Title: The Lost Giant and Other American Indian Tales Retold - Story Time Tales
Author: Higgins, Violet Moore
Language: English
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INDIAN TALES RETOLD ***

[Illustration: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” ASKED THE BRIDEGROOM]



  THE
  LOST GIANT
  AND OTHER AMERICAN INDIAN TALES RETOLD

  STORIES AND PICTURES
  by
  Violet Moore Higgins
  Author of “The Endless Story”, “The Little Juggler”, etc.

  [Illustration]

  WHITMAN PUBLISHING CO.
  RACINE, WISCONSIN



  COPYRIGHTED, 1918 BY
  WHITMAN PUBLISHING CO.



CONTENTS


  THE LOST GIANT                11

  THE FEATHERED BRIDEGROOM      27

  MANDOWMIN OF THE MAIZE        41

  AWAHNEE AND THE GIANT         57



ILLUSTRATIONS


  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” ASKED THE BRIDEGROOM   (_frontispiece in color_)

  DECORATIVE TITLE PAGE                                                1

  HE SWUNG THE CHILD ALOFT ON HIS SHOULDER                            13

  THEY CAME FLYING OUT OF THE BAG (_color_)                           16

  THE FAMILY SAT BEFORE ITS TENT                                      28

  SHE BADE HIM WELCOME TO HER LODGE (_color_)                         32

  AS TALL AS A MAN IT STOOD                                           42

  THE NEXT DAY THE YOUNG BRAVE APPEARED (_color_)                     49

  HE CARRIED WATER IN A GOURD                                         55



  To My Beloved Father

  who was always ready with an answer to
  those questions of childhood: “Did
  you ever see a ‘really-truly’
  Indian?” and “Will you
  tell me about when
  you were a little
  boy?” V.M.H.



INTRODUCTION


Among the Indians who used to roam over our Western prairies in such
vast numbers, story telling was of the greatest importance. From the
opening of spring, through the summer, and far into the fall, the men
and older boys of the tribe were out each day hunting the deer in the
hills and the buffalo on the plains or spearing fish in the streams.
The women and girls meantime were occupied with their household duties
about the tepees.

But at last came the long winter months when game was scarce, and the
old trails were covered with a blanket of snow. Then the Indians would
retreat to the snug wigwams, and there await the coming of spring
again. They had no books to read or newspapers and magazines with which
to while away those long winter days, and life would have been dull
indeed had it not been for their ability to tell stories to each other.

They never lacked material out of which to build those tales. Each bird
and beast, each herb and flower; in fact, every living thing that
ran, or crawled, or flew about their native forests was known to the
Indians. They studied the habits of the wild creatures to an extent
that we might well follow.

Then there were other forces that entered into their lives and stories.
In the flash of lightning from a dark cloud, in the roll of thunder, in
the rush of wind, or in the roar of waters tumbling over a cliff into
the river below, they heard the voice of the Great Spirit, unseen but
powerful.

And so all their legends were woven around these things and were full
of strange incidents that had happened to them on their hunting trips.
Many included adventures that had been related by their fathers and
grandfathers around the winter camp fires years and years before.

Let us imagine that we, too, are curled up comfortably on a deer-skin
in a chief’s tepee, close beside the glowing campfire, whose flames
cast a ruddy light on the circle of dark faces all about it, especially
on that of the chief who, pipe in hand, is just about to relate some of
these old legends of the American Indians.

                                                                V. M. H.



[Illustration]

The Lost Giant


Once upon a time, far back in the days when the elk, the moose, and the
buffalo roamed over the hills and plains of North America, and little
Indian children could call all the animals by name, there lived among
one of the northern tribes a very unhappy little boy named Wasewahto.

His mother had been a chieftain’s daughter, but she had died when the
boy was a mere baby. His father had taken another wife, Wapiti--“the
elk”--so called by reason of her large ugly head. Wasewahto’s father
was dead now, too, and the little boy lived alone with his stepmother,
who had no love for him and treated him very badly. He was too small to
hunt and fish for his own food, and often Wapiti refused to share hers
with him, giving him only a few bones to gnaw.

One day she rolled up her belongings into a bundle and, without a word
to Wasewahto, went away. Two days passed without a sign of her return.
Then the little boy, hungry and frightened, sat down before his tent
and cried bitterly.

