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Title: Zuñi Breadstuff
Author: Frank Hamilton Cushing
Publisher: New York, Museum of the American Indian, Heye Foundation

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> ZUÑI BREADSTUFF
BY FRANK HAMILTON CUSHING
CHAPTER I
CREATION, AND THE ORIGIN OF CORN1

[Illustration: The initial capital is ornate, and illustrated with a leaf motif.]

WATCHING one day a white-headed Zuñi grandmother who was stirring vigorously some yellow batter with a bundle of splints, I asked her what she was making. "Hoecakes," she answered, only she called it mu'-we.

"How do you make them?" I inquired.

"Sa-k'o, o'lut-si-na la k'ia'kok-shi, hi-ni-na hâ i'-ya si'; tem kwi'l-ip-nan, hâ ko-la ma-we ta i'-sha-nan wo-lu, shél-an-an ul-üp, he'-po-k'on wo'-tap, te'-na'-lap, u-li'-hap,-tchim i'-to-na-k'ia, a'ya-naie'l"-- replied the old woman.

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This is as hard as Zuñi milling; but I will try to grind it into English.

"Meal, soft corn-flour and good water, equally I mix; then stirring, red-pepper, salt, and suet, I put in, into husks I roll this, into an oven all place shutting the hole; time passed, I take them out. Now then, for eating they are ready!"

Do not imagine the old woman knew no other way of making corn-food. As prolific of resources as the Chinese are with their rice, not more so are they than are the ancient Zuñis with their corn.

Indeed so important to the Zuñi is his corn, that it plays an all-essential part, not only in his daily but also in his industrial, religious, and mythologic life, and even in the tales with which he amuses the children about the fireside in winter-time.

That this may be better understood among those controlled by a culture totally at variance with that of the Zuñis; that the many observances, ceremonials, and formulæ connected with corn, its growth, treatment, and preparation for food, hereinafter to be described, may not seem meaningless,


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it is necessary that an outline of the Zuñi mythology connected with corn, and that some, at least, of the philosophy and folk-lore which have grown out of this mythology, be recorded.

Thus, by following me in the pursuit of a useful purpose, I anticipate that my readers will find some part of the interest and pleasure which fell to my lot when, on long winter nights, I listened, in the light of pinñon-fires on Zuñi hearthstones, to the recitals which first gave me knowledge of these strange beliefs and things.

Thus listening, I once heard a Zuñi priest say:

"Five things alone are necessary to the sustenance and comfort of the 'dark ones' [Indians] among the children of earth:

"The sun, who is the Father of all.

"The earth, who is the Mother of men.

"The water, who is the Grandfather.

"The fire, who is the Grandmother.

"Our brothers and sister the Corn, and seeds of growing things."

This Indian philosopher explained himself somewhat after the following fashion:

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"Who among men and the creatures could live without the Sun Father? for his light brings day, warms and gladdens the Earth Mother with rain which flows forth in the water we drink and that causes the flesh of the Earth Mother to yield abundantly seeds, while these,--are they not cooked by the brand of fire which warms us in winter?"

That he reasoned well, may be the better understood if we follow for a while the teachings which instructed his logic. These relate that:

First, there was sublime darkness, which vanished not until came the "Ancient Father of the Sun," revealing universal waters. These were, save him, all that were.

The Sun-father thought to change the face of the waters and cause life to replace their desolation.

He rubbed the surface of his flesh, thus drawing forth yep'na.2

The yep'na he rolled into two balls. From his high and "ancient place among the spaces" (Te'-thlÄ-shi-na-kwin) he cast


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forth one of these balls and it fell upon the surface of the waters. There, as a drop of deer suet on hot broth, so this ball melted and spread far and wide like scum over the great waters, ever growing, until it sank into them.

Then the Sun Father cast forth the other ball, and it fell, spreading out and growing even larger than had the first, and dispelling so much of the waters that it rested upon the first. In time, the first became a great being--our Mother, the Earth; and the second became another great being--our Father, the Sky. Thus was divided the universal fluid into the "embracing waters of the World" below, and the "embracing waters of the Sky" above. Behold! this is why the Sky Father is blue as the ocean which is the home of the Earth Mother, blue even his flesh, as seem the far-away mountains, though they be the flesh of the Earth Mother.

Now, while the Sky Father and the Earth Mother were together, the Earth Mother conceived in her ample wombs--which were the four great underworlds or caves--


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the first of men and creatures. Then the two entered into council that they might provide for the birth of their children.

"How shall it be?" said the one to the other. "How, when born forth, shall our children subsist, and who shall guide them?"

"Behold!" said the Sky Father. He spread his hand high and abroad with the hollow palm downward. Yellow grains like corn he stuck into all the lines and wrinkles of his palm and fingers. "Thus," said he, "shall I, as it were, hold my hand ever above thee and thy children, and the yellow grains shall represent so many shining points which shall guide and light these, our children, when the Sun Father is not nigh."

Gaze on the sky at night-time! Is it not the palm of the Great Father, and are the stars not in many lines of his hand yet to be seen?

"Ah yes!" said the Earth Mother, "yet my tiny children may not wander over my lap and bosom without guidance, even in the light of the Sun Father, therefore, behold!"

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She took a great terraced bowl into which she poured water; upon the water she spat, and, whipping it rapidly with her fingers, it was soon beaten into foam as froths the soap-weed, and the foam rose high up around the rim of the bowl. The Earth Mother blew the foam. Flake after flake broke off, and bursting, cast spray downward into the bowl.

"See," said she, "this bowl is, as it were, the world, the rim its farthest limits, and the foam-bounden terraces round about, my features, which they shall call mountains whereby they shall name countries and be guided from place to place, and whence white clouds shall rise, float away, and, bursting, shed spray, that my children may drink of the water of life, and from my substance add unto the flesh of their being. Thou hast said thou wilt watch over them when the Sun Father is absent, but thou art the cold being; I am the warm. Therefore, at night, when thou watchest, my children shall nestle in my bosom and find there warmth, strength, and length of life from one daylight to another."

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Is not the bowl the emblem of the Earth, our mother? For from it we draw both food and drink, as a babe draws nourishment from the breast of its mother, and round, as is the rim of a bowl, so is the horizon, terraced with mountains whence rise the clouds. Is not woman the warm, man the cold being? For while woman sits shivering as she cooks by the fire in the house-room, man goes forth little heeding the storms of winter, to hunt the feed and gather pine-fagots.

Yet, alas! men and the creatures remained bounden in the lowermost womb of the Earth Mother, for she and the Sky Father feared to deliver them as a mother fears for the fate of her first offspring.

