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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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satisfaction,” they would say to one another, the fear of which made
them wait to see what others would do.
Now, in the Ant Hill, which was named Hálonawan,[1] lived a
handsome young man, but he was poor, although the son of the
priest-chief of Hálonawan. He thought many days, and at last said to
his grandmother, who was very old and crafty, “Hó-ta?”
[1] The ancient pueblo of Zuñi itself was called Hálonawan, or
the Ant Hill, the ruins of which, now buried beneath the sands, lie
opposite the modern town within the cast of a stone. Long before
Hálonawan was abandoned, the nucleus of the present structure
was begun around one of the now central plazas. It was then,
and still is, in the ancient songs and rituals of the Zuñis, Hálona-
ítiwana, or the “Middle Ant Hill of the World,” and was often
spoken of in connection with the older town as simply the “Ant
Hill.” Back

“What sayest my nána?” said the old woman; for, like grandmothers
nowadays, she was very soft and gentle to her grandson.
“I have seen the maiden of Mátsaki and my thoughts kill me with
longing, for she is passing beautiful and wisely slow. I do not
wonder that she asks hard tasks of her lovers; for it is not of their
bundles that she thinks, but of themselves. Now, I strengthen my
thoughts with my manliness. My heart is hard against weariness,
and I would go and speak to the beautiful maiden.”
“Yo á! my poor boy,” said the grandmother. “She is as wonderful as
she is wise and beautiful. She thinks not of men save as brothers
and friends; and she it is, I bethink me, who sends the may-flies and
gnats and mosquitoes, therefore, to drive them away. They are but
disguised beings, and beware, my grandson, you will only cover
yourself with shame as a man is covered with water who walks
through a rain-storm! I would not go, my poor grandchild. I would
not go,” she added, shaking her head and biting her lips till her chin
touched her nose-tip.
“Yes, but I must go, my grandmother. Why should I live only to
breathe hard with longing? Perhaps she will better her thoughts
toward me.”
“Ah, yes, but all the same, she will test thee. Well, go to the
mountains and scrape bitter bark from the finger-root; make a little
loaf of the bark and hide it in your belt, and when the maiden sends
you down to the corn-field, work hard at the hoeing until sunrise.
Then, when your body is covered with sweat-drops, rub every part
with the root-bark. The finger-root bark, it is bitter as bad salt mixed
in with bad water, and the ‘horn-wings’ and ‘long-beaks’ and ‘blue-
backs’ fly far from the salt that is bitter.”
“Then, my gentle grandmother, I will try your words and thank
you,”—for he was as gentle and good as his grandmother was
knowing and crafty. Even that day he went to the mountains and
gathered a ball of finger-root. Then, toward evening, he took a little
bundle and went up the trail by the river-side to Mátsaki. When he
climbed the ladder and shouted down the mat door: “Shé! Are ye
within?” the people did not answer at once, for the old ones were
angry with their daughter that she had sent off so many fine lovers.
But when he shouted again they answered:
“Hai, and Ée, we are within. Be yourself within.”
Then without help he went down the ladder, but he didn’t mind, for
he felt himself poor and his bundle was small. As he entered the fire-
light he greeted the people pleasantly and gravely, and with thanks
took the seat that was laid for him.
Now, you see, the old man was angry with the girl, so he did not tell
her to place cooked things before him, but turned to his old wife.
“Old one,” he began—but before he had finished the maiden arose
and brought rich venison stew and flaky héwe, which she placed
before the youth where the fire’s brightness would fall upon it, with
meat broth for drink; then she sat down opposite him and said, “Eat
and drink!” Whereupon the young man took a roll of the wafer-bread
and, breaking it in two, gave the girl the larger piece, which she
bashfully accepted.
The old man raised his eyebrows and upper lids, looked at his old
wife, spat in the fireplace, and smoked hard at his cigarette, joining
the girl in her invitation by saying, “Yes, have to eat well.”
Soon the young man said, “Thanks,” and the maiden quickly
responded, “Eat more,” and “Have eaten.”
After brushing the crumbs away the girl sat down by her mother,
and the father rolled a cigarette for the young man and talked longer
with him than he had with the others.
After the old ones had stretched out in the corner and begun to
“scrape their nostrils with their breath,” the maiden turned to the
young man and said: “I have a corn-field in the lands of the priest-
chief, down by the river, and if you truly love me, I would that you
should hoe the whole in a single morning. Thus may you prove
yourself a man, and to love me truly; and if you will do this, happily,
as day follows day, will we live each with the other.”
“Hai-í!” replied the young man, who smiled as he listened; and as
the young maiden looked at him, sitting in the fading fire-light with
the smile on his face, she thought: “Only possibly. But oh! how I
wish his heart might be strong, even though his bundle be not heavy
nor large.