[Illustration: HE SWUNG THE CHILD ALOFT ON HIS SHOULDER]

As he sat there sobbing and crying he felt the earth quiver beneath
him, and looking up, he saw through his tears, a giant Indian who
towered up to the very tree tops.

“Why are you crying?” asked the giant in a voice like distant thunder.

“Because I am all alone,” answered Wasewahto. “My stepmother has been
gone two days and I have no food.”

“You are the stepson of Wapiti?” asked the giant. The little boy
nodded, and the giant continued: “Then she will never come back--she
has gone to another tribe. Come home with me.” And he swung the child
aloft on his big broad shoulder. Away they went to the giant’s wigwam,
and there Wasewahto lived happily for many moons.

But one night the giant had a dream, in which the spirit of Wasewahto’s
father appeared to him, and told him to return the boy to his
stepmother. The dream was so vivid that it troubled him, and he began
to break camp the next morning, and prepare for a march.

But when Wasewahto heard what his friend proposed to do, he cried and
cried, and clung to the giant, and begged him not to go, but the big
man was still worried over his dream, and insisted upon going.

“But I will not leave you unless I find a tribe which will be kind to
you,” he said at last, as they were starting, and with that promise
Wasewahto had to be satisfied. The giant swung the boy to his shoulder
and set out.

After four days’ travel they reached a strange camp, and here they
found Wapiti. She was furiously angry when she saw the boy, but a fear
of the giant kept her silent. When he had told her his dream, she too
felt uneasy, and pretended to welcome Wasewahto. But when the giant
left him with his stepmother, and prepared to leave, the child sobbed
and cried so hard and pleaded so earnestly with his friend to stay and
live near him, that the big man paused.

“I will stay if the tribe will have me,” he said at last, and no one
dared refuse. When they had given their consent the giant said: “I
will work for the tribe--I will hunt and fish and fight--but one thing
you must promise me. Never give me otter’s flesh to eat or I will go
away and never return.”

[Illustration: IN ANOTHER INSTANT THEY CAME FLYING OUT OF THE BAG]

So the tribe promised, and little Wasewahto was happy. The giant taught
him to hunt and fish, so that never again would he have to starve if
Wapiti should desert him. The little boy soon had many friends. He was
so merry and bright, his aim with an arrow was so true and he was such
a brave little warrior, that all the tribe loved him.

All but Wapiti--she still hated the boy, and she hated the giant even
more, for she felt that had it not been for him, she would long ago
have been rid of the unwelcome child. In her heart she was always
trying to make some plan whereby she might be freed from both of them.
One day a hunter brought in a freshly killed deer for the giant, who
was very fond of roast venison, and Wapiti at last had her chance.

She prepared a splendid roast, but here and there among the deer meat
she made a tiny slit with a sharp knife, and slid in pieces of otter
flesh. The giant returned from fishing, with a ravenous appetite, and
sat down to the meal with a relish. But the first bite revealed the
trickery of Wapiti, and with a furious glare at her, the giant leaped
to his feet, strode from the camp, and never was seen again by the
tribe.

Soon the warriors returned, and when they learned what had happened,
Wapiti had no further chance to carry out her cruel plans against
Wasewahto, for they drove her from the camp with stones and arrows,
and said if ever she returned her life would be forfeited. Then they
adopted her stepson as the child of the tribe.

Poor little Wasewahto! Though he was among friends, he grieved
continually for the loss of his dear giant, as did all the tribe,
though not as bitterly. He could not be tempted with even the daintiest
foods, and he did not care to play any more. The Indians made him
splendid bows and arrows, and the medicine-man carved a rattle for him
out of a buffalo bone, but nothing seemed to make him happy. As winter
came on he grew thinner and paler and sadder every day, and shivered at
the slightest breeze.

At last his friends could bear it no longer, and begged him to tell
them what, next to having the giant back again, would make him happiest.

He answered at once, “Take me where the summer is. If I could see
flowers in the woods, and could shoot at the birds with my bow and
arrows again, I believe I could be happy.”

“Then we will hunt for the summer-land, oh little Wasewahto,” they
cried, and set out the next day at sunrise.

