 OLD INDIAN LEGENDS For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. OLD INDIAN LEGENDS Section 10. Dance in a Buffalo Skull It was night upon the prairie. Overhead the stars were twinkling bright, their red and yellow lights. The moon was young, a silvery thread among the stars. It soon drifted low beneath the horizon. Upon the ground the land was pitchy black. There are night people on the plain who love the dark. Amid the black level land they meet to frolic under the stars. Then, when their sharp ears hear any strange footfalls nigh, they scamper away into the deep shadows of night. There they are safely hid from all dangers, they think. Thus it was that one very black night, a far off from the edge of the level land, out of the wooded river-bottom, glided forth to balls of fire. They came farther and farther into the level land. They grew larger and brighter. The dark hid the body of the creature with those fiery eyes. They came on and on, just over the tops of the prairie grass. It might have been a wildcat prowling low on soft, stealthy feet. Slowly but surely the terrible eyes drew nearer and nearer to the heart of the level land. There, in a huge old buffalo skull, was a gay feast and dance. Tiny little field mice were singing and dancing in a circle to the boom-boom of a wee, wee drum. They were laughing and talking among themselves, while their chosen singers sang loud a merry tune. They built a small open fire within the center of their queer dance-house. The light streamed out of the buffalo skull through all the curious sockets and holes. A light on the plane in the middle of the night was an unusual thing, but so merry were the mice that they did not hear the king, king of sleepy birds, disturbed by the unaccustomed fire. A pack of wolves, fearing to come nigh this night fire, stood together a little distance away and turning their pointed noses to the stars howled and yelped most dismally. Even the cry of the wolves was unheeded by the mice within the lighted buffalo skull. They were feasting and dancing. They were singing and laughing those funny little furry fellows. All the while across the dark from out the low river-bottom came that pair of fiery eyes. Now closer and more swift, now fiercer and glaring, the eyes moved toward the buffalo skull. All unconscious of those fearful eyes, the happy mice nibbled at dried roots and venison. The singers had started another song. The drummers beat the time, turning their heads from side to side in rhythm. In a ring around the fire hopped the mice, each bouncing hard on his two hind feet. Some carried their tails over their arms while others trailed them proudly along. Ah, very near are those round yellow eyes. Very low to the ground they seemed to creep, creep toward the buffalo skull. All of a sudden they slide into the eye sockets of the old skull. Spirit of the buffalo squeaked a frightened mouse as he jumped out from a hole in the back part of the skull. A cat, a cat, cried other mice as they scrambled out of holes both large and snug. Noiseless they ran away into the dark. End of section 10, recording by Robert Scott, July the 31st, 2007. Old Indian Legends by Zitkala Shah, section 11. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Old Indian Legends, The Toad and The Boy. The waterfowls were flying over the marshy lakes. It was now the hunting season. Indian men with bows and arrows were wading waist deep amid the wild rice. Nearby, within their wigwams, the wives were roasting wild duck and making down pillows. In the largest teepee sat a young mother wrapping red porcupine quills about the long fringes of a buckskin cushion. Beside her lay a black-eyed baby boy, cooing and laughing. Reaching and kicking upward with his tiny hands and feet, he played with the dangling strings of his heavy-beated bonnet, hanging empty on a tent-pole above him. At length the mother laid aside her red quills and white sinew threads. The babe fell fast asleep. Leaning on one hand and softly whispering a little lullaby, she threw a light cover over her baby. It was almost time for the return of her husband. Remembering there were no willow-sticks for the fire, she quickly girdled her blanket tight about her waist and with a short-handled axe slipped through her belt. She hurried away toward the wood ravine. She was strong and swung an axe as skillfully as any man. Her loose-buck-skin dress was made for such freedom. Soon carrying easily a bundle of long willows on her back with a loop of rope over both her shoulders, she came striding homeward. Near the entranceway she stooped low, at once shifting the bundle to the right with both hands, lifting the noose from over her head. Having thus dropped the wood to the ground, she disappeared into her teepee. In a moment she came running out again, crying, My son, my little son is gone. Her keen eyes swept east and west all around her. There was nowhere any sign of the child. Running with clenched fists to the nearest teepees she called, Has anyone seen my baby? He is gone. My little son is gone. Hinnu, Hinnu exclaimed the women, rising to their feet and rushing out of their wigwams. We have not seen your child. What has happened? queried the women. With great tears in her eyes the mother told her story. We