'}
1
il
I ', l!'^ 1
'I
1 f\ 1
I
t, l^' I '^ I J 'I
I
n I
I I
r
. n
^y'^
:!*'* .■•i ^ ^
I
'ss
^f H
. ?
' >,
[ I
a
I
r
II
I
J^ ., u*
' ^ ,
^ . f
m; 't
I hi'
J
I J
T I
I I
{ I
ii
'l
1 I
1
'1
'^ . '
'■\.
1»
J'
L
H - I I
I
I- I
', ''^
.1 I
^ Ii 11
I , i
III
I ^'
.^
' ji
H ■ ! P'^ ' *
III
l\' r
I I
! 1
I I
' I
I
.'.',
[
I
I I
f
r ^ I
f
I -I
r d
I-
" 1;
i I
I
I
- V.
i! t
^^ ri ^
;Efi
f 1
l-lllf
IIU,
"!n3|S,*
I I".
Iril
I 1='
If
fyi
MV5EVM0FTHEAnER.lCAN INDIAN!
i' »Nij,mi iiiiNiiiiiuiiii .1.1. i.iiNiiiiL.iinlumm^llj Jil^|||i|i|||||iiiii|||iiHiii, ,.i, I III .i,.iimiiiiuiiii.iiiiNm.
FREDER.ICK W. HODGE COLLECTION
Huntington Free Library
Native American
Collection
\
CORNELL UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
li=».\
''^
Cornell University
Library
The original of this book is in
the Cornell University Library.
There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.
http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924104094143
.A.ia. Xll-us-tx-A-ted AXozi-tlxly JoXLX-xml^ X>e-v-oi:ed to -tlie .A.d-v-chUoeixi.exit of Ba:illlzis Azid ndCeolmxiionl Iia.terest»-
PTJBLISHED BY
Da.viunis ; that the many observances, ceremonials
and tormulse connected with com, its growth, treat-
ment ;ind preparation for food — hereinafter to be
described,— may not seem meaningless, it is neces-
sary that an outline of the Zufii mythology connected
with com, and that some, at least, of the philosophy,
and folk-lore which have grown out of this mytholo-
gy, 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 pinon-fires on Zuiii hearthstones— to the
recitals which first gave me knowledge of these
sti-ange beliefs and things.
Thus listening, 1 once heard a Zuni 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.
"Oui- brothers and sisters the Corn, and seeds of
growing things."
This Indian philosopher explained himself some-
what after the following fashion :
"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 abund-
antly seeds, while these, — are they not cooked by
the brand of fire which warms us in wmter?"
That he reasoned well, may be the better under-
stood if we follow for a while the teachings which
instructed his logic. These relate that :
"First, there was sublime darkness, which van-
ished not mitil 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 sm-face of his flesh, thus drawing
forth yep'naA
The yep'na he rolled into two balls. From his
high and 'ancient place among the spaces,' (Te'-
thla-shi-na-'ktnn) he cast 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 be-
came a gi-eat being— our Mother, the Eaith; and
the second became another gi-eat 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 under-
worlds or caves^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-fatlier. He spread his
hand high and abroad with the hollow palm down-
ward. Yellow grains like corn he stuck into all the
lines and wrinkles of his palm andfingers. " Thus,"
said he, "shall I, as it were, hold my hand ever
above thee and thy children, and the yellow gi-ains
shall represent so many shining points which shall
1 Or the "substance of living flesh." This is exemplifled
as well as may be, by the little cylinders of cuticle and fat-
ty-mutter that may be rubbed from the person after bathing,
— F. H.C.
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 i
without guidance, even in the light of the Sun-, j
father, therefore, behold I"
She took a great terraced bowl into which she ,
poured water, upon the water she spat, and whip- i
ping 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 momitains 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. There-
fore, at night, when thou watchest, my children
shall nestle in my bosom and find there waraith,
strength and length of life from one day light to
another."
Is not the bowl the emblem of the Earth, oiu-
mother ? for from it we draw both food and diink,
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 himt the feed
and gather pine-faggots.
Tet alas ! men and the creatures remained bpund-
en 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 Sim 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
histilled 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 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 rain-bow, that with
it they might clear men's trails of enemies, as the
THE IMZILLSTOnSTE.
January, 1884.
rain-bow clears away the storm-shadows ; and for
their arrows gave he them the thunder-bolts, that
they might rive open the momitains, as the light-
ning cleaves asmider the pine trees, and then he
sent them abroad to deliver, guide and protect the
children of earth and the Sky-father. With then-
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 mider the snow to hide from the cold of the
Sky-father. With their thunder-bolts they broke
open the mowitain which gave entrance to the cave-
wombs of the Earth-mother, and upon their water-
shields they descended into the lowermost of the
caves, where dwelt the cliildren of earth — men and
all creatures.
Alas 1 It was dark as had been the world before
the coming of the Smi, and the brothers found men
and the beings sadly bewailmg their lot. When
one moved it was but to jostle another, whose com-
plaints 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 foot-
steps of the older and younger brothers. Does not
the cane grow jomted to-day, showing thus the
notches which men traversed to day-light ?
In the second cave all was still dark, bi\t like
starlight through cloud rifts, through the cleft above
showed the twilight. After time the people mur-
mured 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 oiir ancients knew not.
Then indeed for a time the people complained
bitterly, for it was then that they first saw the liarht
of the Sun-father, which, in its brilliancy, smote
them so that they fell grasping their eye-balls 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 every-
. where rolled about the gi'eat 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, cut-
ting great canons and valleys which remam to this
day. Thub 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 " Priest-
hood" — Shi'-worna-kwe; the "Hunter-band" — Sa'-
ni-drk'ia-Tewe; the "Knife-band" — A'tcht-ork'iarkioe
or Warrior, and the Ne'^we-lcwe, or 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 tur-
key ; others chose the deer, bear, or coyote ; others
the seeds of earth, or a'-tdra, the spring vme, tobac-
co, and the plants of medicine, the yellow-wood and
many other things. Thus it came about tliat 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 jiation into many clans, or
Gentes (A'-no-U-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 thhig 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 medicme 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 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 med-
icine 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.'
To the Eagle, Deer and Coyote peoples was given
the Nal'-e-ton, 01 " Deer Medicine Seed," which the
Hunter-band still guards ; and to the Macaw, Sun
and Frog peoples the Kia'-et>-ton or the ' Medicine
Seed of Water,' which the priesthood and the Sacred
Dance, or K&'-kd, still hold — without the adminis-
tration of which the world would dry up and even
the insects of the mountains and hollows of earth
grow thirsty and perish. Tet, not less precious was
the gift to the " Seed-people," or Ta'-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, 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.^
To all of these peoples it was told that they should
wander for many generations toward the land
whence the Sun brings the day-light (Eastward)
imtil 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 Zuili grow
dark.
Toward this unknown oomitry 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 after-
ward, the flesh of the cotton and yucca-mothers.
The earth was still damp. Dig a hole in a hill-side,
quickly it filled with water. Drop a seed on tlie
highest table-land and it without waiting shot forth
green sprouts. So moist, indeed, was the soil, that
2 It may be Been that the Zunis have here their own way
of accounting Xor their primitive social organization into
Gentes and Phralries; organizations well nigh universal in
the ancient world— as with the society of the early Greeks
and Romans— and still prevalent amongst savage tribes of
to-day.— F. B. C.
3 In ancient times when desirous of making Are, and even
to-day when lilndling the sacred flame, the Zunis produced
and still produce, the first spark by drilling with a hard stick
like an arrow-shaft into a dry piece of soft root. An arrow-
shaft is now used by preference, as it is the emblem of
lightning.- F. H. C.
even foot-prints of men and all creatures might be
traced whithersoever they tended. The bemgs and
strange creatures increased with men, and spread
over the world. Many monsters lived, by whose
ferocity men perished.
Then said the twui brothers : " Men, our children,
are poorer than the beasts, their enemies ; for each
creature has a special gift of sti-ength or sagacity,
while to men has been given only .the power of
guessmg. Nor would we that our children be web-
footed like the bemgs 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 thunder-
bolts, one pointing north, another west, another
south, and the other eastward. When all was ready
they let fiy the thunder-bolts. Instantly the world
was covered with lurid fire and shaken with rolling
thunders, as is a forest to-day burned and blasted
where the lightnmg 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 m 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
moimtain side and ravine, and in the far We.stern
valleys and plains, still endure the trstcks of the
fathers of men and beings, the cMdren 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 mspired with the hearts of
waniors and hunters.
Often the people rested from their wanderings,
building great houses of stone which may even now
be seen, until the Couch of the Gods sounded, which
lashed the ocean to fury and beat the earth to
trembling.* Then the people started up, and gath-
ering the few things they.could, again commenced
their wanderings ; yet often those who slept or lin-
gered 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 oth-
ers, those impregnated with the seed of sorcery.