Then the Ancient Sun pitied the children of Earth. That they might speedily see his light, he cast a glance upon a foam-cap floating abroad on the great waters. Forthwith the foam-cap became instilled with life, and bore twin children, brothers one to the other, older and younger, for one was born before the other. To these he gave the k'ia-al-lan, or "water-shield," that on


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it they might fly over the waters as the clouds, from which it was spun and woven, float over the ocean; that they might blind with its mists the sight of the enemy as the clouds, darken the earth with rain-drops. He gave them for their bow, the rainbow, that with it they might clear men's trails of enemies, as the rainbow clears away the storm-shadows; and for their arrows gave he them the thunderbolts, that they might rive open the mountains, as the lightning cleaves asunder the pine trees, and then he sent them abroad to deliver, guide, and protect the children of earth and the Sky Father. With their bow they lifted from his embraces the Sky Father from the bosom of the Earth Mother, "for," said they, "if he remain near, his cold will cause men to be stunted and stooped with shivering and to grovel in the earth," as stunted trees in the mountains delve under the snow to hide from the cold of the Sky Father. With their thunderbolts they broke open the mountain which gave entrance to the cave-wombs of the Earth Mother, and upon their water-shields they


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descended into the lowermost of the caves, where dwelt the children of earth--men and all creatures.

Alas! It was dark as had been the world before the coming of the Sun, and the brothers found men and the beings sadly bewailing their lot. When one moved it was but to jostle another, whose complaints wearied the ears of yet others; hence the brothers called a council of the priest-chiefs,--even ere the coming forth of men such lived,--and they made a ladder of tall canes which they placed against the roof of the cavern. Up this rushed the children of earth. Some, climbing out before of their own wills, found deliverance from the caves above and, wandering away, became the ancestors of nations unknown to us; but our fathers followed in the footsteps of the older and younger brothers. Does not the cane grow jointed today, showing thus the notches which men traversed to daylight?

In the second cave all was still dark, but like starlight through cloud rifts, through the cleft above showed the twilight. After


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time the people murmured again, until the two delivered them into the third world where they found light like that of early dawn. Again they grew discontented, again were guided upward, this time into the open light of the Sun--which was the light of this world. But some remained behind, not escaping until afterward; and these were the fathers of the western nations whom our ancients knew not.

Then indeed for a time the people complained bitterly, for it was then that they first saw the light of the Sun Father, which, in its brilliancy, smote them so that they fell grasping their eyeballs and moaning. But when they became used to the light they looked around in joy and wonderment; yet they saw that the earth seemed but small, for everywhere rolled about the great misty waters.

The two brothers spread open the limbs of the Earth Mother and cleft the western mountains with their shafts of lightning, and the waters flowed down and away from the bosom of the Earth Mother, cutting great cañons and valleys which remain to


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this day. Thus was widened the land, yet the earth remained damp. Then they guided the people eastward.

Already before men came forth from the lower worlds with the priest-chiefs, there were many gods and strange beings. The gods gave to the priests many treasures and instructions, but the people knew not yet the meaning of either. Thus were first taught our ancients incantations, rituals, and sacred talks (prayer), each band of them according to its usefulness. These bands were, the "Priesthood" (Shi'-wa'na-kwe), the "Hunter-band" (Sa'-ni-a-k'ia-kwe), the "Knife-band" (A'tchi-a-k'ia-kwe or Warrior), and the Ne'-we-kwe or the Band of Wise Medicine Men. The leaders of each band thus came to have wonderful knowledge and power--even as that of the gods! They summoned a great council of their children--for they were called the "Fathers of the People"--and asked them to choose such things as they would have for special ownership or use. Some chose the macaw, the eagle, or the turkey; others chose the deer, bear, or coyote; others the


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seeds of earth, or a'-tâ-a, the spring vine, tobacco, and the plants of medicine, the yellow-wood and many other things. Thus it came about that they and their brothers and sisters and their children, even unto the present day, were named after the things they chose in the days when all was new, and thus was divided our nation into many clans (a'-no'ti'we) of brothers and sisters who may not marry one another but from one to the other. To some of the elders of these bands and clans was given some thing which should be, above all other things, precious. For instance, the clans of the Bear and Crane were given the mu'-et-ton-ne, or medicine seed of hail and snow. For does not the bear go into his den, and appears not the crane when come the storms of hail and snow?

When more than one clan possessed one of these magic medicines, they formed a secret society, like the first four, for its keeping and use. Thus the Bear and Crane peoples became the "Holders of the Wand"--who bring the snow of winter and are potent to cure the diseases which come


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with them. In time they let into their secret council others, whom they had cured, that the precious secrets of their band might not be wasted. Thus it was that one after another were formed the rest of our medicine bands, who were and are called the finishers of men's trails, because, despite disease and evil, they guard and lengthen our lives; but in the "days of the new" there were only four bands.3

To the Eagle, Deer, and Coyote peoples were given the nal'-e-ton, or "deer medicine seed," which the Hunter band still guards; and to the Macaw, Sun, and Frog peoples the k'ia'-et-ton, or the "medicine seed of water," which the priesthood and the Sacred Dance, or Kâ'-kâ', still hold--without the administration of which the world would dry up and even the insects of the mountains and hollows of earth grow thirsty and perish. Yet, not less precious was the gift to the "Seed people," or Tâ'-a-kwe. This was the tchu'-et-ton, or the "medicine seed of corn," for from this came the parents of flesh and beauty, the solace of hunger, the emblems of birth,


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mortal life, death, and immortality. To the Badger people was given the knowledge of fire, for in the roots of all trees, great and little, which the badger best knows how to find, dwells the essence of fire.4

To all of these peoples it was told that they should wander for many generations toward the land whence the Sun brings the daylight (eastward), until at last they would reach the "middle of the world," where their children should dwell forever over the heart of our Earth Mother until their days should be numbered and the light of Zuñi grow dark.

Toward this unknown country the "twin brothers of light" guided them. In those times a day meant a year, and a night another, so that four days and nights meant eight years. Many days the people wandered eastward, slaying game for their flesh-food, gathering seeds from grasses and weeds for their bread-food, and binding rushes about their loins for their clothing; they knew not until afterward, the flesh of the cotton--and yucca-mothers.

The earth was still damp. Dig a hole


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in a hillside, quickly it filled with water. Drop a seed on the highest table-land, and it without waiting shot forth green sprouts. So moist, indeed, was the soil, that even footprints of men and all creatures might be traced withersoever they tended. The beings and strange creatures increased with men, and spread over the world. Many monsters lived, by whose ferocity men perished.

Then said the twin brothers: "Men, our children, are poorer than the beasts, their enemies; for each creature has a special gift of strength or sagacity, while to men has been given only the power of guessing. Nor would we that our children be web-footed like the beings that live over the waters and damp places."

Therefore, they sent all men and harmless beings to a place of security; then laid their water-shield on the ground. Upon it they placed four thunderbolts, one pointing north, another west, another south, and the other eastward. When all was ready they let fly the thunderbolts. Instantly the world was covered with lurid fire and


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shaken with rolling thunders, as is a forest today burned and blasted where the lightning has fallen. Thus as the clay of vessels is burned to rock, and the mud of the hearth crackled and reddened by fire, so the earth was mottled and crackled and hardened where now we see mountains and masses of rock. Many of the great monsters and prey-beings were changed in a twinkling to enduring rock or shriveled into twisted idols which the hunter and priest-warrior know best how to prize. Behold! their forms along every mountainside and ravine and in the far western valleys and plains still endure the tracks of the fathers of men and beings, the children of earth. Yet some of the beings of prey were spared, that the world might not become over-filled with life and starvation follow, and that men might breathe of their spirits and be inspired with the hearts of warriors and hunters.