For many days they traveled toward the south, and at last, on the
shores of a great lake, they came upon a strange tepee. It was that of
a hostile tribe, however, and so Wasewahto’s friends hid themselves in
the rushes by the water’s edge, and called on the beaver to help them.

“What you seek is indeed here,” said the wise old animal, when they had
told him their story, “And I will help you.”

Accordingly he asked the moose to swim to the middle of the lake, and
in the meantime he began gnawing busily at the canoe paddles of the
hostile tribe, not enough to saw them off entirely, but merely to
weaken them.

Suddenly there was a shout from the tepee. Someone had seen the moose
and all were eager to chase him. The enemies of Wasewahto and his
friends ran to the shore, leaped into their canoes, and put out after
the moose.

When they were well out into the middle of the lake the beaver led
Wasewahto and his friends into the tepee by a hidden tent flap, so that
they might not be seen from the water side. From the very top of the
highest tent pole there hung a great leather bag. As soon as he saw it,
Wasewahto began to smile, a little at first, then more and more, and at
last, laughing aloud, he caught up his little bow and arrows and aimed
straight at the hanging pouch.

As the dart pierced the leather, the wigwam was suddenly filled with
the twittering of birds, and in another instant they came flying out of
the bag and out of the tepee--thousands of them, robins, woodpeckers,
swallows, orioles, jays, wrens, bluebirds, and many others. For summer
had been tied up in the leather pouch, there to hang quietly until
another year.

The Indians on the lake had by this time discovered that there were
intruders in their camp, and that summer, placed in their keeping, had
been set free. Desperately they began to head for shore, but now under
the strain all the paddles broke, and the Indians were left floating on
the lake, screaming with helpless rage, while the moose swam away to
cover.

Now it began to be summer everywhere. The snow and ice melted away; the
brook, which had been locked up under layers of ice, began to gurgle
and laugh again; the green leaves came out on the trees, and even the
flowers began to spring up in the woods. Wasewahto was perfectly
happy. He grew plump and rosy, and he laughed with joy as he shot his
arrows and threw the harpoon for fish.

But the beaver and the moose came presently to think that perhaps they
had meddled with things that were not their affair, and that if the
Great Spirit had intended it to be summer all the time, he would not
have tied it up in a bag part of the year. So they decided to correct
their mistake; but when at last they had fixed upon a plan, they found
they could not agree upon the length of time summer should be allowed
out of its prison. So they called all the animals together and asked
for their advice. Everyone had a different idea. Some advised a month,
some ten, some eleven.

At last up jumped an old frog, and holding out his webbed foot, with
its four toes, so that all might see it, he croaked in his deep voice,
“Have four--have four--have four--” over and over again, until he
drowned out the voices of the others. His persistence so wearied them
that at last they gave in to him and decided on four, as he wished.

So now there are but four months of summer in the Northland, and little
Wasewahto is perfectly happy during those days. Then he smiles all the
time, as he works and plays. That is why the sunshine is so pleasant,
and why the brooks seem to gurgle with joy in the summer time. But when
the winter days come, and the cold rains of autumn fall, those are
the tears of Wasewahto, sitting by the fire and weeping for his lost
friend, the giant.



The Feathered Bridegroom

[Illustration: THE FAMILY SAT BEFORE ITS TENT]



The Feathered Bridegroom


Long, long ago, before the coming of the white man to the shores of
America, there lived, far up in the north country, near the banks of a
broad river, a squaw named Speckled Eagle, with her little son Running
Buffalo and her beautiful daughter Deerfoot, a maiden of fifteen.

Speckled Eagle was the widow of a great warrior and she determined that
her daughter should never marry until there came to woo her some mighty
chieftain of a powerful tribe. Many a young brave came to the tepee,
for Deerfoot was as good as she was lovely. Many a one would have wed
her, but none were ever rich or noble enough to please Speckled Eagle.

But one day as the family sat before its tent, weaving mats of sweet
grass, a white canoe came gliding down the broad river, and in it there
sat a handsome stranger. He was clad all in white, in garments made of
deer-skin, sewed over with beads and shells and trimmed with ermine
tails.

Speckled Eagle looked at him eagerly. Ah, if only he were coming to
woo Deerfoot! As she watched, the stranger gave a few skillful strokes
of his paddle that sent his canoe out of the current and brought it
gliding toward the shore before Speckled Eagle’s lodge. In another
moment he was stepping out upon the pebbly shore.