Their evil works caused discord among men, and,
through fear and anger, men were divided fro mgne
another. Bom before our ancients, had been otnSf
men, and these our fathers sometimeSTSTertook and
looked not peacefully upon them, but challenged
them — though were they not their older brothers ?
It thus happened when our ancients came to tlieir
fom-th restmg place on their eastward journey, that
which they named Shi-^o-lo-lon-K'ai-a, or "The
Place of Misty Waters," there already dwelt a clan
of people called the A'-ta-a, or Seed People, and the
seed clan of our ancients challenged them to know
by what right they assumed 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, yoiu' own power first, then we will show ;
you ours." At last, after much wrangling, the seed
clan agreed to this, and set apart eiglit days for
prayer and sacred labors. First they worked to-
gether cuttmg sticks, to which they bound the
plumes of summer birds which fiy in the clouds or
sail over the waters. "Therefore," thought our
fathers, "why should not their plumes waft our
beseechmgs to the waters and clouds?" These
4 Doubtless this refers to the earthquake. Ruins may
sometimes be found in the Southwest, buried like Pompeii
beneath the ashes and lava of ancient eruptions thus
pointing either to a remote origin of the Pueblos, or a re-
cent cessation of volcanic action in New Mexico and Ari
zona.— F. U- 0.
jAinjART, 1884
PHIE IMULLSTOnSTE.
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 soU and
spreading it over the valleys where the plumed sticks
had been planted. " See I" said the fathers of the
seed clan," water and new earth bring we by our
supplications."
"It is well," replied the strangers, "yet life ye
did not brmg. Behold I" 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.l Behold, mdeedl "Where the plumes
had been planted and tlie tchu'-e-tmi placed grew
seven corn-plants, their tassels waiving m the wind,
their stalks^laden with ripened gi-am. "These,"
said the strangers, " are tlie severed flesh of- seven
maidens, our own sisters and children. The eldest
sister's is the yellow com; the next, the blue; the
next, the red; the next, the white; the next, the
speckled; the next, the black, andjhe last and
youngest is the sweet<;om, for see 1 even ripe, she
is soft like the young of the others. The first is of
the North-laud, yellow like the light'of_; winter; the
second is of the "West, blue like' the great .world of
waters ; the third> 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 day-
light; the fifth is of the upper regions, many-color-
ed as are the clouds' of ^morning and evening, and
the sixth is of the'lower regions, black as are the
caves whence came we, your older, 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 om- maidens ye
may eat, no more seeking the seeds of the grasses,
and of your water we may drink, no more wonder-
ing whither we shall flnd it; thus shall each help
the other to life and contentment. Ye shalljpray
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 moi-tal
must approach the persons of our maidens."
Thenceforward, many of the A'-ta-a and the seed
clan journeyed together, until at last the Sun, Mac-
aw, and some other clans-people f oimd the middle of
the world ; whUe others yet wandered in search of it,
not for many generations to join then brothers,
over the heart of the Earth-mother, which is Shi-
v }i-na-kuA n, or the "Land of the Zunis."' "
Day after day, season after season, year after
year, the people of the seed clan and the A'-ta-a,
who were named together the Com-clan, or people,
prepared, and their maidens danced the dance of
the fhla-herkwe,^ or "Beautiful Com Wands," until
their children 'grew weary and yeamedfor other
amusements.
Sometimes the people saw over Thunder-moun-
tain thick mists floating and lowering. At such times.
5 I have, regretfully, often to pass over with a single sen-
tence — as in this instance — whole chapters of this beautiful
myth of creation, since the scope of the present series is
limited by its title to the discussion of a single topic. The
myth must therefore be abandoned as soon as it has led up
to the subject proper. — F. H. C.
6 tJnexceptionably this is one of the most beautiful of the
native ceremonials, and is one of the few sacred dances of
the Zunis- in which women assume the leading part. It is
still performed with untiring zeal, usually during each sum-
mer, although accompanied by exhausting fasts and absti-
nences from sleep. Curiously enough, it was observed and
admirably, though too briefly described, by Coronado, the
conqueatad&r of Cibola, or Shi-yA -na, and the Eio Grande
provinces, nearly three hundred iSnA fifty years ago.
It was with this ceremon ial that the delighted nation wel-
comed the water which my party brought in 1882 from the
"Ocean of Sunrise." As I was then compelled to join the
watch of the priests and elders, I had ample leisure during
two sleepless days and nights to gather the above and fol-
lowing story from the song which celebrates the origin of
the custom, but which both in length and poetic beauty far
Burpasses the limits and style of the present paper.— F. H.
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, sti anger than that of the whist-
ling winds in a mountahi of pines, floated fitfully
down the valley. At last the priests and elders gath-
ered in council and determined to send their two
chief wan-iors (Priests of the Bow) to the cavern of
the rainbow, that it might be determined what
strange people made the sights and sounds. " May-
hap it will prove some new dancers, who will throw
the light of their favor on our weary hearts and
come to cheer us and delight our children." Thus
said tliey to the warriors when they were departing.
No sooner had the warriors reached the cave-en-
trance 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 Jre'^.«e band, and the God
of Dew.
"Enter, my children," said he, "and sit. "We
have commanded our dancers to cease and our play-
ers to draw breath from their flutes, that we might
listen to your messages ; for, ' not for nothing does
one stranger visit the house of anotjier.' "
" 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 you knew one we
were taught by your music, which we sometimes
heard."
" Aha !" replied Pai'-a-ftt-ma, "it is well! "We
will follow ; but not in the day-time — in the night-
time we will follow. My children," said he, turn-
ing 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 smgmg unison,
as the wind does in a wooded canon after the stonn
is distant, " and the mists played over the medicine
bowl argund which the musicians were gathered,
until the rainbow fluttered his bright garments
among the painted flutes. Maidens filed out brand-
ishing 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 won-
der and admiration departed for their home.
"When they returned to their fathers in Zuiii 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
in the court of the pueblo, whither went the moth-
ers 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'-tA-e or Medicine Seeds of corn
and water. Along the outer edges were planted the
sticks of prayer, plumed with the feathers of sum-
mer bh-ds, and down in front of the altar and ter-
race were set basket-bowls covered with sacred
mantels made of the fiesh 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 Zuni mythology.] By the side of
each basket-bowl sat a mother of the clan, silent in
prayer and meditation. To the right were the sing-
ers, to the left the com maidens. Night was com-
ing 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 com, but as are human
maidens, so were they, irresistibly beautiful.
As the night deepened, the sound pf 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 howl — the terraced bowl of the
world — whence arose the rainbow. The people
were delighted, but the com 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 'till 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 something under the mantles, vanishing in-
stantly as do the spirits of the dying, leaving only
their flesh behmd. 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 ?" Tet 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 otlier 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 jour-
ney ?"
" Send for the eagle," it was said. The two war-
rior-priests were commanded to go and seek him.
Be it known that while yet the earth was young
her children, both men and the creatures, spoke as
men alone now speak, any one witli 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
momitaln whereon the eagle dwelt, and found only
his eaglets at home, the little birds were frightened
and tried to hide tliemselves 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 friglitening liis "pin-feathers."
""We came for you, our father. Listen. Our
mothers, tlie beautiful com maidens, have vanished,
leaving no trace save of their flesh. "We come to
beseech that you shall seek them for us."
" Go before I" said the eagle, smoothing his feath-
ers, which meant that he would follow. So the
warriors returned.
Then the eagle launched forth mto the sky, cir-
cling higher and higher up, until he was smaller
than a thistle-down in a whirlwind. At last he
flew lower, then mto the bower of the dancers where
the council awaited him.
"Ah, thou comestl" exclaimed the people.
"Tes," replied the eagle. "Neither a blue-bird
nor a wood-rat can escape my eye," said he, snap-
ping his beak, "unless they hide under rocks or
bushes. Send for my younger brother; he fliies
nearer the ground than I do."
So the warriors went to seek the sparrow-hawk,
HE nyniLXjSTOisrie].
January, 1884.
They found him sitting on an ant hill, but when he
saw them he would ha\'e flown away had they not
called out that they had words for him and meant
him no harm."
"Wliatis it?" said he. "For if yon liave any
snare-strings with you I'll be oif."
"No, no! we \Yish you to go and hunt for our
maidens — the corn maidens," said the warriors, —
" j'onr 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 tlie clouds and thinks
he can see under every tree and shadow as the Snu,
who sees not with eyes, does."
The sparrow-hawk flew away to the north and
the east and the west,"' looking behind every elifl!
and copse-wood, but he found no trace of tlie maid-
ens, and returned, declaring as he flew into the
bower "they can not be found. \ They are hiding
more snugly Jhan 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
sidewise with his beak, trying to find something for
a morning meal. So the warriors ran down and ac-
costed him.
"0 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 yon 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 war-
riors.