“Come with me, young man, and I will show you where you are to
await the morning. Early take my father’s hoe, which stands by the
doorway, and go down to the corn-field long before the night
shadows have run away from Thunder Mountain”—with which she
bade him pass a night of contentment and sought her own place.
When all was still, the young man climbed to the sky-hole and in the
starlight asked the gods of the woodlands and waters to give
strength to his hands and power to his prayer-medicine, and to meet
and bless him with the light of their favor; and he threw to the
night-wind meal of the seeds of earth and the waters of the world
with which those who are wise fail not to make smooth their trails of
life. Then he slept till the sky of the day-land grew yellow and the
shadows of the night-land grew gray, and then shouldered his hoe
and went down to the corn-field. His task was not great, for the
others had hoed much. Where they left off, there he fell to digging
right and left with all his strength and haste, till the hard soil
mellowed and the earth flew before his strokes as out of the
burrows of the strongest-willed gophers and other digging creatures.
When the sun rose the maiden looked forth and saw that his task
was already half done. But still she waited. As the sun warmed the
day and the youth worked on, the dewdrops of flesh stood all over
his body and he cast away, one after the other, his blanket and sash
and even his leggings and moccasins. Then he stopped to look
around. By the side of the field grew tall yellow-tops. He ran into the
thicket and rubbed every part of his body, yea, even the hair of his
head and his ear-tips and nostrils, with the bark of the finger-root.
Again he fell to work as though he had only been resting, and
wondered why the may-flies and gnats and mosquitoes came not to
cause him thoughts as they had the others. Yet still the girl lingered;
but at last she went slowly to the room where the jar stood.
“It is absurd,” thought she, “that I should hope it or even care for it;
it would indeed be great if it were well true that a young man should
love me so verily as to hold his face to the front through such a
testing.” Nevertheless, she drew the lid off and bade her strange
children to spare him no more than they had the others.
All hasty to feast themselves on the “waters of life,” as our old
grandfathers would say for blood, again they rushed out and
hummed along over the corn-fields in such numbers that they looked
more like a wind-driven sandstorm than ever, and “tsi-ni-ni-i, tso-no-
o,” they hummed and buzzed about the ears of the young man when
they came to him, so noisily that the poor fellow, who kept at work
all the while, thought they were already biting him. But it was only
fancy, for the first may-fly that did bite him danced in the air with
disgust and exclaimed to his companions, “Sho-o-o-m-m!” and “Us-
á!” which meant that he had eaten something nasty, that tasted as
badly as vile odors smell. So not another may-fly in the throng would
bite, although they all kept singing their song about his ears. And to
this day may-flies are careful whom they bite, and dance a long time
in the air before they do it.
Then a gnat tried it and gasped, “Weh!” which meant that his
stomach had turned over, and he had such a sick headache that he
reeled round and round in the air, and for that reason gnats always
bite very quickly, for fear their stomachs will turn over, and they will
reel and reel round and round in the air before doing it.
Finally, long-beak himself tried it, and, as long-beak hangs on, you
know, longer than most other little beasts, he kept hold until his two
hindlegs were warped out of shape; but at last he had to let go, too,
and flew straight away, crying, “Yá kotchi!” which meant that
something bitter had burned his snout. Now, for these reasons
mosquitoes always have bent-up hindlegs, which they keep lifting up
and down while biting, as though they were standing on something
hot, and they are apt to sing and smell around very cautiously
before spearing us, and they fly straight away, you will notice, as
soon as they are done.
Now, when the rest of the gnats and mosquitoes heard the words of
their elder brothers, they did as the may-flies had done—did not
venture, no, not one of them, to bite the young lover. They all flew
away and settled down on the yellow-tops, where they had a
council, and decided to go and find some prairie-dogs to bite.
Therefore you will almost always find may-flies, gnats, and
mosquitoes around prairie-dog holes in summer time when the corn
is growing.
So the young man breathed easily as he hoed hard to finish his task
ere the noon-day, and when the maiden looked down and saw that
he still labored there, she said to herself: “Ah, indeed he must love
me, for still he is there! Well, it may be, for only a little longer and
they will leave him in peace.” Hastily she placed venison in the
cooking-pot and prepared fresh héwe and sweetened bread, “for
maybe,” she still thought, “and then I will have it ready for him.”
Now, alas! you do not know that this good and beautiful maiden had
a sister, alas!—a sister as beautiful as herself, but bad and double-
hearted; and you know when people have double hearts they are
wizards or witches, and have double tongues and paired thoughts—
such a sister elder had the maiden of Mátsaki, alas!