All a-flutter with excitement Speckled Eagle went hurrying down to meet
him, not forgetting in her haste to snatch up a bundle of bark which
hung in the tepee. When she had greeted the strange brave and bade him
welcome to her lodge, she spread pieces of the bark before him on the
ground from the landing to the tepee, to do him honor. When he had
reached the campfire, she begged him to rest on a soft pile of skins
while she and her daughter prepared a feast for him.

Everyone in her camp was delighted with the handsome stranger--all but
one old dog which growled and showed his teeth from the moment the
unknown brave stepped ashore. The man trembled at the dog’s angry
snarls, and said he could not eat a bit of the feast until that ugly
animal was taken away.

Anxious to please her noble guest, Speckled Eagle led the old dog out
into the bushes and killed him, though she dared not tell Deerfoot what
she had done, for the girl was fond of the faithful dog.

Soon the stranger made it known that he was a chieftain from the far
north, who had made a temporary camp down the river a few miles below
Speckled Eagle’s tepee. Furthermore he said that he wished to wed the
lovely Deerfoot. The girl was so charmed by his handsome face, his
well-built figure and splendid carriage that she consented at once.
Speckled Eagle was more than satisfied to have so fine a son-in-law. So
a great wedding feast was held and Deerfoot married the strange brave
that night.

[Illustration: DEERFOOT GREETS THE STRANGER]

On the following morning when Speckled Eagle was ready to make a
fire, she went out into the bushes to get some dry faggots. There lay
the body of the old dog she had killed, pecked full of holes as if a
great bird had feasted on it. The soft earth round about was marked by
strange three-toed prints.

A sudden fear came to Speckled Eagle’s heart. She hurried back to the
camp, and asked all present to take off their moccasins or shoes. All
did as she bade--all but the stranger.

“I never take off my shoes,” he said haughtily, “It is a custom of my
tribe.”

“But see the beautiful moccasins I have made for you,” insisted
Speckled Eagle. For many moons she had worked on them, intending them
to be a wedding gift for her noble son-in-law, whenever he should
appear. They were of the softest leather, heavily beaded and worked in
quills of the porcupine, and the stranger’s eyes began to glisten as
he looked at them. Like a flash he whipped off his own moccasins, and
put on the new ones before Speckled Eagle could see his feet. But the
little brother’s eyes were sharp.

“Mother,” he cried in terror, “he has feet like a bird--he has only
three toes.”

At this the stranger grew angry and looked at the little boy so
fiercely that he said no more, but Speckled Eagle was strangely
troubled and felt that all was not right.

When they had breakfasted the stranger ordered his bride to follow him
to his camp, far down the river, where he had many beautiful gifts for
her. Deerfoot did not want to go. The incident of the moccasins had
frightened her, but her husband promised her they should return by
sundown, so at last she climbed into the stern of his canoe, while the
stranger took his place at the bow, and they paddled away down stream.

Deerfoot looked back at the camp as long as she could see it, and
watched Speckled Eagle and the little brother, Running Buffalo, waving
to her from the shore. But at last a turn of the river hid them from
view.

For several hours Deerfoot and her husband went on down the river with
the current, he paddling, she giving an occasional stroke, where the
stream did not run as fast as usual. About noon-day it began to rain, a
shower at first, then a downpour. As the rain continued to fall harder
and harder, the bride suddenly noticed that the water was washing away
her husband’s splendid white coat, and beneath it she could see black
feathers and a long black tail.

Then she knew what evil had befallen her. She had married a Crow, the
bird of wickedness, whose tricky ways oft deceived the Indians.

Deerfoot was very much frightened, but she began to plan her escape at
once. With her small deft hands she tied the long black tail to the
crossbar of the canoe, using a leather thong from her moccasins.

“What are you doing?” asked the Crow, as he felt her fingers among his
feathers.

“Smoothing down your beautiful coat, and sewing on some of the beads
that have become loosened,” she replied.

“Ah, I see you are industrious, as a good wife should be,” he answered
with a sly grin, but without turning.

All the long afternoon they floated down the river, and as it drew on
toward sunset the canoe glided along into a rushy, reed-covered marsh
where the wild ducks made their nests. As the canoe slipped among the
grasses, dozens of frightened birds rose in great flocks and flew
across the marshes.