"Caw, haw!" said the old crow, ruffling up his
collar and opening his mouth wide enough to swal-
low 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 com-
pletely filled his feathei-s, 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.
Then the crow suddenly espied an ear of corn
under one of the mantels, for this was all the maid-
ens 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 bm--
led. But bye and bye the old crow came back,
saymg 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,
wJien they suddenly heard Pai'-artw-nKt. joking'
along the streets as though the whole pueblo were
listening to him.
' Call him," cried the priests to
7 Thp Ne'-we-kwe. ol whom the God of Dew, or Pai'-a'-ta-
ma wTs the flrst Great Father, are a band of medicine
Priests belonging, as explained heretofore, to one of the
S ancient org;ni/.ation9 of the Zunis. Their medical
Twll is apposed to be very great-in many cases-and then-
traditional wisdom is counted even greater. Tet they are
traditional "•■=1 quicli-witted remarks amuse
Srt°pu"uc asf mblJ'es'ortSeVueblo holiday. One of their
Sistoms is to speak the opposite of their meaning, hence,
( too their assumption of the clown's part at public oeremo-
n°ais when really their office and powers are to be reversed
Their grotesque costuming and face-paint.ng are quite In
keeping with their assumed characters, and would, were it
nnSllustity the belief that our own circus clowns were
t\eir 1 neS des'cendants or copyh-ts. Often »o like are hu-
man things, though geographically widely severed.-f . H. C
the warriors, and the warriors ran out to summon
Pal'-artu-m,a.
Pui'-u-tu-ma sat down on a heap of refuse, saying
he was about to make a breakfast of it. The war-
riors greeted him.
" Why and wherefore do you two cowards come
not after me?'? inquired Ptii'-a-ta-ma.
" We do come for you."
"No, you do not."
"Yes, we do."
"Well ! I won't go with you," said he, forthwith
following them to the dance-court.
"My little children," said he, to the gray-haked
priests and mothers, "good evening;" — it was not
yet mid-day — "you are all very happy, I see."
"Thou eomest," said the chief priest.
"I do not," replied Pai'-Ortu-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, w^om we have offended, and who have
exchanged themselves for nothing in our gaze."
" Oh, t?M(f'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 brmg them,
but I would 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, pickmg up one each of the yellow, blue and
white kinds, and starting out with the remai'k —
"I come."
With rapid strides he set forth toward the south.
When he came to the mouth of the ' Canon 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 pres-
ently 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, mitil very far away he placed the last one.
Now the eagle plume waved constantly toward the
north.
" Alia !" said Pai' -a-tu-irui 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, showers, fertility and health
be wafted, and the summer birds shall chase the
butterfly out of Summer-land and summer itself,
with my own beads and treasures shall follow af-
ter." 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
for.
Soon he came to the home of the maidens, whom
he greeted, biddmg 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 cov-
ered witli embroidered cotton, followed him as he
strode with folded arms, swiftly before them.
At last they reached the home of oui- 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 remam amongst you
" 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 theii- children, From the begiu-
ning of the new Sun each year, ye shall treasure
their gift, during the moon of the sacred fire, dur-
ing the moon of the snow-broken boughs, during
the moon of the great sand-driving winds, dui-ing
the moon of the lesser saiid-driving winds ye shall
treasure their flesh. Then, m the new soil which
the winter winds and watei's have brought, ye
shall bm-y their flesh as ye bury the flesh of the
dead, and as the flesh of the 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 hmiger. Behold these maidens, beautiful
and perfect are they, and as this, their flesh, is de-
rived 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 thetray from
the head of the maiden nearest him. She smiled
and was seen no more ; yet when the people open-
ed the tray it was filled with yellow seed-corn. And
so Pai'-a-tiirma 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 peo-
ple 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 carefidly planted the seeds in separate places.
The breaths of the corn maidens blew rain-clouds
from their homes in Summer-land, and when the
rains had passed away green corn plants grew ev-
erywhere the grains had been planted. And when
the plants had grown tall and blossomed, they were
laden with ears of com, yellow, blue, red, white,
speckled and black. Thus to this day grows the
com, always eightfold more than is planted, and of
six colors, which om- women preserve separately
during the moons of the sacred fire, snow-broken
boughs, great sand-driving winds and lesser sand-
driving winds.
It was Pai'-a-tVrmu who found the corn maidens i
and brought them back. He took the trays from i
their heads and gave them to the people ; hence, j
when in winter, during the moon of the sacred fire, .
the priests gather to bless the seed-corn for the
conimg year, the chief-priest of the Ne'-we-kire
hands the trays of corn-seed into the estufa.
Ever since these days the beautiful com maidens
have dwelt in the Land of Everlasting Summer.
This we know. For does not their sweetr-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. j
Thus was born Td-a, or the "Seed of Seeds."
•^^xi. Xll-ixs-tarcfc-Ced ]&Xoxi.-tli.ly WT'o-iJLX'zi.ei.ly X^e-vo-Ced 1;o tilie .^^d'vct.xi.ooKKi.exi.t: of nXilllng ca,xi.cil. AXeoli.azi.toci,l Xxi.-tex-est;s.
tta^v^S^S^^a^.^ci.. } VOL. IX. INDIANAPOLIS, IND., FEBRUARY, 1884. NO. 2. {«..e'£Sf.ir^tTiT.u.,
ZUl\l BREjaDSTUFF—II.
The Origin of the Dragon Fly and the Corn
Priests, or Gnardians of the Seed.
FRANK H. CtrSHING.
THERE is nothing about Indian life so interest-
ing 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. Tliere is
a reason for all this aglde 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 witli it. Therefore, like a poor
beast, driven by the storm-blast to the uttermost
borders of his native range, he turns liis back to
the coming tempest and with sullen serenity
awaits it; musing, meanwhile, upon 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
out the echoes of words uttered generations ere the
white man knew him. All the genius of his best
birthrights, — his imaginative mind and pictur-
esquely poetic language, — he devotes to the beauti-
fication 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 liv-
mg but unknown future. Alone with his family at
night time, the winter wind shrieking without, the
pifion 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 ances-
try with gods, monsters and wizards ; tells how ti-ees
thought, beasts spoke and men walked the skies, or
descended to the " Dance Halls of the Dead." In
more tlian 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
Zuiii 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 Zuiii, 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 head-land which juts out into
the northern side ol the plain of Sos OjosCalientefi,
twelve miles southwest of Zuni, an ancient ruin
called by the Indians, .Hix'-wi-fc'it/i. As wetead the
romantic pages o£ early Spanish conquest (in the
letters which were penned for us more than three
hundred years ago by the brave and devoted Fran-
ciscan fathers and tlieir vanguard of Corouados
20
rs::^] :Lo:r.3i.sTonsr:E.
Febbuaby, 1884.
Cavaliers) we come upon the narrative of a popu-
lous "citie of the Province of Ci'bola called Agui'-
co," wherein ".dwelt the governors and elders of
Ci'bola." This was no other than the town of
Ha'-wl-k'uh, spoken of in the following bit of
quaint folklore:
Very long, long ago the old broken down village
of Ha'-wl-li'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. Tlius it happened that year after
year more corn grew for the people of Ha'-wi-k'uJi
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 mus-
ed, " 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 straight-way to the house of
his 'Younger brother-priest' and summoning the
elders they held council.
" Why should we not order that our people pre-
pare for four days, great stores of sweet mush, bread,
cakes, tortillas gugaves and all kinds of the seed
foods as for a grand festival ? Then wUl we sum-
mon all nations round about to share in our festiv-
ities, and clioose sides for a sham fight with good
things and dough for our weapons. Thmk of it !
How strangers wUl wonder at the wealth of the
Ha'^wirk'uh-ians when they see us treat these things
which men work so hard tliat 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 witli conceit, the
chief warrior-priests mounted to tlie topmost liouses
at sunset and ordered that the people busy them-
selves with preparing for the great game, explain-
mg 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 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."
Tiiese 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'-wl-U'uJi. When
they entered the town, a misty, drizzly rain pre-
ceded 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 humble recognition of them-
selves. The maidens draggled past each open door-
way, 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
liungry 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 vagar
bond creatures who might make theh own food as
the people of Ha'-ioi-Vxth, had to, instead of follow-
ing 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
door-way and she had to woi;k day after day to keep
it cleared away. Her clothes were patched 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 be-
fore the festival she was sitting by her hearthstone
stirring some mush — her only food. Now it hap-
pened that the maidens, having passed each house
slowly, wandered down toward tlie old woman's
door-way. 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 !" slie cried in a quavering voice,
" Come in and rest yourselves and eat, for hunger
will soften my coarse food. Yon must have come
far, for you look so tired and Imngry. Never mind,
my children, you shall rest a moment with 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 wo-
man threw the shreded mantle from off her should-
ers and bade them sit on it, begging them to share
it with one anotlier as she had only the one to offer
them. Tlien she liastened to wash out a bowl and
placed all tlie mush in it and set at before them.