When the sun had climbed almost to the middle of the sky, the
maiden, still doubtful, looked down once more. He was there, and
was working among the last hills of corn.
“Ah, truly indeed he loves me,” she thought, and she hastened to
put on her necklaces and bracelets of shells, her earrings as long as
your fingers—of turquoises,—and her fine cotton mantles with
borders of stitched butterflies of summerland, and flowers of the
autumn. Then she took a new bowl from the stick-rack in the corner,
and a large many-colored tray that she had woven herself, and she
filled the one with meat broth, and the other with the héwe and
sweet-bread, and placing the bowl of meat broth on her head, she
took the tray of héwe in her hand, and started down toward the
corn-field by the river-side to meet her lover and to thank him.
Witches are always jealous of the happiness and good fortune of
others. So was the sister of the beautiful maiden jealous when she
saw the smile on her háni’s face as she tripped toward the river.
“Ho há!” said the two-hearted sister. “Tém-ithlokwa thlokwá!
Wananí!” which are words of defiance and hatred, used so long ago
by demons and wizards that no one knows nowadays what they
mean except the last one, which plainly says, “Just wait a bit!” and
she hastened to dress herself, through her wicked knowledge,
exactly as the beautiful maiden was dressed. She even carried just
such a bowl and tray; and as she was beautiful, like her younger
sister, nobody could have known the one from the other, or the other
from the one. Then she passed herself through a hoop of magic
yucca, which made her seem not to be where she was, for no one
could see her unless she willed it.
Now, just as the sun was resting in the middle of the sky, the young
man finished the field and ran down to the river to wash. Before he
was done, he saw the maiden coming down the trail with the bowl
on her head and the tray in her hand; so he made haste, and ran
back to dress himself and to sit down to wait for her. As she
approached, he said: “Thou comest, and may it be happily,”—when
lo! there appeared two maidens exactly alike; so he quickly said, “Ye
come.”
“E,” said the maidens, so nearly together that it sounded like one
voice; but when they both placed the same food before him, the
poor young man looked from one to the other, and asked:
“Alas! of which am I to eat?”
Then it was that the maiden suddenly saw her sister, and became
hot with anger, for she knew her wicked plans. “Ah, thou foolish
sister, why didst thou come?” she said. But the other only replied:
“Ah, thou foolish sister, why didst thou come?”
“Go back, for he is mine-to-be,” said the maiden, beginning to cry.
“Go back, for he is mine-to-be,” said the bad one, pretending to cry.
And thus they quarrelled until they had given one another smarting
words four times, when they fell to fighting—as women always fight,
by pulling each other’s hair, and scratching, and grappling until they
rolled over each other in the sand.
The poor young man started forward to part them, but he knew not
one from the other, so thinking that the bad one must know how to
fight better than his beautiful maiden wife, he suddenly caught up
his stone-weighted hoe, and furiously struck the one that was
uppermost on the head, again and again, until she let go her hold,
and fell back, murmuring and moaning: “Alas! that thus it should be
after all, after all!” Then she forgot, and her eyes ceased to see.
While yet the young man looked, lo! there was only the dying
maiden before him; but in the air above circled an ugly black Crow,
that laughed “kawkaw, kawkaw, kawkaw!” and flew away to its cave
in Thunder Mountain.
Then the young man knew. He cried aloud and beat his breast; then
he ran to the river and brought water and bathed the blood away
from the maiden’s temples; but alas! she only smiled and talked with
her lips, then grew still and cold.
Alone, as the sun travelled toward the land of evening, wept the
young man over the body of his beautiful wife. He knew naught but
his sad thoughts. He took her in his arms, and placed his face close
to hers, and again and again he called to her: “Alas, alas! my
beautiful wife; I loved thee, I love thee. Alas, alas! Ah, my beautiful
wife, my beautiful wife!”
When the people returned from their fields in the evening, they
missed the beautiful maiden of Mátsaki; and they saw the young
man, bending low and alone over something down in the lands of
the priest-chief by the river, and when they told the old father, he
shook his head and said:
“It is not well with my beautiful child; but as They (the gods) say,
thus must all things be.” Then he smiled—for the heart of a priest-
chief never cries,—and told them to go and bring her to the plaza of
Mátsaki and bury her before the House of the Sun; for he knew what
had happened.
So the people did as their father had told them. They went down at
sunset and took the beautiful maiden away, and wrapped her in
mantles, and buried her near the House of the Sun.
But the poor young man knew naught but his sad thoughts. He
followed them; and when he had made her grave, he sat down by
her earth bed and would not leave her. No, not even when the sun
set, but moaned and called to her: “Alas, alas! my beautiful wife; I
loved thee, I love thee; even though I knew not thee and killed thee.
Alas! Ah, my beautiful wife!”