Often the people rested from their wanderings, building great houses of stone which may even now be seen, until the conch of the gods sounded, which lashed the


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ocean to fury and beat the earth to trembling.5 Then the people started up, and gathering the few things they could, again commenced their wanderings; yet often those who slept or lingered were buried beneath their own walls, where yet their bones may sometimes be found.

Marvelous both of good and evil were the works of the ancients. Alas! there came forth with others, those impregnated with the seed of sorcery. Their evil works caused discord among men, and, through fear and anger, men were divided from one another. Born before our ancients, had been other men, and these our fathers sometimes overtook and looked not peacefully upon them, but challenged them--though were they not their elder brothers? It thus happened when our ancients came to their fourth resting place on their eastward journey, that which they named Shi-po-lo-lon-K'ai-a, or "Place of Misty Waters," there already dwelt a clan of people called the A'-tâ-a, or Seed people, and the Seed clan of our ancients challenged them to know by what right they assumed


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the name and attributes of their own clan. "Behold!" said these stranger beings, "we have power with the gods above yours, yet can we not exert it without your aid. Try, therefore, your own power first, then we will show you ours." At last, after much wrangling, the Seed clan agreed to this, and set apart eight days for prayer and sacred labors. First they worked together cutting sticks, to which they bound the plumes of summer birds which fly in the clouds or sail over the waters. "Therefore," thought our fathers, "why should not their plumes waft our beseechings to the waters and clouds?" These plumes, with prayers and offerings, they planted in the valleys, and there also they placed their tchu'-e-ton-ne. Lo! for eight days and nights it rained, and there were thick mists; and the waters from the mountains poured down, bringing new soil and spreading it over the valleys where the plumed sticks had been planted. "See!" said the fathers of the Seed clan, "water and new earth bring we by our supplications.

"It is well," replied the strangers, "yet


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life ye did not bring. Behold!" and they too set apart eight days, during which they danced and sang a beautiful dance and prayer song, and at the end of that time they took the people of the Seed clan to the valleys. Behold, indeed! Where the plumes had been planted and the tchu'-e-ton placed grew seven corn-plants, their tassels waving in the wind, their stalks laden with ripened grain. "These," said the strangers, "are the severed flesh of seven maidens, our own sisters and children. The eldest sister's is the yellow corn; the next, the blue; the next, the red; the next, the white; the next, the speckled; the next, the black, and the last and youngest is the sweet-corn, for see! even ripe, she is soft like the young of the others. The first is of the North-land, yellow like the light of winter; the second is of the West, blue like the great world of waters; the third is of the South, red like the Land of Everlasting Summer; the fourth is of the East, white like the land whence the sun brings the daylight; the fifth is of the upper regions, many-colored as are the clouds of morning and


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evening, and the sixth is of the lower regions, black as are the caves whence came we, your elder, and ye, our younger brothers."

"Brothers indeed be we, each one to the other," said the people to the strangers, "and may we not journey together seeking the middle of the world?"

"Aye, we may," replied the strangers, "and of the flesh of our maidens ye may eat, no more seeking the seeds of the grasses, and of your water we may drink, no more wondering whither we shall find it; thus shall each help the other to life and contentment. Ye shall pray and cut prayer-plumes; we shall sing, and dance shall our maidens that all may be delighted and that it may be for the best. But beware! no mortal must approach the persons of our maidens."

Thenceforward, many of the A'-tâ-a and the Seed clan journeyed together, until at last the Sun, Macaw, and some other clanspeople found the middle of the world; while others yet wandered in search of it, not for many generations to join their brothers, over the heart of the Earth


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Mother, which is Shi'wi-na-kwin, or the "Land of the Zuñis."6

Day after day, season after season, year after year, the people of the Seed clan and the A'-tâ-a, who were named together the Corn clan, or people, prepared, and their maidens danced the dance of the Thla-he-kwe,7 or "Beautiful Corn Wands," until their children grew weary and yearned for other amusements.

Sometimes the people saw over Thunder Mountain8 thick mists floating and lowering. At such times, near the Cave of the Rainbow, a beautiful halo would spring forth, amidst which the many-colored garments of the rainbow himself could be seen, and soft, sweet music, stranger than that of the whistling winds in a mountain of pines, floated fitfully down the valley. At last the priests and elders gathered in council and determined to send their two chief warriors (Priests of the Bow) to the Cavern of the Rainbow, that it might be determined what strange people made the sights and sounds. "Mayhap it will prove some new dancers, who will throw the light


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of their favor on our weary hearts and come to cheer us and delight our children." Thus said they to the warriors when they were departing.

No sooner had the warriors reached the cave entrance than the mists enshrouded them and the music ceased. They entered, and were received by a splendid group of beings bearing long, brightly-painted flutes, amongst whom the leader was Pai'-a-tu-ma, the father of the Ne'-we band, and the God of Dew.

"Enter, my children," said he, "and sit. We have commanded our dancers to cease and our players to draw breath from their flutes, that we might listen to your messages; for, 'not for nothing does one stranger visit the house of another.'"

"True," replied the warriors. "Our fathers have sent us that we might greet you, and the light of your favor ask for our children. Day after day the maidens of the Corn people dance one dance which, from oft repeating, has grown undelightful, and our fathers thought you might come to vary this dance with your own, for that


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you knew one we were taught by your music, which we sometimes heard."

"Aha!" replied Pai'-a-tu-ma, "It is well! We will follow; but not in the day-time--in the night-time we will follow. My children," said he, turning to the flute-players, "show to the strangers our custom."

The drum sounded till it shook the cavern; the music shrieked and pealed in softly surging unison, as the wind does in a wooded cañon after the storm is distant, and the mists played over the medicine bowl around which the musicians were gathered, until the rainbow fluttered his bright garments among the painted flutes. Maidens filed out, brandishing wands whence issued tiny clouds white as the down of eagles, and as the sounds died away between the songs the two warriors in silent wonder and admiration departed for their home.

When they returned to their fathers in Zuñi they told what they had seen and heard. Forthwith the fathers (priest-chiefs and elders) prepared the dance of the Corn Maidens. A great bower was placed


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in the court of the pueblo, whither went the mothers and priests of the Seed clan. The priests of the Macaw, Sun, and Water clans were there. A terrace of sacred meal was marked on the ground, an altar set up over its base, and along its middle were placed the e-'tâ-e or medicine-seeds of corn and water. Along the outer edges were planted the sticks of prayer, plumed with the feathers of summer birds, and down in front of the altar and terrace were set basket-bowls covered with sacred mantles made of the flesh of the Cotton Mother (Goddess of Cotton), whose down grows from the earth and floats in the skies [cotton and the clouds are one in the Zuñi mythology]. By the side of each basket-bowl sat a mother of the clan, silent in prayer and meditation. To the right were the singers, to the left the Corn Maidens. Night was coming on. The dance began and a fire was built in front of the bower beyond where the maidens danced. More beautiful than all human maidens were these Maidens of the Corn, but as are human maidens, so were they, irresistibly beautiful.