Once more bidding them to eat, she/went away and
busied lierself about something else, to show them
that she did not herself need of the food and that
there would be plenty for them.
" Tliou 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 misatisfied for our-
selves' sake. Come and sjt qear us; see, we bring
with us food," said she, di'awing 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 of honey-bread and pollen. The girls un-
did 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
tliey 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 tlie 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 seek-
mg some prayer meal humbly scattered it upon tlie
heads of the maidens. As she prepared to sit down
with them, behold they passed their hands over their
persons and their ragged garments fell from them
leavmg such splendid raiment as man had never be-
fore seen in Ha'-wirk'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 mmute 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 re-
past with it and with the honey-bread. Never had
she tasted such rich fruit, such absorbing sweetness,
— which f au'ly caused the nose to ache and the tears
to stai-t — as in the honey-bread of which she ven-
tured 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."
Theytookone each of their mantles. ' ' Hang these, "
said they, "upon your blanket poles. We are the
Seed-mothers, and from these thou wilt have abund-
ance on the morrow of the night thou hangest them.
May ail 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 aroimd the lower part of the
town just at night time 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 to-day ? Alas, my
foolish people !"
" What ?" said the children, half soared. " 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 1
An old crow in the pine tree above, and » spar-
row napping under a bush below, both woke up.
"iTd-hd," said the crow, "the sim rises soon to-
day!" And the sparrow said "twi-hi! wliy does
that impertinent, f eatherless wretch chatter so early
in the morning ? He might as well tiy to fly as to
smg !' ' And thus they complained until every little
animal In the valley, mice, wood-rats, squhrels,
gophers, prairie dogs, crows, blackbirds, sparrows,
finches, beetles and bugs of all kinds were awak-
ened and came rushing about the crag where the
squirrel sat piping and chattering. " What does
aU this mean ?" said they. " You fool and rascal,
this is not the sun you see, it Is only the night light
rismg; but it is very bright!" said they to one
another.
Febbuaey, 1884-.
THE Is^lLLSTOlsrE!.
21
" Tsu' tsu' tsu' k'ea'," said an old mouse, wliioh
meant, 'Attention all, hush' ; "my brother up there
and I have somethuig 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 moth-
ers, my uncles, aunts, grandfathers, mothers of my
fathers and mothers, sons and fathers-in-law, grand-
sons and mothers-in-law"
"We hear, we believe," broke in the impatient
creatures.
"And friends," added the squirrel.
"T«s, yes," piped and chirruped the creatures.
" Oiu' mothers, the corn maidens (our grand-chil-
dren some call them, and men call them their daugh-
ters 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 chil-
dren, those big fellows who live an Ha' -ud-k'uh lull
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."
"Sa-^a-ha!" said the creatures, which meant
"alas!"
^^E'-haT' rejoined the squirrel, which meant "yes,
indeed?" " That is, if we do not all go to Ha'-ivi-
Jduh to-morrow evening and wait around until the
fires go out and the moon rises. Then we must
rush Luto the town and gather all the food we can
find lying around and store it away everj-where, 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'-TO-fc'wTi 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 grand-daughters,' the ' com maidens,' have
been too good to the Hn'^wi-k'uh humans. They
have breathed rain over their country for years, im-
til so much corn has grown that even we seed-eaters
are the fattest in the land— yet we get only the
leavings ! Well, the Ma'^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 hungry,
and, would you believe it ? there were corn grains
and other things piled aromid, enough to stock all
the hollow trees on White Cliff mesa ; yes, and holes
In the rocks besides ; but the Ma'-wi-k'vh 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 sistgrs and brothers, 'make your hearts ready,'
for to-morrow they will throw all these things
away. Our mothers told us to go there and- gather
everything, and — come up here A little nearer, un-
cle," called the squiiTel to the gopher; but the lat-
ter gave a quick start and said :
" Oh ! I can't waste any more time here ; I've got
to dig another cellar to-morrow."
" Tha;t's what I want you for. While these Sa'-
t«i-?£'M?i humans are making noise throwing food
away for us to-morrow, you and your clan just dig
holes into their com rooms and we'll take the mid-
dle out of every com cord we can get into, for we
must store away enough food for a long drouth,
you know. Tou see really, our mothers, the corn
maidens, have made fools of these H"a'-i()i-/<;'((/i be-
ings, all for our benefit. Do you not see, my chil-
dren ?" concluded the squirrel, growing importaut:
"Therefore, be ready to follow me to-morrow."
"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 tlie
short-legged ones started straightway for Ha'-ivi-
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 around about were coming in over all the
trails when the sun rose. Every house-top was
covered with balced things, dough and batter and
meal, and the piazza 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 began. How the people shrieked and
laughed, for some were knocked down with hard
bread, others had their breaths stopped with dough,
aiid 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 gi-ew
silent soon. When the moon rose, all the seed-eat-
ers rushed in and carried away every piece of food,
even every crumb and meal grain. Then they went
into the com rooms through the tmuiels 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 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 foimd ? 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 door-ways, 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 ceilmg with cord
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
earefullyliung up the mantles of woven cotton and
many colored embroideries, and the buckskin that
had been given her by the corn maidens, every 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 gi'e;it feast when autumn came again.
Throughout the long, hot summer they watched iu
vain for rain. The clouds would rise up from the
mountain of the horizon, but no sooner had thej'
floated over the Valleys of the Hot Waters, than a
great being taller than the highest pine on the lofti-
est mountains would gulp them all down and the
sky would get as clear as before. Their corn fields
were parched and the jjlants.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'-u>i-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 himt 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
woman m 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-treat-
ment 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 hun-
gry dogs with them, and cast them away that the
snow birds 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. After many days, two runners from
Moqui, strong and hearty, ' arrived at the village.
They bore strands of knotted strmgs to show how
many days would pass before the Moquis would re-
ceive the Ha'-wi-k'iih people and feast them. Every
one was excited. The days were many, it is true,
but the people were so weak that 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 niglit long the people prepared
for their journey. Tliey 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 were to blame
for their misf ortmies (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
n
THE ■MJlXJZjSTOlsr^
PebettabY, 1884
them, then, spreading a bufialo 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 stUl 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 lit-
tle fire. Then he 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 chim-
neys of any of the houses. Then he realized that
his j)eople 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 tlie hairs. These he tied into
nooses, and fastened therii 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 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 flit-
tmg about, now and then lighted in his nooses
(after the boy had hidden) uutil 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 chicka-
dees. He hastened to skin some of them, and
spittmg 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 imcle. But the little
boy at last succeeded in comfortmg 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 corn, for she no longer rel-
ished 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 buUt up a beautiful little
cage. Then, in another room, he fomid 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 knot-
ting 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 naiTow, and
his knives so lough — 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 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 effigj', by a hair, in the cage, and sus-
pended 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 chat-
tered 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 :
"Bear treasure, go bring me corn grains that my
brother may toast them, for you have long wings
and can fly swiftly."
Wonderful to relate, the efligy fluttered its wings
till they hummed like a sliver in a wind storm, and
the cage whirled round and round, but presently
grew still again, and the boy thought it was the
wind down the sky hole blowuig his cage and the
wings of the "butterfly;" but the little sister clap-
ped her hands and cried: " 0, brother, just see; my
butterfly heard me and fluttered its wings !" The
brother said, " Yes, yes, little sister ; I saw him,
and was afraid he would get away."
One night when the little sister had gone to sleep,
the little boy lay there awake watching tlie moon-
light through the sky hole, for the fire had died
down and he had nothing to look at but that. Sud-
denly he heard abuzzing and hissing. " ThU ni ni,"
it said, and strange as it sounded it seemed to say,
"Let me go, let me go."
" Ha !" thought the boy, and still he listened.
" Let me go, let me go ;" still buzzed the soimd.
"Hush, hush, or you will wake little sister.
Where are you ?" said the boy, his heart thumping
very hard.
" Here I am," buzzed the sound.
And looking up the boy saw that the cage of straws
was whirling round and round and the effigy was
trying to fly away with it all, for it hung where the
moonlight fell on it.
"Poorthmg; I didn't know it was alive. It must
be hungry," thought the boy — for he was always
hungry now — so he said :
"Wait, wait, my little creature, and I will let
you go."
He softly got up, and opening the cage, un-noosed
the horse hair which bound the effigy. " ThU ni ni
ni, su nu," hummed and buzzed the creature as it
swiftly flew about the room, then it softly neaicd
the boy and said :
" My father, thy heart is better than many men's
together, for see, thou hast given me a body where
I had none before, and thou hast loved thy poor
sister faithfully and well. Open the window above
whence comes the light. Let me fly away. Fear
not., I shall return, and it may be I can help thee
and thy little sister. Surely I will not leave ye."
