clothing, all of it; then I will take off mine. You place yours in a heap before me; I will place mine in a heap before you. Then I will put on your apparel as you wear it, and then you will see what a handsome fellow you are.”
The young man thought about it and concluded that it would be a very good thing to do. So he began drawing off his clothing—his beautiful painted moccasins, red and green; his fine white leggings, knitted with cunning stitches and fringed down the front, like the leggings worn by the Master of the Dances at New Year; his delicately-embroidered skirt, and mantle, and coat, all of white cotton and marked with figures in many colors; his heavy anklets of sacred white shell; his blue turquoise earrings, like the sky in blueness, and so long that they swept his shoulders; his plaited headband of many-colored fibers, and his bunch of blue, red, and yellow macaw feathers, which he wore in his hair-knot at the back of his head—all these things, one after another, he took off and laid before the ugly old Tarantula.
Then that woolly, hairy, clammy creature hauled off his clothing—gray-blue, ugly, and