“These shores are full of duck eggs, husband,” said Deerfoot, as she
watched the circling birds. Seized by a sudden idea she cried: “Let me
land here for a moment, and I will soon find a dozen for your supper.”

Now the Crow was hungry, and the prospect of a dozen roasted duck eggs
pleased him immensely.

“You are a good wife,” he said, “but make haste--we still have far to
go,” and he ran the canoe close to the shore.

Before the keel had even grated on the pebbles, like the swift-footed
deer for whom she was named, the Indian maid had sprung ashore and
darted up the bank into the forest. She was soon out of sight speeding
like an arrow through the woods, back to her mother, her brother, and
her home.

The Crow gave a harsh cry, which resembled a caw, as he saw her go, and
began screaming at the top of his voice: “Stop--stop--I’ll bring you
back, and punish you for this.”

But he could not free himself to follow her. Deerfoot had fastened his
tail too securely to the crossbar for him to loosen it easily. It took
him nearly an hour to untie the last knot, for it was no easy task to
reach around behind his back, and, by the sense of touch alone, pick
out countless knots tied in wet leather.

By the time the Crow had untied all the thongs that held him. Deerfoot
was far away in the forest, so he sunk his canoe, resumed his bird
shape once more and flew off screeching as he went: “Again I have
tricked my enemy--man.”



Mandowmin of the Maize

[Illustration: AS TALL AS A MAN IT STOOD      (_See Page 55_)]



Mandowmin of the Maize


In the history of the Pilgrims and their early struggles on the bleak
shores of New England, it is told how they were taught by the friendly
Indians, Samoset and Squanto, to plant Indian corn, which soon became
one of the principal articles of food on their tables. And even now,
after nearly three hundred years, there is scarcely any food we think
of as more truly American, than corn meal mush, or piping hot corn
cakes.

But long long ago, before the feet of white men ever trod the forest of
the New World, as America was called in those days, and while Indians
in vast numbers roamed over the land, there was a time when Indian corn
or maize was unknown even to the red men. Their food consisted almost
entirely of meat--the fleet-footed deer and wild turkey--and fish from
the little trout streams. Sometimes a handful of sweet berries was
found, which added zest to the meal.

Life ran on smoothly in the summer time, for then the Indians lived
well, but when the long, snowy New England winters set in, it was quite
a different matter. The streams froze over, the birds flew south, and
the deer retreated farther into the depths of the forest. Sometimes
when there had been an unusually large number of deer killed in the
fall, the Indian women cut up the flesh into strips and dried it in the
warm bright autumn sunshine. This dried meat was then stored away for
the long winter. But the supply seldom lasted until spring, and the
people had to face days of famine and suffering during which many of
them died.

Now it chanced in those days that there lived a little Indian boy
named Waso. He was the son of a chieftain, and like his father he had
a kind and gentle heart. The chieftain never forgot to give thanks to
the Great Spirit for every catch of fish and for every nimble deer
his sharp arrows killed. When times of famine fell upon the tribe,
he shared with them until he had no more left to give, and he was
constantly trying to discover ways in which he might help his people.

Little Waso, growing from babyhood into boyhood in this kindly
atmosphere, began to think very seriously of the welfare of his tribe,
over whom he would some day rule as a chieftain.

Often he dreamed strange dreams. He would imagine that he was walking
through a dense forest where the briars and brambles stung him, and
brought out a rash on his tender skin. But then, at his very feet would
spring up a cluster of bright berries, or some green herb, and a voice
seemed to urge him to crush the plant and lay it on the red spot. He
obeyed and was instantly healed. So too, in a dream, was the bite of
a poisonous snake cured. The strangest part of all was that on the
following day these things all happened exactly as in his vision. Waso
always found the herb he needed growing near him, and thus was saved
from many a misfortune.

He told his father of these things, and the chieftain called together
the older men of the tribe and related to them all that had happened.
They believed his dreams were messages from the Great Spirit, and from
that time each particular herb of which the child had dreamed, was
carefully gathered and stored away for use as medicine. All the old men
declared that Waso would some day become a great chieftain.

At last, for little Waso, came the time when an Indian boy goes away
from his family and fasts and calls on the Great Spirit to show him a
vision of his future life and teach him how to live wisely and well. So
the chieftain built a little wigwam for Waso, at some distance from the
others, and the boy went to it, and began the solemn rites.