The boy, scared and wondering, searched about
until he found some prayer dust, and this he scat-
tered over the creature." Then he softly opened the
sky hole and the thing, bidding him be of good cheer,
flew arormd the room once or twice, and with a
twang like a bow string and a flight swift as the
arrow's, shot up through the sky hole.
For a long time the little boy lay there wondering
at the strange things he had seen, and if the " but-
terfly" he had made would ever come back; but
weary, at last he fell asleep.
You would not suppose it, but the old woman
down in the broken house (which was no longer
broken, for she could now keep it repaired as she
had no refuse to clear away from her doors) never
knew there were two little children in the town, for
the house of the uncle stood high above and on the
other side of the gi'eat plaza, and as the old woman
never went out, she never saw the tracks of the
little bird-hunter. You see she used the ladders
and stepping logs of the abandoned houses roimd
about for flre-wood, for she did not fancy the people
would ever come back.
When the cornstalk being had flown out of the
sky hole, it circled about for a moment and then
flew straight away to the westward. Over hills and
valleys it flew more swiftly than the breath of the
" Dust Blowing Demon," unlil at last it came to a
great lake on the banks of the "Running Ked War
ters !" [The Colorado Chiquito of Arizona.]
Forth from these dark, deep waters shone a
thousand dim liglits, and two ugly, but good, beings
were pacuag the shores, calling out loudly to one
another. They were the ancients of the sacred
dance, watching for the coming of men's souls.
The "butterfly" never stopped to speak to them,
but plunged at once with a sputtering sound into
the clear, cold waters. In an instant he was below,
in great blazing halls filled with the spirits of gods
and the happy souls of men. " ThU ni ni ni," he
buzzed and spun about the room, then settling on
a protrudmg mantle rack, rested a second, started
up, settled back, started again, and so on — never
quiet — until the god of fire and sacrifice said :
"Ha! my children, behold the Grandfather of
Gods, yet never seen as now."
"Comest thou, our grandfather ? And what may
be thy message ? "
"I come," replied the creature, "that I may be-
seech you to lay the light of your favors on some
poor children who gave me this form, hence I have
become tlieir messenger."
Then he told the story of the poor boy and girl
of na'^wi-k'uh — which the gods knew well enough
before, yet they listened, and when the being had
ceased speaking said:
"Yea, will we happily help our beloved little
ones in Ha'-wi-k'uh, and thou shalt teach them their
duties to us that we may do so."
He summoned his swift-footed Se'-he-a-kwe (run-
ners of the sacred dance), and bade them take
pouches of com grains from the seed stores of the
creatures of White Cliff Valley and place them
where the grandfather might find them, when he
had need, for his little ones. Then said the god,
"Hasten away to the land of JSa'-wi-Kuh and tell
our little ones to cut prayer plumes, and do thou
bring them to us on the foui-th day hence, for there-
by we may bring great blessings on our beloved lit-
tle ones."
Febbuakt, 1884.
rsiE imiiijIjStoite.
"Be ye all happy ?" buzzed the creature as he
swirled around the room and up through the wat-
ery roof and swiftly hummed his way back to Ha'-
wi'k'uh. As he was about flying down the sky hole,
where the children slept, he beheld through the
window of the upper room small heaps of gleaming
yellow grain. The b.eing busily brought grain after
grain from the store and dropped them through a
chink above the bed of the little ones.
"X'o-po-po-po" it fell on the robe whicli covered
them, until the poor little ones awakened, thought
it must be rain drops, so nestled down more snugly
under the robe, which ere morning grew heavy, as
though wet with water. When it gi'ew light the
little boy lay there a long time dreading to get up,
as he expected to find everything wet and cold.
Suddenly he thought of his "butterfly." Quickly
putting the cover from his head he looked up.
There in the cage himg the efflgy seeming as it had
ever since he made it; but when he tried to rise
hundreds of corn grains rolled off over the floor,
and he shouted so joyfully when he saw this that
tlie little sister woke up too. How happy tlie two
poor little creatures were; so happy that they for
got they were a,U alone. Some of the corn they
parched in hot ashes, and some they cracked as
best they could on the mealing stones and set it to
boil with little bird bodies. All day they feasted
little by little, and stretched their hands up toward
the old "butterfly," who seemed to hang there as
though he knew nothing at all of what was going on.
[This story is of greater length than we can afford space
in one issue to printin its entirety, so we have cut it in two
the concluding portion of which will follow in our next
issue. — Bd. Millstone.]
-A-ia. Xll-u s-tx-CL-ted BdCoxi-tlily vVoxax-xiCftly XSe-v-oted «o tlxe -A.cl.'v-nxioevxs.exi.t of ll^illing a.-xx<3. nSeolictxjLioal Xxi«ex-es«a
PTTBIISHED BY 1 \ir\l I V
David H. Raiick. I VUL. lA.
INDIANAPOLIS, IND., MARCH, 1884. NO. III. {o„e D«filT™e" Ai.™„™.
[Copyrighted 1884, by David H. Ranck.]
ZUI^I BREjqiDSTUFF'-in.
The Origin of the Dragon Fly and the Corn
Priests, or Guardians of the
Seed.— Chapter II.
I'RANK H. CFSHIN&.
Night came, and again the eflfigy asked the boy to
let him go. No sooner was he unfastened than he
circled ronnd and round the room, then came very
close to the little boy. "Hast thou any feathers
and plumes from the summer birds, eagle and
ducky " said lie to the boy.
"Yes; the other day when 1 sought for paint in
the next room I found the feather boxes of my old
ones," said the boy.
"Very well," replied _the creature; "get these
and cut sticks by the springs in the valley, and
bring them here. Choose plumes and tie them to the
end of the sticks, which thou must paint with six
colors — yellow, blue or green, red, white, speckled
and black. Spring cometh, and that it might be
hastened with the breath of good fortune for thee
and thy little sister, I bid thee do these things. I
will myself take thy plumes to the home of the
gods, who mold the rain clouds, and to the spirits
of thy ancients."
"I will do as you tell me," said the little boy,
"but alas, I may not do well, for I cannot tell how
my father and uncle used to make plumed prayer
sticks."
"Thou wilt do well," said the creature. Then he
flew forth out of the sky hole, and the little boy^-
wondering whither he had gone, lay down to sleep
by his little sister's side.
All night long the creature brought and dropped
corn grains on the bed of the children, and next
morning the little boy fomid them and gathered
them carefully in a tray.
There sat the creature in his cage, never moving,
yet the little boy looked up and said to him :
"Ah, my father, thank you ; you have dropped
the corn grains for us and I thank you, for you
are gentle and good to my little sister."
After he had parched some corn for the little girl
he went away up the valley to cut sticks from the
willows and shrubs which grew by the spring side.
These he took home and by the fireside cut them
into wands the length of his hand from his elbow to
the tips of his fingers, carefully straightening and
smoothing them with pieces of sand-stone.
Upon the ends of the sticks he tied with ravel-
ings from an old cotton kUb the feathers the crea-
ture had directed him to ; and the sticks he painted
with the cplors he had been told to use. When all
was finished he wrapped them together and sat
down to pray over them as he had seen old men do,
only he prayed a prayer of his own instead of thei
pr aye r s of his ancients. At last he did u^ ^ jpie
36
•JL'±i±Lj 3v rrT . rjSTOisrE}.
Makch, 1884.
prayer dust and sacred paint in some corn-sliucks
and laid the offering by.
When the night came the creature in the cage
buzzed about, hovered a moment over the heads of
iiis children, then flying out soon returned with a
sprig of light-top.
Did you evor see the light-top grass in an
autumn whirlwind ? No bird is lighter? With the
gi-ass sprig the creature lightened his load of plume
sticks and flew away with them, the boy who was
watching knew not whitlier.
Again beyond the hills and valleys flew the stalk
being westward. Again he entered the great Dance
Hall of the Dead through the waters of the silent
lake, and dropping his burdens at the feet of the
gods, buzzed his greeting and settled airily on the
mantel-rack.
Shu' -lu-witrsi waved his brand in the a,ir, and
suddenly it burst into red flames which lighted like
sunset time the halls of the Dead. He looked upon
the plumes with pride and happiness.
"A father of his people shall become the youtlr
whose little hand hath made these plumes, for we
heard his prayers and shall more tlian answer
them."
"Hti'-tc?ti, Ha'-tchi," responded the great Va'-u-
tirwa, God of all Dance Gods, and the children all
answered, "ffa'-tc?it.'" which meant that the Fire-
god had spoken well.
"Grandfather," said the God of Fire, "return and
cherish the little ones. When the spring-time
conieth we will waft warm rain clouds over the
vale of Hn'^wl-Ti'uh, and our swift runners and
brave warriors who fail like oiirselves — nevfer, will
plant from the seed stores of the gods themselves,
all over the plains of the hot waters. Fear not for
the future of the little ones. They shall become
the fathers and mothers of their people for genera-
tions and the children of generations."
