Old Indian Legends

till at last he chanced upon the old stake and the deeply worn footpath. Exhausted and inwardly disgusted with his mishaps, he crawled more cautiously on all fours to his wigwam door. Dripping with his recent plunge he sat with chattering teeth within his unfired wigwam.

The sun had set and the night air was chilly, but there was no firewood in the dwelling. “Hin!” murmured Manštin and bravely tried the other rope. “I go for some firewood!” he said, following the rawhide rope which led into the forest. Soon he stumbled upon thickly strewn dry willow sticks. Eagerly with both hands he gathered the wood into his outspread blanket. Manštin was naturally an energetic fellow.

When he had a large heap, he tied two opposite ends of blanket together and lifted the bundle of wood upon his back, but alas! he had unconsciously dropped the end of the rope and now he was lost in the wood!

“Hin! hin!” he groaned. Then pausing a moment, he set his fan-like ears to catch any sound of approaching footsteps. There was none. Not even a night bird twittered to help him out of his predicament.

With a bold face, he made a start at random.

He fell into some tangled wood where he was held fast. Manštin let go his bundle and began to lament having given away his two eyes.

“Friend, my friend, I have need of you! The old oak tree grandfather has gone off with my eyes and I am lost in the woods!” he cried with his lips close to the earth.

Scarcely had he spoken when the sound of voices was audible on the outer edge of the forest. Nearer and louder grew the voices⁠—one was the clear flute tones of a young brave and the other the tremulous squeaks of an old grandfather.

It was Manštin’s friend with the Earth Ear and the old grandfather. “Here Manštin, take back your eyes,” said the old man, “I knew you would not be content in my stead, but I wanted you to learn your lesson. I have had pleasure seeing with your eyes and trying your bow and arrows, but since I am old and feeble I much prefer my own teepee and my magic bags!”

Thus talking the three returned to the hut. The old grandfather crept into his wigwam, which is often mistaken for a mere oak tree by little Indian girls and boys.

Manštin, with his own bright eyes fitted into his head again, went on happily to hunt in the North country.

The Warlike Seven

Once seven people went out to make war⁠—the Ashes, the Fire, the Bladder, the Grasshopper, the Dragonfly, the Fish, and the Turtle. As they were talking excitedly, waving their fists in violent gestures, a wind came and blew the Ashes away. “Ho!” cried the others, “he could not fight, this one!”

The six went on running to make war more quickly. They descended a deep valley, the Fire going foremost until they came to a river. The Fire said “Hsss⁠—tchu!” and was gone. “Ho!” hooted the others, “he could not fight, this one!”

Therefore the five went on the more quickly to make war. They came to a great wood. While they were going through it, the Bladder was heard to sneer and to say, “Hĕ! you should rise above these, brothers.” With these words he went upward among the treetops; and the thorn apple pricked him. He fell through the branches and was nothing! “You see this!” said the four, “this one could not fight.”

Still the remaining warriors would not turn back. The four went boldly on to make war. The Grasshopper with his cousin, the Dragonfly, went foremost. They reached a marshy place, and the mire was very deep. As they waded through the mud, the Grasshopper’s legs stuck, and he pulled them off! He crawled upon a log and wept, “You see me, brothers, I cannot go!”

The Dragonfly went on, weeping for his cousin. He would not be comforted, for he loved his cousin dearly. The more he grieved, the louder he cried, till his body shook with great violence. He blew his red swollen nose with a loud noise so that his head came off his slender neck, and he was fallen upon the grass.

“You see how it is,” said the Fish, lashing his tail impatiently, “these people were not warriors!”

“Come!” he said, “let us go on to make war.”

Thus the Fish and the Turtle came to a large campground.

“Ho!” exclaimed the people of this round village of teepees, “Who are these little ones? What do they seek?”

Neither of the warriors carried weapons with them, and their unimposing stature misled the curious people.

The Fish was spokesman. With a peculiar omission of syllables, he said: “Shu⁠ ⁠… hi pi!”

“Wän! what? what?” clamored eager voices of men and women.

Again the Fish said: “Shu⁠ ⁠… hi pi!” Everywhere stood young and old with a palm to an ear. Still no one guessed what the Fish had mumbled!

From the bewildered crowd witty old Iktomi came forward. “Hĕ, listen!” he shouted, rubbing his mischievous palms together, for where there was any trouble brewing, he was always in the midst of it.

“This little strange man says, ‘Zuya unhipi! We come to make war!’ ”

“Ūun!” resented the people, suddenly stricken glum. “Let us kill the silly pair! They can do nothing! They do not know the meaning of the phrase. Let us build a fire and boil them both!”

“If you put us on to boil,” said the Fish, “there will be trouble.”

“Ho ho!” laughed the village folk. “We shall see.”

And so they made a fire.

“I have never been so angered!” said the Fish. The Turtle in a whispered reply said: “We shall die!”

When a pair of strong hands lifted the Fish over the sputtering water, he put his mouth downward. “Whssh!” he said. He blew the water all over the people, so that many were burned and could not see. Screaming with pain, they ran away.

“Oh, what shall we do with