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As the night deepened, the sound of music and flutes was heard up the river, and then followed the players of the Rainbow Cave with their sisters, led by the God of Dew. When the players entered and saw the maidens, their music ceased and they were impassioned. And when their turn came for leading the dance, they played their softest strains over their medicine-bowl--the terraced bowl of the world--whence arose the rainbow. The people were delighted, but the Corn Maidens were sad; for no sooner had the dancing ceased a little than the flute players sought their hands and persons. In vain the Corn Maidens pleaded they were immortal virgins and the mothers of men! The flute players continually renewed their suits until the next day, and into the night which followed, while the dance went on. At last the people grew weary. The guardian warrior-priests nodded, and no longer wakened them. Silently the Corn Maidens stole up between the basket-trays and the sleeping people. There, passing their hands over their persons they placed


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something under the mantles, vanishing instantly as do the spirits of the dying, leaving only their flesh behind. Still the people slept, and ere long even the flute-players and dancers ceased. When the sun came out the people awoke. Then every one cried to the others, "Where are our maiden mothers, our daughters?" Yet not even the warriors knew; for only of the flesh of the maidens (corn) could be found a little in the trays under the mantles. Then the place was filled with moaning among the women and upbraidings among the men, each blaming every other loudly until the priests cried out to silence their wranglings, and called a council. Then said they:

"Alas, we have laden our hearts with guilt, and sad thoughts have we prepared to weigh down our minds! We must send to seek the maidens, that they desert us not. Who shall undertake the journey?"

"Send for the Eagle," it was said. The two warrior-priests were commanded to seek him.

Be it known that while yet the earth was young, her children, both men and the


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creatures, spoke as men alone now speak, any one with any other. This the aged among all nations agree in saying, and are not those who grow not foolish with great age the wisest of men? Their words we speak!

Therefore, when the two warriors climbed the mountain whereon the Eagle dwelt, and found only his Eaglets at home, the little birds were frightened and tried to hide themselves in the hole where the nest was built. But when the warriors came nearer, they screamed: "Oh, do not pull our feathers; wait till we are older and we will drop them for you!"

"Hush!" said the warriors, "we seek your father."

But just then the old Eagle, with a frown on his eyebrow, rushed in and asked why the warriors were frightening his "pin-feathers."

"We came for you, our father. Listen! Our mothers, the beautiful Corn Maidens, have vanished, leaving no trace save of their flesh. We come to beseech that you shall seek them for us."

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"Go before!" said the Eagle, smoothing his feathers, which meant that he would follow. So the warriors returned.

Then the Eagle launched forth into the sky, circling higher and higher, until he was smaller than a thistle-down in a whirlwind. At last he flew lower, then into the bower of the dancers where the council awaited him.

"Ah, thou comest!" exclaimed the people.

"Yes," replied the Eagle. "Neither a bluebird nor a wood-rat can escape my eye," said he, snapping his beak, "unless they hide under rocks or bushes. Send for my younger brother; he flies nearer the ground than I."

So the warriors went to seek the Sparrowhawk. They found him sitting on an ant-hill, but when he saw them he would have flown away had they not called out that they had words for him and meant him no harm."

"What is it?" said he. "For if you have any snare-strings with you, I'll be off."

"No, no! we wish you to go and hunt for our maidens--the Corn Maidens," said the


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warriors. "Your old brother, the Eagle, cannot find them."

"Oh, that's it! Well, go before--of course he can't find them! He climbs up to the clouds and thinks he can see under every tree and shadow as does the Sun, who sees not with eyes."

The Sparrowhawk flew away to the north and the east and the west, looking behind every cliff and copse-wood, but he found no trace of the maidens, and returned, declaring as he flew into the bower, "They can not be found. They are hiding more snugly than I ever knew a sparrow to hide," said he, ruffling his feathers and gripping the stick he settled on as though it were feathers and blood.

"Oh, alas! alas! our beautiful maidens!" cried the old women. "We shall never see them again!"

"Hold your feet with patience, there's old Heavy Nose out there; go and see if he can hunt for them. He knows well enough to find their flesh, however so little soever that may be," said an old priest, pointing to a Crow who was scratching an ash-heap


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sidewise with his beak, trying to find something for a morning meal. So the warrior ran down and accosted him.

"O caw!" exclaimed the Crow, probing a fresh place, "I am too hungry to go flying around for you stingy fellows. Here I've been ever since perching-time, trying to get a mouthful; but you pick your bones and bowls too clean, be sure for that!"

"Come in, then, grandfather, and we'll give you a smoke and something to eat," said the two warriors.

"Caw, haw!" said the old Crow, ruffling up his collar and opening his mouth wide enough to swallow his own head. "Go before!" and he followed them into the dance-court.

"Come in, sit and smoke," said the chief priest, handing the Crow a cigarette.

At once the old Crow took the cigarette and drew such a big whiff into his throat that the smoke completely filled his feathers, and ever since then crows have been black all over, although before that time they had white shoulder-bands and very blue backs, which made them look quite fine.

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Then the Crow suddenly espied an ear of corn under one of the mantles, for this was all the maidens had left; so he made for the corn and flew off with it, saying, as he skipped over the houses, "I guess this is all you'll see of the maidens for many a day," and ever since then crows have been so fond of corn that they steal even that which is buried. But bye and bye the old Crow came back, saying that he had a "sharp eye for the flesh of the maidens, but he could not find any trace of the maidens themselves."

Then the people were very sad with thoughts, when they suddenly heard Pai'-a-tu-ma joking"9 along the streets as though the whole pueblo were listening to him. "Call him," cried the priests to the warriors, and the warriors ran out to summon Pai'-a-tu-ma.

Pai'-a-tu-ma sat down on a heap of refuse, saying he was about to make a breakfast of it. The warriors greeted him.

"Why and wherefore do you two cowards come not after me?" inquired Pai'-a-tu-ma.

"We do come for you."

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"No, you do not."

"Yes, we do."

"Well, I will not go with you," said he, forthwith following them to the dance-court.

"My little children," said he, to the gray-haired priests and mothers, "good evening" (it was not yet mid-day); "you are all very happy, I see."

"Thou comest," said the chief priest.

"I do not," replied Pai'-a-tu-ma.

"Father," said the chief priest, "we are very sad and we have sought you that we might ask the light of your wisdom."

"Ah, quite as I had supposed. I am very glad to find you all so happy. Being thus you do not need my advice. What may I not do for you?"

"We would that you seek for the Corn Maidens, our mothers, whom we have offended, and who have exchanged themselves for nothing in our gaze."

"Oh, that's all, is it? The Corn Maidens are not lost, and if they were I would not go to seek them, and if I went to seek for them I could not find them, and if I found them I would not bring them, but I would


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tell them 'you did not wish to see them' and leave them where they are not--in the Land of Everlasting Summer, which is not their home. Ha! you have no prayer-plumes here, I observe," said he, picking up one each of the yellow, blue, and white kinds, and starting out with the remark, "I come."