The creature returned. When the children
awoke next morning tliere he was perched in his
cage of grass-straws and corn-pith.
Now, as day followed day, the little girl began
to grow sick, and again she mourned for her mother
and father and uncle. In vain her brother told her
she ought not to long for those who had left them,
without food, to die ; slie would not be comforted.
One night the creature of the cage flew away. He
cam.i not back the next morning, only his cage
hung there, and the corn he had dropped was nearly
gone. He flew south past many mountains and
plains, straight as a strained bow cord, to the "Land
of Everlasting Summer." There were green trees
everywhere; everywhere flowers were blooming
and fruits always ripening in that far off summer-
land. Birds and butterflies lived there, and in the
valley of a great forest dwelt the Maidens of Corn.
As heneared their home he re.sted, for hisfliglithad
been long and he knew not where to find the maidens.
So wherever a corn plant grew he settled on itstas-
sels then flew to another, and anotlier, till at last he
reached the home of tlie corn maidens. The two
sisters wlio had dwelt for a time in the grotto of
tlie White Clitts were strolling forth through the
great fields of corn when they heard the creature
buzzing.
"Hasten, sister," said the elder one; "heard you
not our child, he comes from the Northland, but.lf
we make not haste he cannot speak with us, for by
day he is bnt flesh of the corn plant. Child, thou
comest, where art thou?"
''Tsl-nirthla," hummed the being, which meant
"here," so they looked, and there he was on a corn
tassel, but ere they could speak more he flew to an-
other, and another corn plant, perching agam and
again, yet never satisfied with his resting place.
"What wouldst.thou, child," said the maidens,
yet they knew. Then the creature told them the
story of the two poor little children.
"We will hasten to them. On the fourth day
from this we will seek them, and with us will come
warm rains, which will drive the cold snows away
and bring the spring-time. Go before and tell our
little son to prepare the corn rooms for us, and
when we Irave entered them we will comfort and
nourish his little sister. Our poor beloved little
ones ; did they not once offer us foo'd ? And we
have not forgotten their goodness of heart."
When night came away flew the corn being, and
long before daylight he buzzed into the house of the
little ones and round about the head of the boy, to
awake him. When at last the little boy awoke, the
creature said to him :
"Little father, when the sister cries to-morrow,
tell her that on the night of the third day lier moth-
ers are coming; for I have been to Summerland
and seen the Maidens of Corn. Thou wilt know of
their coming, for a warm wuid will blow from the
southward laden with the odors of flowers and
spring-time, and a misty rain will fall to melt away
the frost of Sun-i-u-sM'^wa^ni's breath. Then thou
must tell the little sister to sleep, and before long
the maiden mothers will come into the room as
softly as the moonbeams. To-morrow and the
next day thou must clean out the corn rooms, for
there only will the corn maidens care to enter, and
when tliou hast seen them thou canst take this little
sister in to be comforted by them. Whose grand-
cliild I am, surely thou wilt love," said he, and he
flew to his perch in ^the cage of gi'ass-straws and
corn-pith.
After that the little brother could riot sleep. At
last, before day-break, he arose, and kindling a fire
began the work of cleaning the great room he lived
in. Then as it grew ligliter he went into the empty
corn rooms, and with little wisps of "straw swept
them clean When the little sister woke he ran to
her bedside and said :
"Little sister, see, I am cleaning the house, for
our mother is couiing," but the little girl thought he
was only trying to comfort her, and whenever he
went away she cried, for she felt so lonely. All
day the brother worked, and all the next day, for
he was weak, and it took long to clean the dust and
cobwebs away. At last, however, every room was
finished, and in the corn rooms the boy spread old
blankets and soft things, that the beautiful mothers
miglit not be angiy with him or wish to 'leave his
little sister.
On the third day the little sister cried more and
more, because for two days her brother had told her
the mother was coming. So the little brotlier kept
climbing the ladder to see if tlierain had begun. At
last, away to the southward, he saw misty 'clouds,
rosy and blue, gathering and rising, and soft fra-
grant wind blew in his face. Eagerly he climbed
down the ladder exclaiming :
"They are coming, they are coming, little sister;
the mother is coming." But when the smi set and
the rain began falling, the little sister cried herself
to sleep. By her side the brother sat smoothing
her face and head, and at last the creature in the
cage began to buzz joyfully about the room. "Thou
wilt wait but little longer, my father," said he to
the boy, and as he settled down in his cage a light
like the beams of the moon slione down ihe sky
hole. As the boy watched, tlie form of a beautifid
maiden floated down the ladder and passed near
him, and another followed her into the corn room.
Then a voice soft as a bird's called him, and gently
rismg he went into the corn j-oom.
The Maiden mothers of corn stood there, the
gentlest and lovliest beings the boy had ever seen,
and crying with joy he forgot they were not his
own mothers, and ran up to where they stood.
They knelt down and took him in their arms. They
kissed him and stroked his cheeks until he was so
happy he scarce dared leave them, but thinking of
his little sister, he asked:
"Dear mothers, may 1 bring the little sister ? "
"Aye," said the maidens gently, and they smiled
so softly that the little boy knelt at their feet and
pressed their hands against his cheeks.
Then he ran out to where the sister lay sleeping.
He carefully took her in his arms and carried her
into the presence of the maidens. They bade him
brmg fire, and he kindled a flame on the hearth of
the long empty room. It no longer seemed musty
and old. The odors of the sweetest things filled
the whole place. The Mother maidens softly sang
to the little ones, and birds seemed to sing .with
them, they sang so softly, and butterflies sported all
about tliem in the firelight. Even the corn creature
hummed slowly down from his cage and settled in
the doorway. The little girl opened her sunken
eyes and smiled as she gazed wonderingly about.
"See," said the little brother joyfully, "has not
the mother come ? " One of the maidens bent over
and took the little girl in her arms. "See," said
she, "little one, I am thy mother," and she nmsed
the child as its mother had. The older sister took
the hand of the brother. "Come," said she, "and
sitwith me. Thou art my child and shalt be the
father of my children ; hence, beloved little one, of
my flesh if not born, yet nourished thou must be,"
and she gave the boy of her milk, as the other
maiden had given it to the baby sister. "Sleep
now, our little ones," said they, and again they sang
'till the butterflies danced in the firelight, and the
brother and sister fell into a deep slumber. Then
the Maidens of Com drew forth from their mantles
many things. An ear each of yellow, blue, red,
white, speclded and black com, they placed on the
floors of the com rooms beneath little embroidered
sashes of cotton, and on the blanket poles they
hung treasure beads and turquoises, aud^ many
bright gamrents. These things were not what they
seemed — smgle, but the seed of other things which
the wonderful Mothers of seed knew best how to
multiply, as their flesh the com multiplies itself
many times from a single grain.
Green com and fruits, melons and gourds, they
placed in basket trays in the empty rooms — for the
house was large where the uncle had dwelt — and
then they went to where the children were sleepuig.
Behold the little girl was fair and bright, no longer
was her face shrunken nor eyelid deep. Her hair
was soft and her lips ruddy and smiling. The boy
looked strong and older. Though only a little boy
his face looked like that of a master chief with aged
bearing, and kmduess shown from his freshened
countenance, for had he not, and his little sister,
drank of the flesh of the Seed Maidens ?
Then the Maiden mothers left them sleeping.
They softly glided out of the house and down the
hUl to the home of the aged grandmotlier. The fire-
light was already shining red at the windows. They
called in at the doorway. A startled voice from
within called out in reply, and they entered. The
old woman, greeting them, covered her face with
her hands and laielt herself down at their feet. But
they raised her up saying, "Art thou not our child
and mother?" When they had listened to her
prayers of greeting and thanks and supplications
for the light of their favor, they blessed her and
said: "Thou art a good old mother, therefore have
we come again to ask thy service. Long ago when
we came hungry to the homes of our faithless chil-
dren two little ones offered us food. Their people
our foolish chUdreu, left them sleeping, to die, when
they went to the towns of the Moquis. But from
our flesh was made the form of a bemg, and he hath
watched over our little ones. Knowest thou not that
March, 1884.
THIB IMnXjUiSTOISrEl.
37
they abide with tliee in this town ? Go to comfort
the little maiden, for she is yet but a baby gul, and
be as a mother to her, for she shall become the
mother of her people and her children after her,
and her brother so manly, yet but a little boy, he
shall becon^e already, when the com grows in the
valley, the father of his people and their children.
Yet, not vmtil the being is departed shalt thou abide
with the little ones, but dwell patiently in thy poor
house the while. When thou art needed the corn
being will fly hither and summon thee."
Blessing the aged woman — who was no longer
poor and shamefully ugly, but a kind, fair old
mother, with white strands of hair, wearing whiter
mantles of cotton — ^they returned hastily to the
house of the little ones.