That first night in his tent alone, he dreamed that the Great Spirit
sent a new gift to his people, a food by means of which it would be
easier for them to live and which would provide against days of famine.
This gift was called Mandowmin and was to grow out of the black soil.
But the manner in which he should find it was not revealed to Waso
and after he awoke he could think of nothing else but the mysterious
gift.

[Illustration: THE NEXT DAY THE YOUNG BRAVE APPEARED]

He fasted for three days in his lonely tent, sleeping at night on a bed
of skins. The third day, weak from lack of food, he looked out of his
doorway at sunset, and saw a splendid young brave flying down from the
sky. He was clad all in green and yellow, and a tuft of green plumes
nodded on his head.

“I am come, oh Little-Chieftain-Who-Loves-His-People, from the Great
Spirit,” said the stranger. “He looks with favor upon you and your
father the Chieftain, because you contend not with arrows and spears,
but seek only the good of your people. I have great news for you, news
of a wonderful gift from the Great Spirit; but first you must wrestle
with me, as it is only by overcoming me that you may learn the secret.”

Now Waso was so faint and weak that he swayed as he stood, but without
hesitation he began to wrestle with the mysterious stranger. It was an
unequal struggle, however, and soon the boy lay on his back, panting
for breath.

“I will come again tomorrow,” said the stranger, and vanished.

The next day at the same hour the young brave appeared at Waso’s
tent, and again they wrestled. Once more Waso was vanquished, but
the stranger only smiled his kind friendly smile and said: “Be
brave, little Waso! You have another chance--tomorrow--but your
last--remember.”

On the third day Waso was so weak that he could scarcely stand, but he
said to himself that he must win in order to learn the great secret for
his people. And so much did his strong will help his weak body that at
last he overthrew the young brave in green.

“Well done, Little Chieftain,” said the stranger, as he arose from the
ground, where Waso had thrown him in the struggle, and dusted off his
garments. “Tomorrow at set of sun I will come again for the last time.
If I am vanquished I shall die. You must then strip off my garments,
clear a spot of earth free from all stones, weeds and roots, soften the
earth, and bury me in that spot. Then come often to my grave, and see
if perchance I have returned to life once more; but let no weeds grow
over me. Promise that you will do all as I tell you, and then you shall
know the secret of the Great Spirit.”

Waso promised though with tears in his eyes. He had grown to love the
handsome stranger with whom he had wrestled on three days at sunset,
and the thought of his death saddened the boy, but he gave him his word.

The next morning the chieftain came to his son’s tent with food.

“You have proved yourself a man, my son,” he said. “A longer fast may
do you harm.”

But Waso answered: “Wait only, oh my father, until evening, and when
the sun goes down I shall return to your fireside.”

So the chieftain went home alone.

At sunset the strange brave returned and appeared once more at Waso’s
tent. For the last time they fought. Steadily Waso gained and finally
the stranger sank weakly to his knees. He arose again, and once more
Waso put forth all his strength and threw his foe to earth. The
stranger murmured faintly: “Your promise--remember,” and spoke no more.

Gently, tenderly, with tears streaming down his cheeks, Waso obeyed the
instructions. Drawing off the beautiful green and yellow garments, he
buried his strange friend in the soft black soil. Then he returned to
his father’s home. But every day he visited the lonely grave far away
at the edge of the forest. Carefully he pulled away the weeds and in
the dry season he carried water in gourds to keep the earth soft and
moist. Then one day, to his joy, he saw that the green plumes of the
stranger’s head-dress were pushing through the soil. His friend was
coming back to him.

All this time Waso had kept these things a secret, but as the summer
drew to a close, he led his father to the distant grave. He told the
chieftain the strange story, and, when he had finished, pointed to
where there rose from the center of the stranger’s grave a plant whose
like had never been seen before by the chieftain. As tall as a man
it stood, straight and green, with broad shining leaves waving in the
autumn breeze, topped by silky bright brown hair and nodding green
plumes. From either side grew long green husks full of pearly white
grains, sweet and juicy to the taste.