With rapid strides he set forth toward the south. When he came to the mouth of the Cañon of the Woods, whence blows the wind of summer in spring-time, he planted the yellow-plumed stick. Then he knelt to watch the eagle-down, and presently the down moved gently toward the north, as though some one were breathing on it. Then he went yet farther, and planted the blue stick. Again the eagle-down moved. So he went on planting the sticks, until very far away he placed the last one. Now the eagle-plume waved constantly toward the north.

"Aha!" said Pai'-a-tu-ma to himself. "It is the breath of the Corn Maidens, and thus shall it ever be, for when they breathe toward the northland, thither shall warmth,


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showers, fertility, and health be wafted, and the summer birds shall chase the butterfly out of Summerland, and summer itself, with my own beads and treasures, shall follow after." Then he journeyed on, no longer a dirty clown, but an aged, grand god, with a colored flute, flying softly and swiftly as the wind he sought.

Soon he came to the home of the maidens, whom he greeted, bidding them, as he waved his flute over them, to follow him to the home of their children.

The maidens arose, and each taking a tray covered with embroidered cotton, followed him as he strode with folded arms, swiftly before them.

At last they reached the home of our fathers. Then Pai'-a-tu-ma gravely spoke to the council:

"Behold, I have returned with the lost maidens, yet may they not remain or come again, for you have not loved their beautiful custom, the source of your lives, and men would seek to change the blessings of their flesh itself into suffering humanity were they to remain amongst you.

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"As a mother of her own blood and being gives life to her offspring, so have these given of their own flesh to you. Once more their flesh they give to you, as it were their children. From the beginning of the new sun each year, ye shall treasure their gift, during the moon of the snow-broken boughs, during the moon of the lesser sand-driving winds, you shall treasure their flesh. Then, in the new soil which the winter winds and waters have brought, ye shall bury their flesh as ye bury the flesh of the dead, and as the flesh of he dead decays, so shall their flesh decay, and as from the flesh of the dead springs the other being (the soul), so from their flesh shall spring new being, like to the first, yet in eight-fold plenitude. Of this shall ye eat and be bereft of hunger. Behold these maidens, beautiful and perfect are they, and as this, their flesh, is derived from them, so shall it confer on those whom it feeds perfection of person and beauty, as of those whence it was derived." He lifted


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the tray from the head of the maiden nearest him. She smiled and was seen no more; yet when the people opened the tray it was filled with yellow seed-corn. And so Pai'-a-tu-ma lifted the trays, each in turn, from the heads of the other maidens, and, as he did so, each faded from view. In the second tray the people found blue corn; in the third, red; in the fourth, white; in the fifth, variegated; and in the sixth, black. These they saved, and in the spring-time they carefully planted the seeds in separate places. The breaths of the Corm Maidens blew rain-clouds from their homes in Summer-land, and when the rains had passed away green corns plants grew everywhere the grains had been planted. And when the plants had grown tall and blossomed, they were laden with ears of corn, yellow, blue, red, white, speckled, and black. Thus to this day grows the corn, always eight-fold more than is planted, and of six colors, which our women preserve separately during the moons of the sacred fire, snow-broken


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boughs, great sand-driving winds, and lesser sand-driving winds.

It was Pai'-a-tu-ma who found the Corn Maidens and brought them back. He took the trays from their heads and gave them to the people; hence, when in winter, during the moon of the sacred fire, the priests gather to bless the seed-corn for the coming year, the chief-priest of the Ne'-we-kwe hands the trays of corn-seed into the estufa [kiva].

Ever since these days the beautiful Corn Maidens have dwelt in the Land of Everlasting Summer. This we know. For does not their sweet-smelling breath come from that flowery country, bringing life to their children, the corn-plants? It is the south wind which we feel in spring-time.

Thus was born Tâ-a, or the "Seed of Seeds."

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> CHAPTER II
THE ORIGIN OF THE DRAGONFLY AND OF THE CORN PRIESTS, OR GUARDIANS OF THE SEED

[Illustration: The initial capital is ornate, and illustrated with a small leave motif.]

THERE is nothing about Indian life so interesting as its lore. The Indian, like his possible Mongolian ancestor, lives less in the present than in the past. His spirit loves to roam through the dark, wild vistas of antiquity and dream of the marvels which he devoutly believes caused all things to become as they are. To him the youth of the world with its beautiful visions of the to be, is fled, and be he ever so young he is a dotard. There is a reason for all this, aside from his nationality. To no man on earth seems the future so gloomy and fateful as to the Indian; the past in such heroic, glorious contrast with it. Therefore, like a poor beast, driven by the storm-blast to


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the uttermost borders of his native range, he turns his back to the coming tempest and with sullen serenity awaits it; musing, meanwhile, on the scenes of other days, and the tales of other generations. In tune to the wild winds of the mesas and mountains which he ranges and watches his herds over, he composes the music of his songs, which songs are but the echoes of words uttered generations ere the white man knew him. All the genius of his best birthrights,--his imaginiative mind and picturesquely poetic language,--he devotes to the beautification of pristine wonder-tales, that he may teach his little ones, whom he dearly loves, to emulate himself in seeking joy rather with the memories of a dead but known past, than in the hopes of a living but unknown future. Alone with his family at night-time, the winter wind shrieking without, the piñon light dancing within, you would not think him a mournful being. His fingers are stretched forth, his eyes gleaming, his whole action joyful and spirited, as he recounts the adventures of his ancestry with gods, monsters, and


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wizards: tells how trees thought, beasts spoke, and men walked the skies, or descended to the "Dance Halls of the Dead." In more than a merely idle spirit, I have chosen two or three of these tales for my readers; for they will, so it seems to me, reveal many things relative to the Zuñi and the bread he eats, which otherwise, we who eat other bread would scarcely understand and perhaps not relish. It must be remembered that the Zuñi, not less with his imagination than his wife with her wood-ash and lime yeast, seasons every morsel of his breadstuff.

There is, on a low headland which juts out into the northern side of the plain of Los Ojos Calientes, twelve miles southwest of Zuñi, an ancient ruin called by the Indians Ha'-wi-k'uh. As we read the romantic pages of early Spanish conquest (in the letters which were penned for us more than three hundred years ago by the brave and devoted Franciscan fathers and their vanguard of Coronado's cavaliers), we come upon the narrative of a populous "citie of the Province of Ci'bola called


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Aguico," wherein "dwelt the governors and elders of Ci'bola. " This was no other than the town of Ha'-wi-k'uh, spoken of in the following bit of quaint folklore:

Very long, long ago, the old brokendown village of Ha'-wi-k'uh was filled with the fathers of our ancients as were many towns round about now broken down too. The plains below were covered with the fertile washes of spring streamlets and the mists from the hot springs above drove away the breath of the Ice God, so that cold never grew great in the valley. Thus it happened that year after year more corn grew for the people of Ha'-wi-k'uh than they had need for, and they became rich and insolent with plenty.

One day, the Chief Priest of the Bow saw some children playing at mimic warfare, with dirt and lumps of mud for their weapons. "Aha!" he mused, "I will devise a means of delighting my people and showing the nations round about our wealth and good fortune above theirs!"

He betook himself straightway to the house of his "Younger brother-priest,"


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and, summoning the elders, they held council.

