 | Dahcotah, or, Life and legends of the Sioux around Fort Snelling |  |
OECHE-MONESAH;
THE WANDERER.
Chaske was tired of living in the village, where the
young men, finding plenty of small game to support life,
and yielding to the languor and indolence produced by a
summer's sun, played at checker's, or drank, or slept, from
morn till night, and seemed to forget that they were the
greatest warriors and hunters in the world. This did very
well for a time; but, as I said, Chaskè got tired of it. So
he determined to go on a long journey, where he might
meet with some adventures.
Early one morning he shouldered his quiver of arrows,
and drawing out one arrow from the quiver, he shot it in
the direction he intended to go.
“Now,” said he, “I will follow my arrow.” But it
seemed as if he were destined never to find it, for morning
and noon had passed away, and the setting sun warned
him, not only of the approach of night, but of musquitoes
too. He thought he would build a fire to drive the
musquitoes away; besides, he was both hungry and tired,
though he had not yet found his arrow, and had nothing
to eat.
When he was hesitating as to what he should do, he
sticking in its side. He drew the arrow out, then cut out
the tongue, and after making a fire, he put the tongue
upon a stick to roast. But while the tongue was roasting,
Chaskè fell asleep and slept many hours.
At day-break a woman came up to him and shook him,
as if to awake him. Chaskè started and rubbed his eyes,
and the woman pointed to the path which led across the
prairies. Was he dreaming? No, he felt sure he was
awake. So he got up and followed the woman.
He thought it very strange that the woman did not
speak to him. “I will ask her who she is,” said he; but
as he turned to address her she raised her arms in the air,
and changing her form to that of a beautiful bird, blue as
the sky that hangs over the morning's mist, she flew away.
Chaskè was surprised and delighted too. He loved adventures;
had he not left home to seek them? so he pursued
his journey, quite forgetting his supper, which was cooking
when he fell asleep.
He shot his arrow off again and followed it. It was late
in the evening when he found it, and then it was in the
heart of a moose. “I will not be cheated out of my
supper to-night,” said he; so he cut the tongue out of the
moose and placed it before the fire to roast. Hardly had
he seated himself to smoke, when sleep overcame him, and
he knew nothing until morning, when a woman approached
and shook him as before, pointing to the path.
He arose quickly and followed her; and as he touched
her arm, determined to find out who she was, she, turning
upon him a brow black as night, was suddenly changed
into a crow.
The Dahcotah was completely puzzled. He had never
cared for women; on the contrary, had avoided them. He
never wasted his time telling them they were beautiful, or
playing on the flute to charm their senses. He thought
he had left all such things behind him, but already had he
been twice baffled by a woman. Still he continued his
journey. He had this consolation, the Dahcotah girls did
not turn into birds and fly away. At least there was the
charm of novelty in the incidents. The next day he killed
a bear, but as usual he fell asleep while the tongue was
roasting, and this time he was waked by a porcupine.
The fourth day he found his arrow in a buffalo. “Now,”
said he, “I will eat at last, and I will find out, too, who
and what it is that wakes me.”
But he fell asleep as usual, and was waked in the
morning by a female who touched him lightly and pointed
to the path. Her back was turned towards him, and
instead of rising to follow her, he caught her in his arms,
determined to see and talk with her.
Finding herself a prisoner, the girl turned her face to
him, and Chaskè had never seen anything so beautiful.
Her skin was white as the fairest flower that droops its
head over the banks of the “Lac qui parle.” Her hair
was not plaited, neither was it black like the Dahcotah
maidens', but it hung in golden ringlets about her face and
neck. The warm blood tinted her cheeks as she met the
ardent gaze of the Dahcotah, and Chaskè could not ask
her who she was. How could he speak when his heart
was throbbing, and every pulse beating wildly?
“Let me go,” said the girl; “why do you seek to
warrior. Turn from me and find a wife among the
dark-faced maidens of your tribe.”
“I have always despised them,” said the Dahcotah,
“but you are more beautiful than the Spirits of the water.
I love you, and will make you my wife.”
“Then you must give up your people,” replied the girl,
“for I cannot live as the Dahcotah women. Come with
me to my white lodge, and we will be happy; for see the
bright water as it falls on the rocks. We will sit by its
banks during the heat of the day, and when we are tired,
the music of its waves will lull us to sleep.”