will search with you, they said to her as she started off. They met the returning husbands who turned about and joined in the hunt for the missing child. Along the shore of the lakes, among the high-grown reeds, they looked in vain. He was nowhere to be found. After many days and nights the search was given up. It was sad, indeed, to hear the mother wailing aloud for her little son. It was growing late in the autumn. The birds were flying high toward the south. The teepees around the lakes were gone, save one lonely dwelling. Till the winter snow covered the ground and ice covered the lakes, the wailing woman's voice was heard from that solitary wigwam. For some far distance was also the sound of the father's voice singing a sad song. Thus ten summers and as many winters have come and gone since the strange disappearance of the little child. Every autumn with the hunters came the unhappy parents of the lost baby to search again for him. Toward the latter part of the tenth season, when one by one the teepees were folded and the families went away from the lake region, the mother walked again along the lakeshore weeping. One evening across the lake from where the crying woman stood a pair of bright black eyes peered at her through the tall reeds and wild rice. The little wild boy stopped his playing among the tall grasses. His long, loose hair hanging down his brown back and shoulders was carelessly tossed from his round face. He wore a loincloth of woven sweetgrass crouching low to the marshy ground. He listened to the wailing voice. As the woman grew hoarse and only sobs shook the slender figure of the woman, the eyes of the wild boy grew dim and wet. At length when the moaning ceased he sprang to his feet and ran like a nymph with swift outstretched toes. He rushed into a small hut of reeds and grasses. Mother, mother, tell me what voice it was I heard which pleased my ears, but made my eyes grow wet, said he, breathless. Han, my son, grunted a big ugly toad. It was the voice of a weeping woman you've heard. My son, do not say you like it. Do not tell me it brought tears to your eyes. You have never heard me weep. I can please your ear and break your heart. Listen, replied the great old toad. Stepping outside she stood by the entrance way. She was old and badly puffed out. She had reared a large family of little toads, but none of them had aroused her love nor ever grieved her. She had heard the wailing human voice and marveled at the throat which produced the strange sound. Now, in her great desire to keep the stolen boy a while longer, she ventured to cry as the Dakota woman does. In a gruff, coarse voice she broke forth. Hin, hin, do skin. Hin, hin, ermine, ermine. Hin, hin, red blanket with white border. Not knowing that the syllables of a Dakota's cry are the names of loved ones gone, the ugly toad-mother sought to please the boy's ear with the names of valuable articles. Having shrieked in a torturing voice and mouthed extravagant names, the old toad rolled her tearless eyes with great satisfaction. Hopping back into her dwelling she asked, My son, did my voice bring tears to your eyes? Did my words bring gladness to your ears? Do you not like my wailing better? No, no, pouted the boy with some impatience. I want to hear the woman's voice. Tell me, mother, why the human voice stirs all my feelings? The toad-mother said, within her breast, the human child has heard and seen his real mother. I cannot keep him longer, I fear. Oh, no, I cannot give away the pretty creature I have taught to call me mother all these many winters. Mother went on the child voice, tell me one thing, tell me why my little brothers and sisters are all unlike me. The big ugly toad, looking at her pudgy children, said, The eldest is always best. This reply quieted the boy for a while. Very closely watched the old toad-mother, her stolen human son. When by chance he started off alone, she shoved out one of her own children after him, saying, Do not come back without your big brother. Thus the wild boy with the long loose hair sits every day on a marshy island, hid among the tall reeds. But he is not alone, always at his feet hops a little toad-brother. One day an Indian hunter, waiting in the deep waters, spied the boy. He had heard of the baby stolen long ago. This is he, murmured the hunter to himself as he ran to his wigwam. I saw among the tall reeds a black-haired boy at play, shouted he to the people. At once the unhappy father and mother cried out, Tis he, our boy, quickly he led them to the lake. Peeping through the wild rice he pointed with unsteady finger toward the boy playing all unawares. Tis he, tis he, cried the mother, for she knew him. In silence the hunter stood aside while the happy father and mother caressed their baby boy, grown tall. End of section 11, recording by Robert Scott, August the 1st, 2007 Old Indian Legends by Zitkala Shah, section 12. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. From the tall grass came the voice of a crying babe, the huntsman, who were passing nigh, heard and halted. The tallest one among them hastened toward the high grass with long, cautious strides. He waded through the growth of green with just a head above it all. Suddenly, exclaiming, Hoon he, he dropped out of sight. In another instant he held up in both his hands a tiny little baby wrapped in soft brown buckskins. Oh Ho, a woodchild, cried the man, for they were hunting along the wooded river bottom where this babe was found. While the hunters were questioning whether or not they should carry at home the wee Indian baby kept up his little howl. His voice is strong, said one. At times it sounds like an old man's voice. Whispered a superstitious fellow who feared some bad spirit hid in the small child to cheat them by and by. Let us take it to our wise chieftain at length, they said, and the moment they started toward the campground the strange woodchild ceased to cry. Beside the chieftain's teepee waited the hunters while the tall man entered with the child. How, how, nodded the kind-faced chieftain listening to the queer story. Then, rising, he took the infant in his strong arms. Gently he laid the black-eyed babe in his daughter's lap. This is to be your little son, said he, smiling. Yes, father, she replied, pleased with the child she smoothed the long black hair fringing his round brown face. Tell the people that I give a feast and dance this day for the naming of my daughter's little son Bade the chieftain. In the meanwhile among the men waiting by the entrance way one said in a low voice, I have heard that bad spirits come as little children into a camp which they mean to destroy. No, no, let us not be overcautious. It would be cowardly to leave a baby in the wild wood where prowl the hungry wolves, answered an elderly gentleman. The tall man now came out of the chieftain's teepee with a word he sent them to their dwellings half running with joy. A feast, a dance for the naming of the chieftain's grandchild, cried he in a loud voice to the village people. What? What? asked they in great surprise holding a hand to the ear to catch the words of the crier. There was a momentary silence among the people while they listened to the ringing voice of the man walking in the center ground. Then broke forth a rippling, laughing babble among the cone-shaped teepees. All were glad to hear of the chieftain's grandson. They were happy to attend the feast and dance for its naming. With excited fingers they twisted their hair into glossy braids and painted their cheeks with bright red paint. To and fro hurried the women, handsome in their gala-day dress. Men in loose steerskins with long, tinkling metal fringes strode in small numbers toward the center of the campground. Here, underneath a temporary shade-house of green leaves, they were to dance and feast. The children in deerskins and paints, just like their elders, were jolly little men and women. Beside their eager parents they skipped along toward the green dance-house. Here, seated in a large circle, the people were assembled. Proud chieftain rose with the little baby in his arms. The noisy hum of voices was hushed. Not a tinkling of metal fringe broke the silence. The crier came forward to greet the chieftain. Then bent attentively over the small babe, listening to the words of the chieftain. When he paused, the crier spoke aloud to the people. This woodland child is adopted by the chieftain's eldest daughter. His name is Chasky. He wears the title of the eldest son. In honor of Chasky, the chieftain gives this feast and dance. These are the words of him you see holding a baby in his arms. Yes, yes, he knew. How? came from the circle. At once the drummers beat softly and slowly their drum, while the chosen singers hummed together to find the common pitch. The beat of the drum grew louder and faster. The singers burst forth in a lively tune. Then the drum beats subsided and faintly marked the rhythm of the singing. Here and there bounced up men and women, both young and old. They danced and sang with merry light hearts. Then came the hour of feasting. Late into the night the air of the campground was alive with the laughing voices of women and the singing in unison of young men. Within her father's tepee sat the chieftain's daughter. Proud of her little one, she watched over him asleep in her lap. Gradually a deep quiet stole over the campground as one by one the people fell into pleasant dreams. Now all the village was still. Alone sat the beautiful young mother watching the babe in her lap, asleep with a gaping little mouth. Amid the quiet of the night her ear heard the far-off hum of many voices. The faint sound of murmuring people was in the air. Upward she glanced at the smoke-hole of the wigwam and saw a bright star peeping down upon her. Spirits in the air above she wondered. Yet there was no sign to tell her of their nearness. The fine small sound of voices grew larger and nearer. Father, rise! I hear the coming of some tribe, hostile or friendly I cannot tell. Rise and see! whispered the young woman. Yes, my daughter answered the chieftain springing to his feet. Though asleep his ear was ever alert. Thus rushing out into the open he listened for strange sounds. With an eagle eye he scanned the campground for some sign. Returning he said, my daughter I hear nothing and see no sign of evil nigh. Oh, the sound of many voices comes up from the earth about me, exclaimed the young mother. Bending low over her babe she gave ear to the ground. Horrified was she to find the