"Why should we not order that our people prepare, for four days, great stores of sweet mush, bread, cakes, tortillas, guayaves, and all kinds of the seeds foods as for a grand festival? Then will we summon all nations round about to share in our festivities, and choose sides for a sham fight with good things and dough for our weapons. Think of it! How strangers will wonder at the wealth of the Ha'-wi-k'uh-ians when they see us treat these things which men work so hard that they may eat, as children treat refuse and mud in the plaza!"

"Listen, listen!" exclaimed the elders, who joined one and all in praising the ingenuity of their chief warrior.

So it happened that, big-hearted with conceit, the chief warrior-priests mounted to the topmost houses at sunset and ordered that the people busy themselves with preparing for the great game, explaining how it should be carried on, and demanding swift young men whom to send to the towns round about to summon visitors for the day


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that had been named. Next morning the town was noisy with the grinding of meal, and the breaking of wood for the cooking fires; and long before the time named was past, every pot, bowl, and basket seemed filled with batter and dough, and already the baking at night-time was beginning.

Now there lived far up the valley to the south, among the White Cliffs, two beautiful goddesses, the Maidens of the White Corn and the Yellow. These two sisters were very sad when they saw that their children were about to treat so lightly the gifts themselves had blessed them with. "Yet," said they, one to the other, "we will even still give them a chance to abide in our favor."

They disguised as poor and ugly women of one of the neighboring towns, and started late, on the day before the feast, toward Ha'-wi-k'uh. When they entered the town, a misty, drizzly rain preceded them; for were they not our Mother-maidens from Summer-land? But the foolish people never thought of this. No, they fancied the rain was made by the gods in


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humble recognition of themselves. The maidens draggled past each open doorway, but no one bade them enter. Heaps of baked things, yellow, red, white, brown, and fragrant, steamed in every corner, and paper bread was piled about as corn-shucks are at the husking. Near one house a boy and his infant sister were munching some corn-cakes. When they saw how tired and hungry the two poor girls looked, they stretched out their hands to offer them some of the food; but the old ones from within reproved them sharply, saying that "cooked food should not be wasted on vagabond creatures who might make their own food as the people of Ha'-wi-k'uh had to, instead of following the scent of the cooking-pots like the whelps of coyotes from one place to another!"

Away down at the end of the town was a broken old house. There lived a poor aged woman, and the people, heedless of her helpless lot, cast all their rubbish down the hill so that it fell about her doorway and she had to work day after day to keep it cleared away. Her clothes were patched


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and ragged, her blanket torn, and she had but little corn, for her brothers and uncles had many years been dead, her husband killed by the enemy and her children wasted by disease and want. No one ever entered her house, and people rarely spoke to her save to abuse her. When coming from the pool with water she met any of the women from the town, they turned their faces from her as dogs turn their heads from a cold wind. On the evening before the festival she was sitting by her hearthstone stirring some mush, her only food. Now, it happened that the maidens, having passed each house slowly, wandered down toward the old woman's doorway. A dog which was snuffing about the refuse near by began to bark, and as the old woman started up to drive him away, she espied the two strangers.

"My poor girls!" she cried in a quavering voice. "Come in and rest yourselves and eat, for hunger will soften my coarse food. You must have come far, for you look so tired and hungry. Never mind, my children, you shall rest a moment with


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me and eat, then go into the town where the people have cooked more food than you ever saw before, and you may feast to satisfaction."

The two girls turned and entered. The old woman threw the shredded mantle from off her shoulders and bade them sit on it, begging them to share it with each other, as she had only the one to offer them. Then she hastened to wash out a bowl and placed all the mush in it and set it before them. Once more bidding them to eat, she went away and busied herself about something else, to show them that she did not herself need of the food and that there would be plenty for them.

"Thou art a good and gentle old mother," said the elder of the two girls to her, "but hungry as we be, we will not suffer thee to go unsatisfied for ourselves' sake. Come and sit near us; see, we bring with us food," said she, drawing forth from under her ragged wrappings a beautifully embroidered and fringed cotton mantle. As she unrolled this before the astonished old woman, there were revealed some packages


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of honey-bread and pollen. The girls undid one of them, and scattered the pollen over the bowl of mush. The odors from the rising steam were as the fragrance of a valley of flowers. Then they laid the honey-bread, cake after cake of it, on the mantle beside the bowl, urging yet more their aged hostess to join them. For a long time the poor old creature crouched in a corner covered with shame, for she now knew that these two girls who had seemed poor and like herself, were not the daughters of men, but of the wonderful and beloved beings who control the lives of mortals (the gods).

"Mother, daughter, knowest thou not that we are thy mothers, and thou almost our only child here, save two little ones in the town above and an aged priest who sits by his hearth sadly thinking of his people's wantonness? Come, thou didst ask us to eat with thee, therefore do thou eat with us." The old woman, trembling with thought, arose, and, seeking some prayer meal, humbly scattered it upon the heads of the maidens. As she prepared to sit


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down with them, behold! they passed their hands over their persons and their ragged garments fell from them, leaving such splendid raiment as man had never before seen in Ha'-wi-k'uh, and their faces seemed as beautiful to the old woman as seems to a mother the face of her daughter long dead, when it rises before her dream vision. The girls began to eat, and the old woman, tasting a morsel of her coarse mush, found it so sweet and fragrant that, although her hunger was mingled with trepidation, she could not cease tasting morsel after morsel. The maidens laughed and chatted merrily until her old heart beat as it had not since she was a young girl. They opened yet another package. It contained dozens of minute melons which seemed shriveled by frost or heat, yet the maidens, taking one of them, breathed on it, moistened it, and lo! it grew instantly to a great size and looked as though freshly plucked from the vine. This the maidens broke open, and, placing it before the hostess, bade her finish the repast with it and with the honey-bread. Never had she tasted such rich


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fruit, such absorbing sweetness,--which fairly caused the nose to ache and the tears to start--as in the honey-bread of which she ventured a morsel.

The sun was setting, and as the meal was finished, the maidens, only smiling kindly on the mother for urging them to pass the night with her, arose to go. Their little bundles they undid one after another, placing them on the floor, "Take these, our beloved old one," said they; "place them in your store-rooms. You have but to pray and keep your heart good--no longer will you be poor." They took one each of their mantles. "Hang these," said they, "upon your blanket poles. We are the Seed Mothers, and from these thou wilt have abundance on the morrow of the night thou hangest them. May all days bring thee happiness, and bless thee with the favor of the beloved." With this they suddenly vanished, and the old woman prostrated herself in their footsteps.

Some noisy young people thought they saw two beautiful beings pass around the lower part of the town just at night-time,


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and when they told this to their old people, one aged man who sat silently in the hearth-corner said to his nephew and niece: "Alas! my sister's little ones, the 'Mother-maidens of Seed!' Saw ye not the rain today? Alas, my foolish people!"

"What?" said the children, half scared. "Were those two poor young women we offered bread to this morning, the Mother-maidens?"

"No, no," said the old man to comfort them; "the two beautiful beings the young people saw were they."