So she took Chaskè by the hand, and they walked on till
they came to an empty white lodge, and there they lived
and were very happy. They were still happier when their
little boy began to play about the lodge; for although they
loved each other very much, still it was lonely where they
lived, and the child was company for them both.
There was one thing, however, that troubled the Dahcotah;
he could not turn his mind from it, and day after
day passed without relieving him from his perplexity.
His beautiful wife never ate with him. When he returned
in the evening from hunting, she was always glad
to see him, and while he rested himself and smoked, she
would cook his meat for him, and seem anxious to make
him comfortable. But he had never seen her eat; and
when he would tell her that he did not like to eat alone,
and beg her to sit down and eat with him, she would say
she was not hungry; and then employ herself about her
about it.
Chaskè made up his mind that he would find out what
his wife lived upon. So the next morning he took his bow
and arrows, as if he were going out on a day's hunt. After
going a short distance from the lodge, he hid himself in the
trees, where he could watch the motions of his wife.
She left the lodge after a while, and with an axe in her
hand she approached a grove of poplar trees. After carefully
looking round to satisfy herself that there was no one
near, she cut down a number of the small and tender poplars,
and, carrying them home, ate them as if she enjoyed
them very much. Chaskè was infinitely relieved when he
saw that his wife did eat; for it frightened him to think
that she lived on nothing but air. But it was so droll to
think she should eat young trees! surely venison was a
great deal better.
But, like a good husband, he thought it was his duty to
humor his wife's fancies. And then he loved her tenderly
—he had given up country and home for her. She was so
good and kind, and her beautiful hair! Chaskè called her
“The Mocassin Flower,” for her golden ringlets reminded
him of that beautiful flower. “She shall not have to cut
the trees down herself,” said Chaskè, “I will bring her food
while she prepares mine.” So he went out to hunt, and
returned in the evening; and while his wife was cooking
his supper, he went to the poplar grove and cut a number
of young trees; he then brought them to the lodge, and,
laying them down, he said to his wife, “I have found out
at last what you like.”
No one would suppose but that the beaver-woman
her. Instead of that, she was very angry; and, taking her
child in her arms, she left the lodge. Chaskè was astonished
to see his gentle wife angry, but he concluded he
would eat his supper, and then follow her, hoping that in
the meantime she would recover her good temper.
When he went out, she was nowhere to be seen. He
called her—he thought at first that she had hid herself.
But, as night came on, and neither she nor the child returned,
the deserted husband grew desperate; he could not
stay in his lodge, and the only thing that he could do was
to start in search of her.
He walked all night, but saw no trace of her. About
sunrise he came to a stream, and following it up a little
way he came to a beaver dam, and on it sat his wife with
her child in her arms. And beautiful she looked, with her
long tresses falling into the water.
Chaskè was delighted to find her. “Why did you leave
me?” called he. “I should have died of grief if I had not
found you.”
“Did I not tell you that I could not live like the Dahcotah
women?” replied Mocassin Flower. “You need not
have watched me to find out what I eat. Return to your
own people; you will find there women enough who eat
venison.”
The little boy clapped his hands with delight when he
saw his father, and wanted to go to him; but his mother
would not let him. She tied a string to his leg and told
him to go, and the child would plunge into the water, and
when he had nearly reached the shore where his father sat,
then would the beaver-woman draw him back.
In the meantime the Dahcotah had been trying to persuade
his wife to come to him, and return to the lodge; but
she refused to do so, and sat combing her long hair. The
child had cried itself to sleep; and the Dahcotah, worn out
with fatigue and grief, thought he would go to sleep too.
After a while a woman came and touched him on the
shoulder, and awaked him as of old. He started and looked
at her, and perceiving it was not his wife, felt inclined to
take little notice of her.
“What,” said she, “does a Dahcotah warrior still love
a woman who hates him?”
“Mocassin Flower loves me well,” replied the Dahcotah;
“she has been a good wife.”
“Yes,” replied the woman, “she was for a time; but
she sighs to return home—her heart yearns towards the
lover of her youth.”
Chaskè was very angry. “Can this be true?” he said;
and he looked towards the beaver dam where his wife still
sat. In the meantime the woman who had waked him,
brought him some food in bark dishes worked with porcupine.