“Shonetchi!” (“There is left of my story.”) And what there is left, I

will tell you some other night.

(Told the Second Night)

“Sonahtchi!”
“Sons shonetchi!” (“There is left of my story”;) but I will tell you not
alone of the Maid of Mátsaki, because the young man killed her, for
he knew not his wife from the other. It is of the Red Feather, or the
Wife of Mátsaki that I will tell you this sitting.
Even when the sun set, and the hills and houses grew black in the
shadows, still the young man sat by the grave-side, his hands rested
upon his knees and his face buried in them. And the people no
longer tried to steal his sad thoughts from him; but, instead, left
him, as one whose mind errs, to wail out with weeping: “Alas, alas!
my beautiful wife; I loved thee, I love thee; even though I knew not
thee and killed thee! Alas! Ah, my beautiful wife!”
But when the moon set on the western hills, and the great snowdrift
streaked across the mid-sky, and the night was half gone, the sad
watcher saw a light in the grave-sands like the light of the embers
that die in the ashes. As he watched, his sad thoughts became
bright thoughts, for the light grew and brightened till it burned the
dark grave-sands as sunlight the shadows. Lo! the bride lay beneath.
She tore off her mantles and raised up in her grave-bed. Then she
looked at the eager lover so coldly and sadly that his bright thoughts
all darkened, for she mournfully told him: “Alas! Ah, my lover, my
husband knew not me from the other; loved me not, therefore killed
me; even though I had hoped for love, loved me not, therefore killed
me!”
Again the young man buried his face in his hands and shook his
head mournfully; and like one whose thoughts erred, again he
wailed his lament: “Alas, alas! my beautiful bride! I do love thee; I
loved thee, but I did not know thee and killed thee! Alas! Ah, my
beautiful bride, my beautiful bride!”
At last, as the great star rose from the sky-land, the dead maiden
spoke softly to the mourning lover, yet her voice was sad and
strange: “Young man, mourn thou not, but go back to the home of
thy fathers. Knowest thou not that I am another being? When the
sky of the day-land grows yellow and the houses come out of the
shadows, then will the light whereby thou sawest me, fade away in
the morn-light, as the blazes of late councils pale their red in the
sunlight.” Then her voice grew sadder as she said: “I am only a
spirit; for remember, alas! ah, my lover, my husband knew not me
from the other—loved me not, therefore killed me; even though I
had hoped for love, loved me not, therefore killed me.”
But the young man would not go until, in the gray of the morning,
he saw nothing where the light had appeared but the dark sand of
the grave as it had been. Then he arose and went away in sorrow.
Nor would he all day speak to men, but gazed only whither his feet
stepped and shook his head sadly like one whose thoughts
wandered. And when again the houses and hills grew black with the
shadows, he sought anew the fresh grave and sat down by its side,
bowed his head and still murmured: “Alas, alas! my beautiful wife, I
loved thee, though I knew not thee, and killed thee. Alas! Ah, my
beautiful wife!”
Even brighter glowed the light in the grave-sands when the night
was divided, and the maiden’s spirit arose and sat in her grave-bed,
but she only reproached him and bade him go. “For,” said she, “I am
only a spirit; remember, alas! ah, my lover, my husband knew not
me from the other; loved me not, therefore killed me; even though I
had hoped for love, loved me not, therefore killed me!”
But he left only in the morning, and again when the dark came,
returned to the grave-side.
When the light shone that night, the maiden, more beautiful than
ever, came out of the grave-bed and sat by her lover. Once more she
urged him to return to his fathers; but when she saw that he would
not, she said: “Thou hadst better, for I go a long journey. As light as
the wind is, so light will my feet be; as long as the day is, thou canst
not my form see. Know thou not that the spirits are seen but in
darkness? for, alas! ah, my lover, my husband knew not me from the
other; loved me not, therefore killed me; even though I had hoped
for love, loved me not, therefore killed me!”
Then the young man ceased bemoaning his beautiful bride. He
looked at her sadly, and said: “I do love thee, my beautiful wife! I do
love thee, and whither thou goest let me therefore go with thee! I
care not how long is the journey, nor how hard is the way. If I can
but see thee, even only at night time, then will I be happy and cease
to bemoan thee. It was because I loved thee and would have saved
thee; but alas, my beautiful wife! I knew not thee, therefore killed
thee!”
“Alas! Ah, my lover; and Ah! how I loved thee; but I am a spirit, and
thou art unfinished. But if thou thus love me, go back when I leave
thee and plume many prayer-sticks. Choose a light, downy feather
and dye it with ocher. Wrap up in thy blanket a lunch for four
daylights; bring with thee much prayer-meal; come to me at
midnight and sit by my grave-side, and when in the eastward the
day-land is lighting, tie over my forehead the reddened light feather,
and when with the morning I fade from thy vision, follow only the
feather until it is evening, and then thou shalt see me and sit down
beside me.”
So at sunrise the young man went away and gathered feathers of
the summer birds, and cut many prayer-sticks, whereon he bound
them with cotton, as gifts to the Fathers. Then he found a beautiful
downy feather plucked from the eagle, and dyed it red with ocher,
and tied to it a string of cotton wherewith to fasten it over the
forehead of the spirit maiden. When night came, he took meal made
from parched corn and burnt sweet-bread, and once more went
down to the plaza and sat by the grave-side.
When midnight came and the light glowed forth through the grave-
sands, lo! the maiden-spirit came out and stood by his side. She
seemed no longer sad, but happy, like one going home after long
absence. Nor was the young man sad or single-thoughted like one
whose mind errs; so they sat together and talked of their journey till
the day-land grew yellow and the black shadows gray, and the
houses and hills came out of the darkness.
“Once more would I tell thee to go back,” said the maiden’s spirit to
the young man; “but I know why thou goest with me, and it is well.
Only watch me when the day comes, and thou wilt see me no more;
but look whither the plume goeth, and follow, for thou knowest that
thou must tie it to the hair above my forehead.”
Then the young man took the bright red plume out from among the
feathers of sacrifice, and gently tied it above the maiden-spirit’s
forehead.