They softly wakened the boy, and calling him
out of the corn room, took him between their knees
and said: "We wUltell thy guardian, the corn be-
ing, thou hast made many things, but to thee we will
tell only this — ^that thy uncle wiU return from the
rand of the Moquis to get the loom that lies in the
comer, for his people must now weave and labor for
the people who fed them, else they may not longer
abide with that people. He already prepares for
his journey (as the snow is melted away from the
pathways) and on the eighth morning from this he
will enter the town of his people. He will see the
smoke rising from thy chimney-pots, and wearily
yet eagerly enter at the ladder. He will joyfully
greet thee and t^y little sister, but speak not to him,
neither accept of the food he will offer thee, for in
the com rooms thou wilt find abundance of fresh
food. Not until the fourth day shalt thou speak to
him, then shalt thou humble him with reproach,
not complamingly, and wondering at thy wisdom
and kindness he will bow to thee and become thy
f aithfulest guardian. Then thou shalt make him
thy warrior priest, and bid him return to his people
and summon them to come back to relight the
hearthstones of Hd'^wi-Tc'irfi and replant the wasted
fields of the "Vale of the Hot Waters. Should the
little sister cry for us, bid the com being bring thy
grandmother, whom the people left as they left
thee, to die, when they sought life far away. Be
good as thou hast been and thou shalt grow wise
and powerful. Keep thy heart good, and gently
council the foolish bad amongst thy people, as a
father councileth his wayward children, then shall
prosperity and plenty bless thy people, and thy
mothers— ouselves and our sisters^-visit often the
vales of our children."
" Each in turn took his face between her hands
and breathed upon his forehead and into his nos-
trils. Then said they: "We go. May each day
bring thee happiness, and as, much happiness as the
day hath brought may each evening bring thee."
To which he replied : "Thank you, beloved mothers,
and may happiness go and abide with you whither-
soever ye go and be."
"Go now in with thy little sister," said they,
"for we depart, and thou shalt see us no more save
with the eyes of thy dream-vision."
They faded from sight as their voices died from
hearing. The daylight was breakmg, and from
thenceforth the little boy was another being, kmd-
ly yet grave, with a look of endless contentment
on his face and anger forever gone out from his
heart.
How would he have known but the mother maid-
ens were still there had not the com being, no
longer a being of com pith and color, buzzed out of
the sky hole. Then he knew that the mother maid-
ens had departed, and he softly went in to his little
sister. All around her were heaped up fmits and
melons, green and fragrant. In the rooms beyond
were the piles of shining com, and eveiy rack (as
had been the poles of the aged woman) was laden
with a harvest of raiment grown from the seed
things of property.
How the little brother feasted his sister, eating
but sparingly himself, but saving all remains of
their repasts that he might cast them into the fire,
or out on the plains for the seed-eatino; creatures,
"for," thought he, "if we but feed the beloved and
the dead retm-ned in blessing will be the food there
given, and if we the seed creatures feed, why will
they waste the substance of our corn heaps ? "
One morning the little girl seemed sad, but she
did not tell her brother, nor did she cry. The corn
being fluttered and buzzed until he sung himself
out of the window. By and by he returned, and
soon an old woman followed. She was dressed just
as the mother maidens had been, and the moment
the little girl espied her she trotted forth to meet
her, and buried her face in the folds of her white
mantles. The old woman fondled her, and taking
the little one on her knee told her such pretty tales
of the olden time that she laughed and thought
"her corn mother had never been nearly so nice as
these beings with soft voices who wore such pretty
bright garments."
When the old woman left she told the little girl
she would come again at times to see her and her
little brother.
At last the time was for the arrival of the uncle.
The little boy cleared away from the sitting place
of the house every trace of the fruits and foods they
had eaten, and all the garments brought by the seed
mothers he hid away also. Then he built a bright
fire that the smoke might rise high from the chim-
ney, and calling the little sister, told her that the
uncle was coming, but that she must not speak to
him nor even smile on him, neither accept of his
food nor offer him any.
At last they heard a cough down the pathway,
and then some one climbed wearily up the ladder,
more eagerly down into the house room. It was
the old uncle bearing a heavy burden strapped
across his forehead.
When he saw the two little ones sitting under
the window bright and hearty his joy knew no
bounds, and he rushed eagerly up to them exclaim-
ing:
"Ah, my beloved little ones, is it possible, is it
possible that I see you, and be ye happy these
many days?" But to his sui-prise they never
smiled, neither spoke to him, seemed scarcely to
know of his presence. "My beloved little ones,"
said he going and bending over them until his gray
hairs almost touched them, "know ye not that I am
your old uncle?" Still they replied not, neither
smiled.
He raised himself sorrowfully ard looked about
the room. It was as bare as when the people had
departed to Moqui; save that it was clean and well
ordered, there was no difference. No trace of food
nor the leavings of eatings met his eye.
"Poor little creatures ! " thought he in his own
heart. "I will offer them food, perhaps as prairie
dogs live in winter so have they— sleeping ; who
knows ! "
He unwrapped his burden and revealed parched
corn-meal and tlie dust of meat, with flour made
from dried sweet mush. This he placed all before
the little ones saying: "Eat ye to satisfaction!"
but they spoke not, neither smiled. "Ha ! " thought
he, and as he thought he grew fearful and betook
himself nearer the hearth and farther from them.
"They are not living, but the dead whose spirits 1
see before me 1 " But while he gazed at them they
looked so fresh and strong in color and substance
that he was fain to abandon the idea. "Besides,"
said he, "I look upon them in daylight, and were
they other beings I would see them only m the
night. My little ones," said he at last, "your
mother and father and all tlie brothers and sisters
of your clan are well, and may be will come back to
live in Ha'-wl-k'iOi. How may I tell you my joy at
finduig my beloved children of the sister, yet will
their joy be the greater to see once more their little
ones; would you not be glad with them ?" Still the
brother and sister spoke not, neither smiled.
Agahi tlie old man cast liis eyes about the room.
There was no fuel, save a few twigs, by the hearth-
stone. Taking the burden strap fro'm off his bundle,
he hung it on a round of the ladder and then
hastily mixed a meagre meal of the flour and dried
meat dust. As he sat down to eat of this, once
more he returned to ask the little ones to eat with
him, but they neither spoke nor smiled. The old
uncle silently ate a few mouthfuls and the tears
streamed down his cheeks as he did so, until the
little boy was filled with compassion for him, but
spoke not. At last the old man, rising, placed the
remaining morsels carefully away; and turning
toward the ladder said :
"At least I may remain with ye three or four
days, and I will gather wood meanwhile that ye
may not suffer from cold. I cannot remain, for
my provisions, allbeit I offer them freely to my sis-
ter's children, are scant, and the journey hence is
long." ,
This time the little boy bowed his head and
smiled, and the old uncle was gladdened greatly.
As soon as he bad gone away tlie little brother
brought out fiesli melons and gi-een corn, actually
green, for thus the mother maidens provided their
children. When the feast was over, every trace of
it the children removed. Not long after the old
man returned. He did not attempt more to speak
with the children, but went about plaiting some
basket trays, for which he had brought splinters
and osifrs home on his pack of wood. The chil-
dren meanwhile began to talk with one another,
the boy in a grave manner, the little girl as might
be expected of one so young. But in no way did
either of tliem allude to the uncle or any of his
people.
On the following day he again wefit for wood,
and also on the third. This last time, however, he
returned very soon, and the children had barely
cleared away their food things before he came down
the ladder. Although there was no trace of food
there was an odor of fruits most delicious all
through the room. The old man said nothing, but
determined to make on the morrow still greater
haste. When morning came he went as usual for
wood. He had scarcely left when the old woman
of the broken house came in and sat down with the
children. The little girl told all about the uncle,
and as the fourth day had come, together they pre-
pared a great feast and spread it on one of the em-
broidered mantles. The little children, too, dressed
themselves in the splendid embroideries and orna-
ments the seed mothers had provided them with.
Scarcely had these preparations been completed
when the uncle suddenly appeared at the sky hole.
He descended. No attempt was made to clear the
things away, and when he greeted the little ones
after his custom, to his surprise they replied in
words of great kindness and courtesy. Then first
the uncle saw the old woman, whom he addressed
as a superior being, calling her "Mother," and
breathing upon her hands as he did upon those of
the little boy and his sister. Upon these he looked
in wonder, yet wise was he, andhe knew they were
the beloved Ki-hes [spiritual friends].
"Sit with us, uncle, and eat, for we know thou
art hungry," said the little boy. Taking first from
each of the vessels and trays of food a morsel of
each kindj the little boy cast them into the fire,
saying:
"Makers of the trails of our lives and ye spirits
138
TSTB HV/TTT .rjSTO JsTB.
MABCH,
1884.