“Eat,” she said to the Dahcotah; “you are hungry.”
But who can tell the fury that Mocassin Flower was in
when she saw that strange woman bringing her husband
food. “Who are you,” she cried, “that are troubling
yourself about my husband? I know you well; you are
the `Bear-Woman.”'
“And if I am,” said the Bear woman, “do not the souls
of the bears enjoy forever the heaven of the Dahcotah?”
Poor Chaskè! he could not prevent their quarrelling, so,
being very hungry, he soon disposed of what the Bear woman
took the bark dishes. “Come with me,” she said; “you
cannot live in the water, and I will take you to a beautiful
lodge, and we will be happy.”
The Dahcotah turned to his wife, but she gave him no
encouragement to remain. “Well,” said he, “I always
loved adventures, and I will go and seek some more.”
The new wife was not half so pretty as the old one.
Then she was so wilful, and ordered him about—as if women
were anything but dogs in comparison with a Dahcotah
warrior. Yes, he who had scorned the Dahcotah girls,
as they smiled upon him, was now the slave of a bear-woman;
but there was one comfort—there were no warriors
to laugh at him.
For a while they got on well enough. His wife had
twin children—one was a fine young Dahcotah, and the
other was a smart active little bear, and it was very amusing
to see them play together. But in all their fights the
young Dahcotah had the advantage; though the little bear
would roll and tumble, and stick his claws into the Dahcotah,
yet it always ended by the little bear's capering off
and roaring after his mother. Perhaps this was the reason,
but for some reason or other the mother did not seem
contented and happy. One morning she woke up very
early, and while telling her husband that she had a bad
dream, the dog commenced barking outside the lodge.
“What can be the matter?” said Chaskè.
“Oh!” said the woman, “I know; there is a hunter out
there who wants to kill me, but I am not afraid.”
So saying, she put her head out of the door, which the
hunter seeing, shot his arrow; but instead of hurting her,
up her little child, ran away and was soon out of sight.
“Ha!” said Chaske, “I had better have married a Dahcotah
girl, for they do not run away from their husbands
except when another wife comes to take their place. But
I have been twice deserted.” So saying, he took the little
Dahcotah in his arms, and followed his wife. Towards
evening he came up with her, but she did not seem glad to
see him. He asked her why she left him; she replied, “I
want to live with my own people.” “Well,” said the Dahcotah,
“I will go with you.” The woman consented, though
it was plain she did not want him; for she hated her
Dahcotah child, and would not look at him.
After travelling a few days, they approached a grove of
trees, which grew in a large circle. “Do you see that nest
of trees?” said the woman. “There is the great village of
the bears. There are many young men there that loved
me, and they will hate you because I preferred you to
them. Take your boy, then, and return to your people.”
But the Dahcotah feared not, and they approached the village
of the bears.
There was a great commotion among the bears as they
discovered them. They were glad to see the young bear-woman
back again, but they hated the Dahcotah, and
determined on his death. However, they received him
hospitably, conducted him and his wife to a large lodge,
gave them food, and the tired travellers were soon asleep.
But the Dahcotah soon perceived he was among enemies,
and he kept a careful look out upon them. The little
Dahcotah was always quarrelling with the young bears;
and on one occasion, being pretty hungry, a cub annoying
with his bow and arrow, and ate him up. This aroused
the vengeance of the bears; they had a consultation among
themselves, and swore they would kill both father and son.
It would be impossible to tell of the troubles of Chaskè.
His wife, he could see, loved one of the bears, and was
anxious for his own death; but whenever he contended
with the bears he came off victor. Whether in running a
foot race, or shooting with a bow and arrow, or whatever it
might be, he always won the prize, and this made his enemies
still more venomous.
Four years had now passed since Chaskè left his native
village, and nothing had ever been heard of him. But at
length the wanderer returned.
But who would have recognized, in the crest-fallen, melancholy-looking
Indian, the gay warrior that had left home
but a few years before? The little boy that held his hand
was cheerful enough, and seemed to recognize acquaintances,
instead of looking for the first time on the faces of his
father's friends.
How did the young girls laugh when he told of the
desertion of his first wife; but when he continued his story,
and told them of the faithlessness of the bear woman also,
you heard nothing but shouts of derision. Was it not a
triumph for the Dahcotah women? How had he scorned
them before he went away! Did he not say that women
were only dogs, or worse than dogs?