mysterious sound came out of the open mouth of her sleeping child. Why, so unlike other babes, she cried within her heart as she slipped him gently from her lap to the ground. Mother, listen and tell me if this child is an evil spirit, come to destroy our camp, she whispered loud. Placing an ear close to the open baby mouth, the chieftain and his wife, each in turn heard the voices of a great camp. The singing of men and women, the beating of the drum, the rattling of deer hooves, strung like bells on a string. These were the sounds they heard. We must go away, said the chieftain, leading them into the night. Out in the open he whispered to the frightened young woman. Ayah, the camp-eater, has come in the guise of a babe. Had you gone to sleep he would have jumped out into his own shape and would have devoured our camp. He is a giant with spindling legs. He cannot fight, for he cannot run. He is powerful only in the night with his tricks. We are safe as soon as day breaks. Then, moving closer to the woman, he whispered, if he wakes now he will swallow the whole tribe with one hideous gulp. Come, we must flee with our people. Thus, creeping from tepee to tepee, a secret alarm signal was given. At midnight the tepees were gone and there was left no sign of the village save heaps of dead ashes. So quietly had the people folded their wigwams and bundled their tentpoles that they slipped away unheard by the sleeping Ayah babe. When the morning sun rose the babe awoke. Seeing himself deserted he threw off his baby form in a hot rage. Wearing his own ugly shape his huge body toppled to and fro from side to side on a pair of thin legs far too small for their burden. Though with every move he came dangerously nigh to falling he followed in the trail of the fleeing people. I shall eat you in the sight of a noonday sun cried Ayah in his vain rage when he spied them encamped beyond a river. By some unknown cunning he swam the river and sought his way toward the tepees. Hin-hin he grunted and growled with perspiration beating his brow he strove to wiggle his slender legs beneath his giant form. Ha-ha! laughed all the village people to see Ayah made foolish with anger. Such spindle legs cannot stand to fight by daylight. He shouted the brave ones who were terror struck the night before by the name Ayah. Warriors with long knives rushed forth and slew the camp-eater. Lo! there rose out of the giant a whole Indian tribe, their campground, their tepees in a large circle and the people laughing and dancing. We are glad to be free, said these strange people. Thus Ayah was killed and no more are the campgrounds in danger of being swallowed up in a single night-time. End of Section 12. Recording by Robert Scott, August the 2nd, 2007 Old Indian Legends by Zitkala Shah, Section 13. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Old Indian Legends, Manston, The Rabbit Manston was an adventurous brave but very kind-hearted. Stamping a moccasin foot as he drew on his buckskin leggings he said, Grandmother, beware of Iktomai, do not let him lure you into some cunning trap. I am going to the North Country on a long hunt. With these words of caution to the bent old rabbit grandmother, with whom he had lived since he was a tiny babe, Manston started off toward the North. He was scarce over the great high hills when he heard the shrieking of a human child. Juan, he ejaculated, pointing his long ears toward the direction of the sound. Juan, that is the work of cruel double-face, shameless coward, he delights in torturing helpless creatures. Muttering in distinct words, Manston ran up the last hill and low in the ravine. Beyond stood the terrible monster with a face in front and one in the back of his head. This brown giant was without clothes save for a wild catskin about his loins. With a wicked gleaming eye he watched the little black-haired boy he held in his strong arm. In a laughing voice he hummed an Indian mother's lullaby. Ah boo, ah boo! And at the same time he switched the naked baby with a thorny wild rose-bush. Quickly Manston jumped behind a large sage-bush on the brow of the hill. He bent his bow and the sinewy string twanged. Now an arrow struck above the ear of double-face. It was a poisoned arrow and the giant fell dead. Then Manston took the little brown baby and hurried away from the ravine. Soon he came to a tepee from whence loud wailing voices broke. It was the tepee of the stolen baby and the mourners were its heartbroken parents. When Gallant Manston returned the child to the eager arms of the mother there came a sudden terror into the eyes of both the Dakotas. They feared least it was double-face coming a new guys to torture them. The rabbit understood their fear and said, I am Manston, the kind-hearted Manston, the noted huntsman, I am your friend, do not fear. That night a strange thing happened. While the father and mother slept, Manston took the wee baby. With his feet placed gently yet firmly upon the tiny toes of the little child he drew upward by each small hand, the sleeping child, till he was a full-grown man. With a forefinger he traced a slit in the upper lip and when on the morrow the man and woman awoke they could not distinguish their own son from Manston, so much alike were the braves. Henceforth we