As the light waved up from behind the great mountain the red glow
faded out from the grave-sands and the youth looked in vain for the
spirit of the maiden; but before him, at the height of one’s hands
when standing, waved the light downy feather in the wind of the
morning. Then the plume, not the wife, rose before him, like the
plumes on the head of a dancer, and moved through the streets that
led westward, and down through the fields to the river. And out
through the streets that led westward, and down on the trail by the
river, and on over the plains always toward the land of evening, the
young man followed close the red feather; but at last he began to
grow weary, for the plume glided swiftly before him, until at last it
left him far behind, and even now and then lost him entirely. Then,
as he hastened on, he called in anguish:
“My beautiful bride! My beautiful bride! Oh, where art thou?”
But the plume, not the wife, stopped and waited. And thus the
plume and the young man journeyed until, toward evening, they
came to the forests of sweet-smelling piñons and cedars. As the
night hid the hills in the shadows, alas! the plume disappeared, but
the young man pressed onward, for he knew that the plume still
journeyed westward. Yet at times he was so weary that he almost
lost the strength of his thoughts; for he ran into trees by the trail-
side and stumbled over dry roots and branches. So again and again
he would call out in anguish: “My beautiful wife! My beautiful bride!
Oh, where art thou?”
At last, when the night was divided, to his joy he saw, far away on
the hill-top, a light that was red and grew brighter like the light of a
camp-fire’s red embers when fanned by the wind of the night-time.
And like a star that is rising or setting, the red light sat still on the
hill-top. So he ran hastily forward, until, as he neared the red light,
lo! there sat the spirit of the beautiful maiden; and as he neared her,
she said:
“Comest thou?” and “How hast thou come to the evening?”
As she spoke she smiled, and motioned him to sit down beside her.
He was so weary that he slept while he talked to her; but,
remember, she was a spirit, therefore she slept not.
Just as the morning star came up from the day-land, the maiden
rose to journey on, and the young man, awaking, followed her. But
as the hills came out of the shadows, the form of the maiden before
him grew fainter and fainter, until it faded entirely, and only the red
plume floated before him, like the plume on the head of a dancer.
Far ahead and fast floated the plume, until it entered a plain of lava
filled with sharp crags; yet still it went on, for the maiden’s spirit
moved over the barriers as lightly as the down of dead flowers in
autumn. But alas! the young man had to seek his way, and the
plume again left him far behind, until he was forced to cry out: “Ah,
my beautiful bride, do wait for me, for I love thee, and will not turn
from thee!” Then the plume stopped on the other side of the crags
and waited until the poor young man came nearer, his feet and legs
cut and bleeding, and his wind almost out. Then the trail was more
even, and led through wide plains; but even thus the young man
could scarce keep the red plume in sight. But at night the maiden
awaited him in a sheltered place, and they rested together beneath
the cedars until daylight. Then again she faded out in the daylight,
and the red plume led the way.
For a long time the trail was pleasant, but toward evening they came
to a wide bed of cactus, and the plume passed over as swiftly as
ever, but the young man’s moccasins were soon torn and his feet
and legs cruelly lacerated with the cactus spines; yet still he pursued
the red plume until the pain seemed to sting his whole body, and he
gasped and wailed: “Ah, my beautiful wife, wait for me; do wait, for
I love thee and will not leave thee!” Then the plume stopped beyond
the plain of cactus and waited until he had passed through, but not
longer, for ere he had plucked all the needles of the cactus from his
bleeding feet, it floated on, and he lifted himself up and followed
until at evening the maiden again waited and bade him “Sit down
and rest.”
That night she seemed to pity him, and once more spoke to him: “Yo
á! My lover, my husband, turn back, oh, turn back! for the way is
long and untrodden, and thy heart is but weak and is mortal. I go to
the Council of Dead Ones, and how can the living there enter?”
But the youth only wept, and begged that she let him go with her.
“For, ah,” said he, “my beautiful wife, my beautiful bride, I love thee
and cannot turn from thee!”
And she smiled only and shook her head sadly as she replied: “Yo á!
It shall be as thou willest. It may be thy heart will not wither, for
tomorrow is one more day onward, and then down the trail to the
waters wherein stands the ladder of others, shall I lead thee to wait
me forever.”
At mid-sun on the day after, the plume led the way straight to a
deep cañon, the walls of which were so steep that no man could
pass them alive. For a moment the red plume paused above the
chasm, and the youth pressed on and stretched his hand forth to
detain it; but ere he had gained the spot, it floated on straight over
the dark cañon, as though no ravine had been there at all; for to
spirits the trails that once have been, even though the waters have
worn them away, still are.
Wildly the young man rushed up and down the steep brink, and
despairingly he called across to the plume: “Alas! ah, my beautiful
wife! Wait, only wait for me, for I love thee and cannot turn from
thee!” Then, like one whose thoughts wandered, he threw himself
over the brink and hung by his hands as if to drop, when a jolly little
striped Squirrel, who was playing at the bottom of the cañon,
happened to see him, and called out: “Tsithl! Tsithl!” and much
more, which meant “Ah hai! Wananí!” “You crazy fool of a being! You
have not the wings of a falcon, nor the hands of a Squirrel, nor the
feet of a spirit, and if you drop you will be broken to pieces and the
moles will eat up the fragments! Wait! Hold hard, and I will help
you, for, though I am but a Squirrel, I know how to think!”
Whereupon the little chit ran chattering away and called his mate
out of their house in a rock-nook: “Wife! Wife! Come quickly; run to
our corn room and bring me a hemlock, and hurry! hurry! Ask me no
questions; for a crazy fool of a man over here will break himself to
pieces if we don’t quickly make him a ladder.”
So the little wife flirted her brush in his face and skipped over the
rocks to their store-house, where she chose a fat hemlock and
hurried to her husband who was digging a hole in the sand
underneath where the young man was hanging. Then they spat on
the seed, and buried it in the hole, and began to dance round it and
sing,—