But there was one among his old acquaintances who
would not join in the laughter. As she looked on the
care-worn countenance of the warrior, she would fain have
offered to put new mocassins upon his feet, and bring him
her companions—though as night came on, she sought him
when there was no one to heed her.
“Chaskè,” she called—and the Dahcotah turned hastily
towards her, attracted by the kindness of her voice—“there
are no women who love as the Dahcotah women. I would
have gone to the ends of the earth with you, but you despised
me. You have come back, and are laughed at. Care
has broken your spirit, or you would not submit to the
sneers of your old friends, and the contempt of those who
once feared you. I will be your wife, and, mingling again
in the feasts and customs of your race, you will soon be the
bold and fearless warrior that you were when you left us.”
And her words were true; for the Indians soon learned
that they were not at liberty to talk to Chaskè of his wanderings.
He never spoke of his former wives, except to
compare them with his present, who was as faithful and
obedient as they were false and troublesome. “And he
found,” says Chequered Cloud, “that there was no land
like the Dahcotah's, no river like the Father of waters, and
no happiness like that of following the deer across the open
prairies, or of listening, in the long summer days, to the
wisdom of the medicine men.”
And she who had loved him in his youth, and wept for him
in his absence, now lies by his side—for Chaskè has taken
another long journey. Death has touched him, but not
lightly, and pointed to the path which leads to the Land of
Spirits—and he did not go alone; for her life closed with his,
and together their spirits watch over the mortal frames that
they once tenanted.
“Look at the white woman's life,” said Chequered Cloud,
Dahcotah's. You sleep on a soft bed, while the Dahcotah
woman lays her head upon the ground, with only her
blanket for a covering; when you are hungry you eat, but
for days has the Dahcotah woman wanted for food, and
there was none to give it. Your children are happy, and
fear nothing; ours have crouched in the earth at night,
when the whoop and yell of the Chippeways sent terror to
their young hearts, and trembling to their tender limbs.
“And when the fire-water of the white man has maddened
the senses of the Dahcotah, so that the blow of his war club
falls upon his wife instead of his enemy, even then the
Dahcotah woman must live and suffer on.” “But, Chequered
Cloud, the spirit of the Dahcotah watches over the
body which remains on earth. Did you not say the soul
went to the house of spirits?”
“The Dahcotah has four souls,” replied the old woman;
“one wanders about the earth, and requires food; another
protects the body; the third goes to the Land of Spirits,
while the fourth forever hovers around his native village.”
“I wish,” said I, “that you would believe in the God of
the white people. You would then learn that there is but
one soul, and that that soul will be rewarded for the good it
has done in this life, or punished for the evil.”
“The Great Spirit,” she replied, “is the God of the
Dahcotah. He made all things but thunder and wild rice.
When we do wrong we are punished in this world. If we
do not live up to the laws of our forefathers, the spirits of
the dead will punish us. We must keep up the customs
of our tribe. If we are afraid that the thunder will strike
us, we dance in honor of it, and destroy its power. Our
which will not only heal the sick, but will preserve us
in danger; and we make feasts for the dead.
“Our children are taught to do right. They are not
to injure one who has not harmed them; but where is the
Dahcotah who will not rejoice as he takes the life of his
enemy?”
“But,” said I, “you honor the thunder, and yet it
strikes you. What is the thunder, and where does it come
from?”
“Thunder is a large bird, flying through the air; its
bright tracks are seen in the heavens, before you hear the
clapping of its wings. But it is the young ones who do
the mischief. The parent bird would not hurt a Dahcotah.
Long ago a thunder bird fell dead from the heavens; and
our fathers saw it as it lay not far from Little Crow's
village.
“It had a face like a Dahcotah warrior, with a nose like
an eagle's bill. Its body was long and slender, its wings
were large, and on them was painted the lightning. Our
warriors were once out hunting in the winter, when a terrible
storm came on, and a large thunder bird descended to
the earth, wearing snow-shoes; he took but a few steps
and then rose up, leaving his tracks in the snow. That
winter our hunters killed many bears.”
| Dahcotah, or, Life and legends of the Sioux around Fort Snelling | |