[Illustration: HE CARRIED WATER IN GOURDS]

“It is my friend come back to me,” cried Waso. “It is Mandowmin, the
Indian corn. It is the gift of the Great Spirit, and so long as we
renew it from year to year, and watch and tend it, we need never fear
the famine.”

That night, round the grave of Mandowmin, the members of the tribe held
a feast and thanked the Great Spirit for his goodness.



Awahnee and the Giant



Awahnee and the Giant


Years and years ago, when there were no white men in all the great land
we now call North America and the Indians were free to roam the woods,
living by the fish they speared and the deer they shot, men knew very
little about the world in which they lived. They did not understand why
we have day and night, sun and moon, summer and winter, and so they
made up all sorts of pretty stories about these strange facts.

When the last leaves of autumn had fallen, and the Indians were glad
to huddle around the fires in their wigwams, little Indian boys and
girls would ask their elders:

“Why does it grow colder?” “Will it ever be warm again?” and dozens of
other questions. And here is the tale that the old men of one tribe
always told the little folks in answer.

Long ago, there lived a great hunter, A-wah-nee, a tall young brave.
No one in all his tribe could shoot an arrow so far or so straight
as could A-wah-nee. When he was still a very young man, his fame had
spread even beyond his own land to other tribes.

He kept two great pet wolves as hunting dogs, huge fierce animals that
were the terror of the tribe. And well they might be, too, for they
were under a spell. When A-wah-nee was deep in the forest and saw a
deer near him, he had only to say “Up wolves” and in an instant they
were as big as bears and had pounced upon the deer. Then he would say
“Down wolves” and once more they would be their own proper size.

In a few years the deer in the forest, on the edge of which A-wah-nee
and his grandmother lived in a small wigwam, had grown so clever and
wary that they kept themselves hidden away all the day and roamed only
at night. Presently A-wah-nee began to long for other forests where the
deer were not so shy. At last one day he brought in from the hunt a
half dozen fine deer.

“Dry that meat in the sun,” he said to his grandmother, “and you will
have food in plenty until I return. I am going on a journey to other
hunting grounds where game is bigger and more plentiful.”

Then he slung his snow shoes over his shoulder, for it was nearing the
cold days, caught up his bow and arrows and his hunting knife, and
strode off toward the north. As he journeyed he saw many a fine deer
and moose. Some he shot, others he let go unharmed, for he was always
seeking bigger game. Ever the wind grew more cold and cutting, the
grass and leaves began to wither and disappear, and soon there was a
covering of ice on the water and a blanket of snow on the ground.

But A-wah-nee put on his snow shoes and went skimming away, until at
last he came to a huge wigwam almost buried in the drifts of snow.
There was a thread of smoke curling up from the top, and A-wah-nee, who
had begun to feel cold and weary, lifted the tent flap and walked in.

There was but one person in the wigwam, a very old giant, with deep
wrinkles in his face, and snow white hair and beard. When he spoke,
his great voice sounded like the howling of the north wind in the pine
trees.

“Ho! young brave,” he cried. “Who are you? Whence come you? What do you
want in my wigwam?”

“I am A-wah-nee,” answered the young man proudly; “mightiest hunter of
my tribe. I have killed all the game worthy of my bow, and now seek new
quarry, bigger and fleeter. But tell me your name, old man.”

“Winter!” roared the white haired giant in such a fierce tone that
A-wah-nee began to feel afraid of him. “I rule the Kingdom of Cold. I
bring the snow and ice. My breath kills all it touches. But sit down if
you are not afraid of me. I bid you welcome.”

A-wah-nee was ashamed to show his fear after the boasting remark he had
made at first, so he sat down by the giant’s fire, took a bit of moose
meat from a leather pouch at his side, and began to eat it. While the
old man related tales of great hunts and battles of his younger days
and told of the wonderful deeds the frost giants had wrought at his
bidding.

A-wah-nee was amazed at these stories, which made him feel that
perhaps, after all, he was not as great a hunter as he had believed.
Presently, in spite of the glowing fire beside him, the young brave
began to feel very chilly. His teeth chattered and he tried to jump up
and run about to warm himself.

But he could not move. Something seemed to hold him hand and foot; his
head fell forward and he rolled over on the ground, fast asleep. The
giant laughed until he fairly shook the forest, and the echoes went
rolling along like distant thunder.