As the moon rose out of an arm in the vale of the White Cliffs, a little Squirrel, who ought to have been asleep, chattered and whistled from a high crag; for the Corn Maidens had told him something, and made him and his brother, the Mouse, chiefs of a grand expedition!

An old Crow in the pine tree above, and a Sparrow napping under a bush below, both woke up. "Kâ-hâ!" said the Crow. "The sun rises soon today!" And the Sparrow said, "Twi-hi! why does that impertinent, featherless wretch chatter so


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early in the morning? He might as well try to fly as to sing!" And thus they complained until every little animal in the valley, mice, wood-rats, squirrels, gophers, prairiedogs, crows, blackbirds, sparrows, finches, beetles, and bugs of all kinds were awakened and came rushing about the crag where the Squirrel sat piping and chattering. "What does all this mean?" said they. "You fool and rascal, this is not the sun you see, it is only the night-light rising; but it is very bright!" said they to one another.

"Tsu' tsu' tsu' k'ea'!" said an old Mouse, which meant, "Attention all, hush!" "My brother up there and I have something very important to tell you all."

"Ha! what's that?" exclaimed the creatures. Then the Squirrel coughed, flirted his tail, patted the rock he stood on, and began:

"My fathers and brothers, my sisters and mothers, my uncles, aunts, grandfathers, mothers of my fathers and mothers, sons and fathers-in-law, grandsons and mothers-in-law"--

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"We hear, we believe," broke in the impatient creatures.

"And friends," added the Squirrel.

"Yes, yes," piped and chirruped the creatures.

"Our mothers, the Corn Maidens (our grandchildren some call them, and men call them their daughters and mothers both--but they'll find out)"--said the Squirrel, changing position, "have told us that they are very sad and much vexed with their children, those big fellows who live on Ha'-wi-k'uh hill and plant corn. They told me and my younger brother, the Mouse, that we must summon all seed-eaters, for a dreadful calamity is about to befall us."

"Ha-na-ha!" said the creatures (which means "alas!").

"E'-ha!" rejoined the Squirrel, which means, "yes, indeed!" "That is, if we do not all go to Ha'-wi-k'uh tomorrow evening and wait around until the fires go out and the moon rises. Then we must rush into the town and gather all the food we can find lying around and store it away everywhere,


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for there is coming a great famine and"--

"Is that all?" said the discontented creatures.

"It's little enough we'll find," said a Bob-tailed Mouse, "for the Ha'-wi-k'uh beings stuff everything away so that no one can get to it without losing his head."

"Or tail!" remarked a jealous Wood-rat who had just come to see what was going on--looking at the Bob-tailed Mouse.

"Hush!" said the Chief-mouse. "Listen!"

"You see," continued the Squirrel, "our mothers and granddaughters, the Corn Maidens, have been too good to the Ha'-wi-k'uh humans. They have breathed rain over their country for years, until so much corn has grown that even we seed-eaters are the fattest in the land, yet we get only the leavings! Well, the Ha'-wi-k'uh humans concluded to have a frolic and throw away food as plentifully as my old uncle, the Gopher, slings dirt out of his diggings. That made our mothers feel sad, so they went there, pretending to be very poor and


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hungry, and, would you believe it? there were corn grains and other things piled around, enough to stock all the hollow trees on White Cliff mesa; yes, and holes in the rocks besides; but the Ha'-wi-k'uh humans wouldn't give them a bit; only two little ones and a very old woman offered them a thing!"

"Uh-h! just like them," grumbled the Bob-tailed Mouse.

"Well now, think of it, my fathers and mothers, my sisters and brothers, 'make your hearts ready,' for tomorrow they will throw all these things away. Our mothers told us to go there and gather everything, and--come up here a little nearer, uncle," called the Squirrel to the Gopher; but the latter gave a quick start and said:

"Oh! I can't waste any more time here; I've got to dig another cellar tomorrow."

"That's what I want you for. While these Ha'-wi-k'uh humans are making noise throwing food away for us tomorrow, you and your clan just dig holes into their corn rooms and we'll take the middle out of every corn cord10 we can get into, for we


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must store away enough food for a long drouth, you know. You see really, our mothers, the Corn Maidens, have made fools of these Ha'-wi-k'uh beings, all for our benefit. Do you not see, my children?" concluded the Squirrel, growing important: "Therefore, be ready to follow me tomorrow."

"It is well; it is well!" cried, squeaked, piped, twittered, and chirped the council of seed-eaters, and some of them stayed there all night, but the short-legged ones started straightway for Ha'-wi-k'uh, so that the longer-legged ones should not get ahead of them.

The Ha'-wi-k'uh people were all dressed in their finest blankets and necklaces, and strangers from the towns round about were coming in over all the trails when the sun rose. Every house-top was covered with baked things, dough and batter and meal, and the plaza was swept clean (so that the strangers could better see how much food was wasted). When the sun had climbed as high as he would that day, the chief warrior-priests chose sides and the fight


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began. How the people shrieked and laughed, for some were knocked down with hard bread, others had their breaths stopped with dough, and everybody's hair and dresses were besmeared all over with batter and meal. At evening the young men grew angry with one another (as young men do whenever young women are looking at them), and fell to fighting, and the girls stood on the house-tops laughing, and pelted them sorely with the hardest biscuits they could find, which made them fight the harder. When night came, almost everybody was disgusted with everybody else. So the town grew silent soon. When the moon rose, all the seed-eaters rushed in and carried away every piece of food, even every crumb and meal grain. Then they went into the corn rooms through the tunnels the gophers had made, and stole the grain all night. But of course there was still great store of corn left when the sun rose next morning.

Soon after the seed-eaters had scampered away, the people one by one climbed out of their roofs, and behold! not a trace of the


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food they had thrown away was to be seen! Many of them were troubled at this, because they had expected to gather much of it up after the strangers had gone. But they said to one another:

"Who cares? we have more corn than we could eat in a whole year!"

What do you suppose the old woman in the broken-down house found? When she woke up that morning she was very happy, for she thought the people would throw the food they had fought with down around her doorways, but when she saw that there was none of it left, she grew very sad. So she went into the rooms where she had placed the gifts of the Corn Maidens. There, in the first, she found the floor stacked to the ceiling with corn after cord of white and yellow corn. In another room she found melons and other fruits so many and large that she marveled how she could eat them all. But more wonderful still, where she had carefully hung up the mantles of woven cotton and many-colored embroideries, and the buckskin that had been given her by the Corn Maidens, every


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pole was filled as for a large and wealthy household with many kinds of robe and garment. The aged woman wept when she saw all these things, for, she thought, "Alas! I shall never see the beautiful maidens again to tell them how happy they have made me, and who is left now to share my good fortune?"