are friends to help each other, said Manston, shaking a right hand in farewell. The earth is our common ear to carry from its uttermost extremes one slightest wish for the other. Oh, be it so, answered the newly-made man. Upon leaving his friend, Manston hurried away toward the North Country, wither he was bound for a long hunt. Suddenly he came upon the edge of a wide brook. The alert eye caught sight of a rawhide rope, staked to the water's brink, which led away toward a small round hut in the distance. The ground was trotted into a deep groove beneath the loosely drawn rawhide rope. Hun he exclaimed Manston, bending over the freshly made footprints in the moist bank of the brook. A man's footprints, he said to himself, a blind man lives in yonder hut. This rope is his guide by which he comes for his daily water, surmised Manston, who knew all the peculiar contrivances of the people. At once his eyes became fixed upon the solitary dwelling, and hither he followed his curiosity. A real blind man's rope. Quietly he lifted the door flap and entered in. An old toothless grandfather, blind and shaky with age, sat upon the ground. He was not deaf, however. He heard the entrance and felt the presence of some stranger. How, grandchild, he mumbled, for he was old enough to be grandparent to every living thing. How, I cannot see you, pray, speak your name. Grandfather, I am Manston, answered the rabbit, all the while looking with curious eyes about the wigwam. Grandfather, what is it so tightly packed in all these buckskin bags placed against the tent poles, he asked. My grandchild, those are dried buffalo meat and venison. These are magic bags which never grow empty. I am blind and cannot go on hunt, hence a kind maker has given me these magic bags of choicest foods. Then the old bent man pulled a rope which lay by his right hand. This leads me to the brook where I drank, and this, said he, turning to one on his left, and this takes me into the forest where I feel about for dry sticks for my fire. Grandfather, I wish I lived in such sure luxury. I would lean back against a tent pole, and with crossed feet I would smoke sweet willow-bark the rest of my days, sighed Manston. My grandchild, your eyes are your luxury. You would be unhappy without them, the old man replied. Grandfather, I would give you my two eyes for your place, cried Manston. How, you have said it, arise, take your eyes and give them to me. Henceforth, you are at home here in my stead. At once Manston took out both his eyes and the old man put them on, rejoicing the old grandfather started away with his young eyes while the blind rabbit filled his dream pipe, leaning lazily against the tent pole. For a short time it was a most pleasant pastime to smoke willow-bark and to eat from the magic bags. Manston grew thirsty, but there was no water in the small dwelling. Taking one of the rawhide ropes he started toward the brook to quench his thirst. He was young and unwilling to trudge slowly in the old man's footpath. He was full of glee, for it had been many long moons since he had tasted such good food. Thus he skipped confidently along, jerking the old weather-eaten rawhide spasmodically till all of a sudden it gave way and Manston fell headlong into the water. En, en, he grunted, kicking frantically amidst stream. All along the slippery bank he vainly tried to climb, till at last he chanced upon the old stake and the deeply worn footpath. Exhausted and inwardly disgusted with his mishap he crawled more cautiously on all fours to his wigwam door. Dripping with his recent plunge he sat with chattering teeth within his unfired wigwam. The sun had set and the night air was chilly, but there was no firewood in the dwelling. Hinn murmured Manston and bravely tried the other rope. I go for some firewood, he said, following the rawhide rope which led into the forest. Soon he stumbled upon thickly strewn dry willow-sticks. Eagerly, with both hands, he gathered the wood into his outspread blanket. Manston was naturally an energetic fellow. When he had a large heap he tied two ends of blanket together and lifted the bundle of wood upon his back, but alas he had unconsciously dropped the end of the rope and now he was lost in the wood. Hinn-hin, he groaned. Then, pausing a moment, he set his fan-like ears to catch any sound of approaching footsteps. There was none. Not even a nightbird twittered to help him out of his predicament. With a bold face he made a start at random. He fell into some tangled wood where he was held fast. Manston let go his bundle and began to lament, having given away his two eyes. Friend, my friend, I have need of you. The old oak-tree grandfather has gone off with my eyes and I am lost in the woods. He cried with his lips close to the earth. Scarcely had he spoken when the sound of voices was audible on the outer edge of the forest. Nearer and louder grew the voices. One was the clear flute tones of a young brave and the other the tremulous squawks of an old grandfather. It was Manston's friend with the earth-ear and the old grandfather. Here, Manston, take back your eyes, said the old man. I knew you would not be content in my stead, but I wanted you to learn your lesson. I have had pleasure seeing with your eyes and trying your bow and