“You’ll have a good sleep, my boy, before you hunt again,” he laughed,
as he strode out of the wigwam, chuckling.

He had spoken the truth indeed, for it was six months before the charm
was over and young A-wah-nee awoke. When at last he stretched his limbs
and opened his eyes, the old man, who was sitting beside him, burst
into roars of laughter, and told him of the joke he had played.

A-wah-nee was furious, but he kept his anger to himself. Courteously he
thanked the giant for his welcome and for the interesting stories, and
bade him good-bye; but as he set out for the southland, he was saying
in his heart: “The day will come when I will mock you, old man.”

He traveled on for many weeks. Gradually the snow melted away, grass
and flowers began to appear, and when he reached the southland,
thousands of birds were twittering and singing in the trees.

People were singing too, there in the southland, singing and dancing
around their beloved Queen of Summer. At first A-wah-nee laughed when
he saw her, for she was only a mite of a creature scarcely as tall as
A-wah-nee’s foot, with long black hair waving about her shoulders and
dark eyes flashing fire. But as he looked at her, an idea leaped into
his mind, and grew and grew into a great plan to fool the giant Winter.

Carefully the young brave carried out his scheme. First he went deep
into the heart of the forest and killed a deer. Then he skinned it
carefully, and made its hide into long thin strips which he rolled into
a tight ball.

Returning to the place where the men of the southland were singing and
dancing about their little Queen of Summer, A-wah-nee waited his time.
In a moment when they were not on guard, he caught up the tiny figure,
tucked her out of sight in a fold of his blanket, and went striding
away into the forest. As he fled he took care to unwind some ten or
more turns of the deer-skin string ball, and let the loose ends dangle
several yards behind him.

A-wah-nee was very fleet of foot and, too, he had taken the men of
the south so entirely unawares that before they had planned how to
rescue their stolen Queen, the thief was already deep in the forest and
quite out of sight. But presently they came upon the deer string and,
winding it up as they went, began to follow where it led.

In the meantime A-wah-nee had traveled far and reached, at last,
the wigwam of the giant Winter. As before, the old man welcomed him
pleasantly and bade him enter, for he meant to exert his spell over the
young hunter once more.

“Sit by my fire and rest,” he roared in his great voice. “You must be
weary after your long hunt. I will tell you tales of the giants while
you refresh your tired limbs.”

“Ah no!” laughed A-wah-nee. “This time, oh giant, I will tell the tales
to you,” and he smiled knowingly and began to speak.

As he talked, a strange thing happened to the giant. His head nodded,
his voice grew weak, he shook all over, and tears began to run from his
eyes, for little by little A-wah-nee had been drawing the folds of his
blanket away from the little Queen of Summer, and she had been watching
the old man with bright black eyes. At last she stepped out boldly on
A-wah-nee’s knee, and smiled at Winter. Under that smile he grew weaker
and weaker until at last he fell to the floor of the wigwam, and melted
away until nothing was left of him but a pool of water from which came
a hoarse, moaning cry.

A-wah-nee and the little Queen turned away from him and stepped out
doors. A great change had come over the scene. The snow had gone, the
grass was fresh and green, the ice had melted away, and the brooks
were trying to sing even louder than the happy birds. Everything was
as beautiful as the southland itself, even more so, for there was a
cool, sweet fragrance in the air that had come from the pure snow as it
melted.

Soon A-wah-nee and the little Queen found themselves surrounded by
the men of the southland, and they were rejoiced to see their beloved
ruler once more, safe and unharmed. When A-wah-nee told them why he had
borrowed their little Queen, they were quite ready to forgive him.

Indeed, they found the northland so beautiful they longed to make it
their home, but A-wah-nee warned them that the Summer Queen’s power
could last but six months. At the end of that time the old giant
Winter would rise from the pool of water, resume his former shape, and
with his breath freeze all the country, over which he ruled.

So from that time on, the men of the southland came each year to the
frozen realm of the old giant Winter, bringing their little Queen of
Summer, and with her approach the old man was forced to take a six
months’ nap. And so it has been even to this day. While the giant
sleeps, the world is bright and sunshiny; the flowers and the birds
sing; but when he awakens, he freezes the rivers and covers the earth
with a blanket of snow.



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Lost Giant and Other American Indian Tales Retold - Story Time Tales" ***

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