“Kiäthlä tsilu,
Silokwe, silokwe, silokwe;
Ki′ai silu silu,
Tsithl! Tsithl!”

Which meant, as far as any one can tell now (for it was a long time
ago, and partly squirrel talk),

“Hemlock of the
Tall kind, tall kind, tall kind,
Sprout up hemlock, hemlock,
Chit! Chit!”

And every time they danced around and sang the song through, the
ground moved, until the fourth time they said “Tsithl! Tsithl!” the
tree sprouted forth and kept growing until the little Squirrel could
jump into it, and by grabbing the topmost bough and bracing himself
against the branches below, could stretch and pull it, so that in a
short time he made it grow as high as the young man’s feet, and he
had all he could do to keep the poor youth from jumping right into it
before it was strong enough to hold him. Presently he said “Tsithl!
Tsithl!” and whisked away before the young man had time to thank
him. Then the sad lover climbed down and quickly gained the other
side, which was not so steep; before he could rest from his climb,
however, the plume floated on, and he had to get up and follow it.
Just as the sun went into the west, the plume hastened down into a
valley between the mountains, where lay a beautiful lake; and
around the borders of the lake a very ugly old man and woman, who
were always walking back and forth across the trails, came forward
and laughed loudly and greeted the beautiful maiden pleasantly.
Then they told her to enter; and she fearlessly walked into the
water, and a ladder of flags came up out of the middle of the lake to
receive her, down which she stepped without stopping until she
passed under the waters. For a little—and then all was over—a
bright light shone out of the water, and the sound of many glad
voices and soft merry music came also from beneath it; then the
stars of the sky and the stars of the waters looked the same at each
other as they had done before.
“Alas!” cried the young man as he ran to the lake-side. “Ah, my
beautiful wife, my beautiful wife, only wait, only wait, that I may go
with thee!” But only the smooth waters and the old man and woman
were before him; nor did the ladder come out or the old ones greet
him. So he sat down on the lake-side wringing his hands and
weeping, and ever his mind wandered back to his old lament: “Alas!
alas! my beautiful bride, my beautiful wife, I love thee; I loved thee,
but I knew not thee and killed thee!”
Toward the middle of the night once more he heard strange, happy
voices. The doorway to the Land of Spirits opened, and the light
shot up through the dark green waters from many windows, like
sparks from a chimney on a dark, windless night. Then the ladder
again ascended, and he saw the forms of the dead pass out and in,
and heard the sounds of the Kâkâ, as it danced for the gods. The
comers and goers were bright and beautiful, but their garments
were snow-white cotton, stitched with many-colored threads, and
their necklaces and bracelets were of dazzling white shells and
turquoises unnumbered. Once he ventured to gain the bright
entrance, but the water grew deep and chilled him till he trembled
with fear and cold. Yet he looked in at the entrances, and lo! as he
gazed he caught sight of his beautiful bride all covered with
garments and bright things. And there in the midst of the Kâkâ she
sat at the head of the dancers. She seemed happy and smiled as she
watched, and youths as bright and as happy came around her, and
she seemed to forget her lone lover.
Then with a cry of despair and anguish he crawled to the lake-shore
and buried his face in the sands and rank grasses. Suddenly he
heard a low screech, and then a hoarse voice seemed to call him. He
looked, and a great Owl flew over him, saying: “Muhaí! Hu hu! Hu
hu!”
“What wilt thou?” he cried, in vexed anguish.
Then the Owl flew closer, and, lighting, asked: “Why weepest thou,
my child?”
He turned and looked at the Owl and told it part of his trouble, when
the Owl suddenly twisted its head quite around—as owls do—to see
if anyone were near; then came closer and said: “I know all about it,
young man. Come with me to my house in the mountain, and if thou
wilt but follow my counsel, all will yet be well.” Then the Owl led the