As time passed, and the winter waned, the people began to find that the mice (as they thought) had carried away great quantities of their corn, and they were troubled, for the winds, even as spring-time came, never blew from the southward, and no rain ever came to moisten the soil. Nevertheless, they planted more than ever of their seeds (thus only diminishing their store), for they were anxious to repeat their great feast when autumn came again. Throughout the long, hot summer they watched in vain for rain. The clouds would rise up from the mountain of the horizon, but no sooner had they floated over the Valleys of the Hot Waters than a great being, taller than the highest pine on the loftiest mountains, would gulp them all


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down and the sky would get as clear as before. Their corn-fields were parched and the plants grew yellow and dead. The priests and pupils sacrificed plumes and said prayers, and danced their most precious dances, but all to no purpose, for the "cloud swallower" always cleared the sky before the mists could shed their rain-drops over Ha'-wi-k'uh. At last despair filled the hearts of the people of Ha'-wi-k'uh. They went forth on the mesas to gather cactus fruit, but even this was scarce. When winter came, the cloud swallower had gone. The god of the ice caves breathed over the whole country, and even in the Valley of the Hot Water great banks of snow fell, such as the oldest men had never seen there. At last the corn was all gone. The people were pitiably poor. They were so weak that they could not hunt through the snow, therefore a great famine spread through the village. At last the people were compelled to gather old bones and grind them for meal, and for meat they toasted the rawhide soles of their moccasins. People wondered why the old


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woman in the house below the hill seemed as well as ever. At last they concluded that she was a sorceress, and when the good old crone offered them food, they dared not accept it from fear that she would seek revenge on them for their past ill-treatment of her. No one thanked her for her offerings; yet many beings lived by her bounty, for instead of throwing away the scraps of her food, she fed hungry dogs with them, and cast them away that the snowbirds and chickadees might pick them up.

When, long before the winter was gone, the old and young began to die, what was to be done? The chiefs and priests called council. A delegation of the strongest men was sent away to the country of the Moquis.11 After many days, two runners from Moqui, strong and hearty, arrived at the village. They bore strands of knotted strings to show how many days would pass before the Moquis would receive the Ha'-wi-k'uh people and feast them. Everyone was excited. The days were many, it is true, but the people were so weak that


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they knew it would be a long time before they could reach the country of the Moquis. They were in great haste, therefore, to set forth. No one thought of the poor old woman in the house below the hill! They did not even tell her they were going away.

Now, in all houses there was nothing but busy preparation. All night long the people prepared for their journey. They gathered every piece of rawhide and sinew they could find, and all the bone meal they had left, so that nothing remained in the village that could be eaten. When the morning came, long before sunrise, word was called from the house-tops that all was ready, and the people, old and young, tottered forth to follow the runners from Moqui, for the people feared they would be left behind by the strong young men.

Now it happened that when the family of the old uncle were ready to leave, their little children, a boy and a girl, were sleeping by the hearth-side. The old uncle, fearing that he would hinder the others--who were vexed with him because he had all along told them and others that they


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were to blame for their misfortunes (which the people didn't like, you see), had climbed out and gone on ahead. Just as the parents of the poor little brother and sister were about to leave, the uncle returned and shouted down to them, "Be sure to get the little ones." But the father and mother only turned to look at them, then, spreading a buffalo-robe over them, said: "Let them sleep on. Why should we wake them? They would only cry and lag along, and we cannot wait for babies or anything else now!"

So they left them sleeping there and joined the struggling crowd. Very long the two little ones slept. The morning came, and still they slept, for the village was as still as a winter forest when the wind has ceased blowing. At last the little boy woke up. When he looked all around the great room, he was at first frightened, and cried a little, but bethinking himself of the baby sister by his side, he softly arose, and gathering some splinters and cedar-bark, laid them on the hearth and built a little fire. Then he


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climbed the ladder and looked all around. Alas, no one was to be seen! Even the dogs were gone, and no smoke rose from the chimneys of any of the houses. Then he realized that his people had left. He was very hungry, and would have cried again, but he heard his poor little sister moaning and asking for parched corn as she dreamed, so he only sighed, and looked all around for something to cook. Alas, there was not a scrap of any kind to be found. At last the little boy thought of how his playmates had taught him to hunt chickadees. So softly creeping up to the bed where his sister lay, he pulled from the tail of the buffalo-robe some of the hairs. These he tied into nooses, and fastened them all over some little cedar branches which he found among the fire-sticks. Searching about, he found some castaway clothing from which he cut pieces and wrapped his feet with them. Carefully covering his little sister, he set out for the plains below the town. Where the old woman of the broken house had been accustomed to throw the scraps from her eatings were


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hundreds of chickadees. So the little boy, wondering at his good fortune, planted his little noose sprigs all around in the snow, and the birds, which kept flitting about, now and then lighted in his nooses (after the boy had hidden), until there was a large number caught in his snares. The little boy sallied forth two or three times before he returned home, each time capturing a number of the birds. When at last he gathered his snares together and climbed back to his house he had a long string of chickadees. He hastened to skin some of them, and spitting them on long splinters roasted several over the coals. Then he gently woke his little sister. At first the poor little thing cried for parched corn, but the boy gave her water; and then noticing that there were no old ones about the house, she cried for her mother and father and uncle. But the little boy at last succeeded in comforting her, and getting her to eat some of the roasted birds. Thus these poor little ones lived for a long time, but at last the sister grew weak, and cried all the time, save when she slept, for parched


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corn, for she no longer relished the wasted birds. In vain the little boy tried to comfort her. One day he said:

"Little sister, hush! I have found the strangest creature down in the plain where the corn grew. I will make a little cage for him and entice him into it. Then he shall be hung over your bed, where you may watch him."

This comforted the little girl for a time, and the boy hastened away to the fields. Then he gathered a bunch of grass straws and some stalks of corn, and running home with these, he sat down by the side of his little sister and began to make the cage. He cut the straws all of one length and strung on them sections of the pith from the corn-stalks. Then passing more of the straws through the pith the other way, he at last built up a beautiful little cage. Then, in another room, he found the feather boxes and paint-pots of his fathers, and moistening some of the paint, he covered the sections of pith with bands of white and black, red, yellow, and blue. Thus he made a very pretty cage, and


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knotting some hairs together, he formed a string with which to hang the cage over his sister's bed. At last the little sister, tired of watching him, fell asleep. Then the little boy hastened to cut a ball of pith. This he fastened to a longer piece, which he painted at one end, and cutting some pieces of pith very thin, he fastened them into the sides of the long piece near the ball. You see he was trying to make a butterfly; but the pith was so narrow, and his knives so rough--for they were made of flint chips--that he could not make the wings broad enough, so he made four long wings instead of two. When he had stuck these into the body of the fly, he took six little straws, and bending them to make them look jointed, stuck them into the pith under the wings. When he had finished, he painted eyes on the side of the head, but the paint spread so as to make them very large and black, and when he tried to paint the wings and body with red, green, white, and black, the dots and stripes spread out so as to make bands across the wings and stripes around the


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body; but after all the little toy looked just like some wonderful creature. The veins in the pith even were as fine and plain as they are in a fly's wing, only larger, for they marked the flesh shreds of the corn plant. When all was done, the boy hung the effigy, by a hair, in the cage, and suspended the cage just out of reach over the bed of his little sister. You should have seen the little sister when she woke up! She laughed and chattered as she had not once done since the old ones went away, and seemed to think that the strange creature up there in the cage understood all she said. But still the poor little thing was hungry for corn food. Once she said to the effigy:

"Dear treasure, go bring me corn grains that my brother may toast them, for you have long wings and can fly swiftly."