arrows, but since I am old and feeble I much prefer my own teepee and my magic bags. Thus the three returned to the hut. The old grandfather crept into his wigwam which is often mistaken for a mere oak-tree by little Indian girls and boys. Manston, with his own bright eyes, fitted into his head again, went on happily to hunt in the North Country. End of section 13 Recording by Robert Scott, August the 2nd, 2007 Old Indian Legends by Zitkala Shah, section 14 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Old Indian Legends, section 14 The Warlike 7 Once seven people went out to make war. The ashes, the fire, the bladder, the grasshopper, the dragonfly, the fish, and the turtle. As they were talking excitedly, waving their fists in violent gestures, a wind came and blew the ashes away. Ho! cried the others. He could not fight this one. The six went on running to make war more quickly. They descended a deep valley, the fire going foremost, until they came to a river. The fire said, his chew, and was gone. Ho! hooded the others. He could not fight this one. Therefore the five went on the more quickly to make war. They came to a great wood. While they were going through it, the bladder was heard to sneer and to say, He, you should rise above these brothers. With these words he went upward among the treetops, and the thorn-apple pricked him. He fell through the branches and was nothing. You see this, said the four, this one could not fight. Still the remaining warriors would not turn back. The four went boldly on to make war. The grasshopper with his cousin, the dragonfly, went foremost. They reached a marshy place, and the mire was very deep. As they waded through the mud, the grasshopper's legs stuck, and he pulled them off. He crawled upon a log and wept. You see me, brothers, I cannot go. The dragonfly went on, weeping for his cousin. He could not be comforted, for he loved his cousin dearly. The more he grieved, the louder he cried, till his body shook with great violence. He blew his red swollen nose with a loud noise so that his head came off his slender neck, and he was fallen upon the grass. You see how it is, said the fish, lashing his tail impatiently. These people were not warriors. Come, he said, let us go on to make war. Thus the fish and the turtle came to a large campground. Ho exclaimed the people of this round village of tepees, who are these little ones, what do they seek? Neither of the warriors carried weapons with them, and their unimposing stature misled the curious people. The fish was spokesman, with a peculiar omission of syllables he said, shoo, he pie. Juan, what? What? clamored eager voices of men and women. Again the fish said, shoo, he pie. Everywhere stood young and old, with a palm to an ear. Still no one guessed what the fish had mumbled. From the bewildered crowd witty old Iktomai came forward. He, listen, he shouted, rubbing his mischievous palms together, for where there was any trouble brewing, he was always in the midst of it. This little strange man says, zuya, unhipi. We come to make war. Ooon, resented the people, suddenly stricken glum. Let us kill the silly pair. They can do nothing. They do not know the meaning of the phrase. Let us build the fire and boil them both. If you put us on to boil, said the fish, there will be trouble. Ho, ho, laughed the village folk, we shall see, and so they made a fire. I have never been so angered, said the fish. The turtle in a whisper reply said, we shall die. When a pair of strong hands lifted the fish over the sputtering water, he put his mouth downward. Wush, he said, and blew the water all over the people, so that many were burned and could not see. Screaming with pain, they ran away. Oh, what shall we do with these dreadful ones, they said. Others exclaimed, let us carry them to the lake of muddy water and drown them. Instantly, they ran with them. They threw the fish and the turtle into the lake. Toward the center of the large lake, the turtle dived. There, he peeped up out of the water and waving a hand at the crowd, sang out, this is where I live. The fish swam hither and thither with such frolicsome darts that his back fin made the water fly. I Han whooped the fish, this is where I live. Oh, what have we done, said the frightened people, this will be our undoing. Then a wise chief said, ayah, the eater shall come and swallow the lake. So one went running. He brought ayah the eater and ayah drank all day at the lake till his belly was like the earth. Then the fish and turtle dived into the mud and ayah said, they are not in me. Hearing this, the people cried greatly. Iktomai, wading in the lake, had been swallowed like a gnat in the water. Within the great ayah he was looking skyward. So deep was the water in the eater's stomach that the surface of the swallowed lake almost touched the sky. I will go that way, said Iktomai, looking at the concave within arm's reach. He struck his knife upward in the eater's stomach and the water falling out drowned those people of the village. Now when the great water fell into its own bed, the fish and the turtle came to the shore. They went home, painted victors and loud-voiced singers. End of section 14 End of Old Indian Legends by Zitkala Shah Recording by Robert Scott, August the 1st, 2007