way to a cave far above and bade him step in. As he placed his foot
inside the opening, behold! it widened into a bright room, and many
Owl-men and Owl-women around greeted him happily, and bade him
sit down and eat.
The old Owl who had brought him, changed himself in a twinkling,
as he entered the room, and hung his owl-coat on an antler. Then he
went away, but presently returned, bringing a little bag of medicine.
“Before I give thee this, let me tell thee what to do, and what thou
must promise,” said he of the owl-coat.
The young man eagerly reached forth his hand for the magic
medicine.
“Fool!” cried the being; “were it not well, for that would I not help
thee. Thou art too eager, and I will not trust thee with my medicine
of sleep. Thou shalt sleep here, and when thou awakest thou shalt
find the morning star in the sky, and thy dead wife before thee on
the trail toward the Middle Ant Hill. With the rising sun she will wake
and smile on thee. Be not foolish, but journey preciously with her,
and not until ye reach the home of thy fathers shalt thou approach
her or kiss her; for if thou doest this, all will be as nothing again. But
if thou doest as I counsel thee, all will be well, and happily may ye
live one with the other.”
He ceased, and, taking a tiny pinch of the medicine, blew it in the
face of the youth. Instantly the young man sank with sleep where he
had been sitting, and the beings, putting on their owl-coats, flew
away with him under some trees by the trail that led to Mátsaki and
the Ant Hill of the Middle.
Then they flew over the lake, and threw the medicine of sleep in at
the windows, and taking the plumed prayer-sticks which the young
man had brought with him, they chose some red plumes for
themselves, and with the others entered the home of the Kâkâ.
Softly they flew over the sleeping fathers and their children (the
gods of the Kâkâ and the spirits) and, laying the prayer-plumes
before the great altar, caught up the beautiful maiden and bore her
over the waters and woodlands to where the young man was still
sleeping. Then they hooted and flew off to their mountain.
As the great star came out of the day-land, the young man awoke,
and lo! there before him lay his own beautiful wife. Then he turned
his face away that he might not be tempted, and waited with joy
and longing for the coming out of the sun. When at last the sun
came out, with the first ray that brightened the beautiful maiden’s
face, she opened her eyes and gazed wildly around at first, but
seeing her lonely lover, smiled, and said: “Truly, thou lovest me!”
Then they arose and journeyed apart toward the home of their
fathers, and the young man forgot not the counsel of the Owl, but
journeyed wisely, till on the fourth day they came in sight of the
Mountain of Thunder and saw the river that flows by Salt City.
As they began to go down into the valley, the maiden stopped and
said: “Hahuá, I am weary, for the journey is long and the day is
warm.” Then she sat down in the shadow of a cedar and said:
“Watch, my husband, while I sleep a little; only a little, and then we
will journey together again.” And he said: “Be it well.”
Then she lay down and seemed to sleep. She smiled and looked so
beautiful to the longing lover that he softly rose and crept close to
her. Then, alas! he laid his hand upon her and kissed her.
Quickly the beautiful maiden started. Her face was all covered with
sadness, and she said, hastily and angrily: “Ah, thou shameless fool!
I now know! Thou lovest me not! How vain that I should have hoped
for thy love!”
With shame, indeed, and sorrow, he bent his head low and covered
his face with his hands. Then he started to speak, when an Owl flew
up and hooted mournfully at him from a tree-top. Then the Owl
winged her way to the westward, and ever after the young man’s
mind wandered.
Alas! alas! Thus it was in the days of the ancients. Maybe had the
young man not kissed her yonder toward the Lake of the Dead, we
would never have journeyed nor ever have mourned for others lost.
But then it is well! If men and women had never died, then the
world long ago had overflown with children, starvation, and warring.
Thus shortens my story.
 THE YOUTH AND HIS EAGLE

I
N forgotten times, in the days of our ancients, at the Middle Place, or what
is now Shíwina (Zuñi), there lived a youth who was well grown, or perfect
in manhood. He had a pet Eagle which he kept in a cage down on the roof
of the first terrace of the house of his family. He loved this Eagle so dearly
that he could not endure to be separated from it; not only this, but he spent
nearly all his time in caring for and fondling his pet. Morning, noon, and
evening, yea, and even between those times, you would see him going down
to the eagle-cage with meat and other kinds of delicate food. Day after day
there you would find him sitting beside the Eagle, petting it and making
affectionate speeches, to all of which treatment the bird responded with a
most satisfied air, and seemed equally fond of his owner.

Photo by Hillers
 THE YOUTH AND HIS EAGLE

Whenever a storm came the youth would hasten out of the house, as though
the safety of the crops depended upon it, to protect the Eagle. So, winter and
summer, no other care occupied his attention. Corn-field and melon-garden
was this bird to this youth; so much so that his brothers, elder and younger,
and his male relatives generally, looked down upon him as negligent of all
manly duties, and wasteful of their substance, which he helped not to earn in
his excessive care of the bird. Naturally, therefore, they looked with aversion
upon the Eagle; and one evening, after a hard day’s work, after oft-repeated
remonstrances with the youth for not joining in their labors, they returned
home tired and out of humor, and, climbing the ladder of the lower terrace,
passed the great cage on their way into the upper house. They stopped a
moment before entering, and one of the eldest of the party exclaimed: “We
have remonstrated in vain with the younger brother; we have represented his
duties to him in every possible light, yet without effect. What remains to be
done? What plans can we devise to alienate him from this miserable Eagle?”
“Why not kill the wretched bird?” asked one of them. “That, I should say,
would be the most simple means of curing him of his infatuation.”
“That is an excellent plan,” exclaimed all of the brothers as they went on into
the house; “we must adopt it.”
The Eagle, apparently so unconscious, heard all this, and pondered over it.
Presently came the youth with meat and other delicate food for his beloved
bird, and, opening the wicket of the gate, placed it within and bade the Eagle
eat. But the bird looked at him and at the food with no apparent interest, and,
lowering its head on its breast, sat moody and silent.
“Are you ill, my beloved Eagle?” asked the youth, “or why is it that you do not
eat?”
“I do not care to eat,” said the Eagle, speaking for the first time. “I am
oppressed with much anxiety.”
“Do eat, my beloved Eagle,” said the youth. “Why should you be sad? Have I
neglected you?”
“No, indeed, you have not,” said the Eagle. “For this reason I love you as you
love me; for this reason I prize and cherish you as you cherish me; and yet it
is for this very reason that I am sad. Look you! Your brothers and relatives
have often remonstrated with you for your neglect of their fields and your
care for me. They have often been angered with you for not bearing your part
in the duties of the household. Therefore it is that they look with reproach
upon you and with aversion upon me, so much so that they have at last
determined to destroy me in order to do away with your affection for me and
to withdraw your attention. For this reason I am sad,—not that they can harm
me, for I need but spread my wings when the wicket is opened, and what can
they do? But I would not part from you, for I love you. I would not that you
should part with me, for you love me. Therefore am I sad, for I must go
tomorrow to my home in the skies,” said the Eagle, again relapsing into
moody silence.
“Oh, my beloved bird! my own dear Eagle, how could I live without you? How
could I remain behind when you went forward, below when you went
upward?” exclaimed the youth, already beginning to weep. “No! Go, go, if it
need be, alas! but let me go with you,” said the youth.
“My friend! my poor, poor youth!” said the Eagle, “you cannot go with me. You
have not wings to fly, nor have you knowledge to guide your course through
the high skies into other worlds that you know not of.”
“Let me go with you,” cried the youth, falling on his knees by the side of the
cage. “I will comfort you, I will care for you, even as I have done here; but
live without you I cannot!”
“Ah, my youth,” said the Eagle, “I would that you could go with me, but the
end would not be well. You know not how little you love me that you wish to
do this thing. Think for a moment! The foods that my people eat are not the
foods of your people; they are not ripened by fire for our consumption, but
whatever we capture abroad on our measureless hunts we devour as it is,
asking no fire to render it palatable or wholesome. You could not exist thus.”
“My Eagle! my Eagle!” cried the youth. “If I were to remain behind when you
went forward, or below when you went upward, food would be as nothing to
me; and were it not better that I should eat raw food, or no food, than that I
should stay here, excessively and sadly thinking of you, and thus never eat at
all, even of the food of my own people? No, let me go with you!”
“Once more I implore you, my youth,” said the Eagle, “not to go with me, for
to your own undoing and to my sadness will such a journey be undertaken.”
“Let me go, let me go! Only let me go!” implored the youth.
“It is said,” replied the Eagle calmly. “Even as you wish, so be it. Now go unto
your own home for the last time; gather large quantities of sustaining food, as
for a long journey. Place this food in strong pouches, and make them all into a
package which you can sling upon your shoulder or back. Then come to me
tomorrow morning, after the people have begun to descend to their fields.”
The youth bade good-night to his Eagle and went into the house. He took of
parched flour a great quantity, of dried and pulverized wafer-bread a large
bag, and of other foods, such as hunters carry and on which they sustain
themselves long, he took a good supply, and made them all into a firm
package. Then, with high hopes and much thought of the morrow, he laid
himself to rest. He slept late into the morning, and it was not until his
brothers had departed for their fields of corn that he arose; and, eating a
hasty breakfast, slung the package of foods over his shoulders and descended
to the cage of the Eagle. The great bird was waiting for him. With a smile in
its eyes it came forth when he opened the wicket, and, settling down on the
ground, spread out its wings and bade the youth mount.
“Sit on my back, for it is strong, oh youth! Grasp the base of my wings, and
rest your feet above my thighs, that you may not fall off. Are you ready? Ah,
well. And have you all needful things in the way of food? Good. Let us start on
our journey.”
Saying this, the Eagle rose slowly, circling wider and wider as it went up, and
higher and higher, until it had risen far above the town, going slowly.
Presently it said: “My youth, I will sing a farewell song to your people for you
and for me, that they may know of our final departure.” Then, as with great
sweeps of its wings it circled round and round, going higher and higher, it
sang this song:

“Huli-i-i—Huli-i-i—
Pa shish lakwa-a-a—
U-u-u-u—
U-u-u-u-a!

Pa shish lakwa-a-a—

U-u-u-u—
U-u-u-u-a!”
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