I of our ancestors, of this add ye unto your hearts
, after the manner of your own knowledge, and bless
i us with fruitful seasons, ueeded water and age of
life." Hence to this day the priests or hosts of Zuni
do likewise. Then said he, "Eat ye all." While
j all ate, the hungry uncle almost tremulously with
I the eagerness of his hungei-, the boy ate well, but
I sparingly, and with great delilienition. The old
woman and tlie little sister cleared the renniants
away, and then the boy said :
"Uncle and child, come hither and sit by nie, for
of saying I have much for thee."
The nncle himself sat nearer to the boy. "What
; would you, father ?" said he, for he now beheld that
I the boy was endowed with the spirit of a wise
I priest aud a father's couimanding.
{ "Thou and thy people, alas, alas ! Not only did
I they make sport of the blessings of the beloved, but
even of the beloved of themsehcs they thought not.
Tlieli- own flesh and being, of it — my poor little sis-
ter and I — they thought not, but left it to perish.
Sad was their recompense, and this their teaching,
that in the future tliey may wiser be. Those wlio
were our parents, behold they shall hencef ortli be our
children and the servants of our offspring shall their
offspring be. Thou wert a warrior-priest, yet I re-
member thou didst not join the follies of thy others.
Thou comest back, that the lives of thy sister's
children might be saved. Therefore thou alone
Shalt enjoy my best favor. Tliou shalt become my
warrior-priest. Behold the aged woman whom the
nation despised — no longer the despised shall she
' be, but the mother of her people until the end of
her days, when the little sister shall become the
mother of seed, for of the flesh of the mother maid-
ens hath she drank. No longer may the people of
our nation live accorduig to their own wills, but as
children, whom a father and his brothers must
guide, counsel and command, and I their father am
appointed to be, for of the flesh of the Mother
. maidens I have di'ank. Do thou accordmg to my
bidding. Four days thou shalt remain and rest thy-
self, then go hence to the country of the Jloquis
. and summon my people. Jleanwhile I will provide
for them. That thou mays't bear proof with thee
I bid thee rest and feast for four days." Thus said
the boy, for the corn being had told him many tiling's
at night time.
"Alas, alas; it is true, and even as thou hast said
so shall it be," said the uncle, and he bowed his
head on his knee in thought and shame.
As evening came it grew dark and the rain fell in
torrents until the sun entered the West. Until the
moon rose foaming streams poured down into the
valley, spreading all over it fresh soil.
Then in the moonlight came quickly, yet silently,
many runners of the dance of the gods in the Lake
of the Dead, and strong warriors came also. And
into' thejiew soil they planted everywhere corn of
all kinds ami food seeds from the stores of the gods
themselves. And again, ere morning, soft rain fell,
and the breatli of the Mother maidens fanned the
country .from the Laud of Lasting Summer.
When the sun rose next morning not a track
could be seen in all the great plain, yet everywhere
shot forth from the warm soil rows of corn plants
yellow and green, and vines and other plants of the
food seeds.
After the morning meal was over the boy called
his uncle, "iXy warrior-priest, come with me."
Together they asoemled to the highest part of the
house. , ^,
"Look," said the boy. pointing to the plains be-
low, and while the uncle in wondering joy and rev-
erence, looked abroad and bowed his head, the boy
^ stretched forth his hands and cast to tlie six pomts
sacred meal, with a prayer of thanksgiving to the
Lgods, ^_
"Behold," then said he, "the plantuig of the be-
loved."
And thus, each morning, he took the uncle to the
topmost house. Aheady, on the second morning,
the corn was waving fluted leaves, and on the third,
the tassels had appeared. On the fourth the ears
of corn had started through the corn leaves, and
the young boy said :
"My warrior, take with thee now provisions for
thy journey, and a plant of corn as a promise: of
harvest to my people, for foolish are. they aaid of
such vicious heart some, that of good lie£H"ts they
know not the beating or the straightness of the
words thereof. Ere thou hast reached the land of
the Moquis, thy corn shall have gi-own milky and
full of kernel as the brother and sister plants here
do."
The old man hastily prepared for the journey,
and taking a green coni-plant from the field, bade
farewell to the boy and his sister and the old woman.
That night the com being appeared uneasy, and
toward daylight he called to the boy.
, "Fatlier of his people, hear thou me. Thou hast
given me being, even as I and thy mothers have
preserved thy old and giveu thee new being. Pre-
cious shalt thou be, and thy people .shall plant and
reap for thee and thy chosen comicil of wise ones.
The oifspring of thy flesh or of thy breath .shall
ever, as thou, be precious, when thou hath joined
the everlastnig 'Council of the Dead.' Behold I am
born of the flesh of the Mother maidens of men and
the creatures. Their flesh is renewed, and amidst
its tassels shall I find my home, yet thy messenger
was I, hence never long in any of my, many homes
shall I rest. Make thou of the stalks that grow be-
low yet another of my form and send her forth, and
men shall call us and our offspring tlie 'Dragon
Fly.' By my ministry and from the milk of the
Mother maidens of seed hast thou received being, a
man, yet a Shirwa-ni [priest] ; not one of the great
beloved among the gods, yet one of the 'Fore walk-
ing beloved' [leaders] amolig men who shall call
Ijhee their father as thou shalt call them thy chil-
dren. And thy little sister shall be the Seed-Priest-
ess of earth, keeper of thy seed among men, and
provider of the fertility of the seeds whereby men
live. May all days thme happiness bring." As
he said this the boy thanked him, replying:
"Thy form in remembrance will 1 paint on the
sacred things, emblematic of spring and the health-
giving rains of spring-time ; and thy companion shall
I paint, the symbol of summer and the pools of
summer showers.
The Dragon fly poised a moment in tlie air over
the head of the boy, then like a "star seeking the
house of a wife" [meteor], he sped forth over the
broad com fields.
Hence to this day the dragon fly comes (the black,
white and red one) in early summer, when the corn
tassels bloom, humming from one plant to another,
yet never content with his resting place.
And following him comes the beautiful green
dragon fl>', for of the green, stalks of corn made the
boy the companion of the first dragon fly, hence the
green dragon fly is gi-een with yellow light like a
stalk of growing corn in the sunlight.
When eight days had passed there came from
over the northwestern hills the nation of Ha'-wi-
k'vh. Amongst them came many strangers from
other tribes and countries. And when they entered
the town through vast fields of ripening com, they
passed beneath the house of the great jiriest boy,
and breathed humbly upon his hands.
Dazzled with the bright richness of his garments
and the kindly yet grave face of the boy, they both
loved and feared him. And to the sister girl and
the aged woman of the broken house all paid their
homage, as wise children homage parents who have
grown wisely old.
From amongst the strangers who came to Ha' -wi-
h'uli the young priest chpse three men, aged and
young. He embraced them and called them younger
brothers, and breathed into them the breath which
had been into him breathed by the Mother maidens
of seed. Then he chose a great warrior and set
him under the aged uncle, and gave both the com-
mand of the nation, calling them the mouthpiecas
wherewith he and his brothers might speak to their
people, "For," said he, "that our hearts may be al-
ways good aud gentle, that om' prayers be answered
of the beloved, we may not too often speak to the
foolish among om' children. Go ye now," said he
to the two warrior' priests, "and command the peo-
ple together In the liarv&st of the gods. Each man
shall fetch seven loads of com for himself, but the
eighth load he shall fetch for my brothers and me,
that all of our children may the better bear our
counsel and valuie in heart."
When the, corn was gathered the great priest had
many rooms filled, and this he saved, that it might
f uniish seed for the people or food in times of want.
Portions thereof, he gave to the beloved, the an-
cestral spirits and tlie creatures which devour seed.
Then again he commanded the people to plant
and attend the growing things, for the summer was
not yet come, and when the harvest was by a por-
tion also took he for his little sister, his brother
priests and himself. Great gi-ew the boy-priest and
the most beautiful of maidens married he, and his
daughters when they had gro^m were sought by
men of all towns far and near.
Thus was it in the daj's of the ancients long,
very long ago, and hence have we to-day guardians
of the corn, Td-a' A shl-wor^l, or the Corn Priests
of Zimi.
[One cold night in winter when the wind was
blowmg through the pifions near the ""Wliite Cliffs,"
so that our camp-fire swirled up like a burning
whirlwind, an Indian companion maliciously told
me this stoiy that he might make me "wait the
momhig watching." This is why it Is so long. —
F. H. C] ,
(s-s
.A^'xx Xllxas-tx-ct-ted nXoxi-tlily vTo-ULX^xickl^ IDe-vo-tecft -to -tlie .A.d-v-a,xi.oezxxexi.« of aXilllxis a.n.d. llXeolict,zi±aci.l Xxitex-ests.
PUBLISHED BY 1 \ir\l fV
David H. Raiick. J VUL. lA.
INDIANAPOLIS, IND., APRIL, 1884. NO. W. {o„e »oUar p'fr An.»
[Copyrighted 1884, by Dayld H. Kanck.]
ZUI^I BREi5DSTUFF"Il/.
A Chapter of Indian Land Iia-w and Ijabor.
"^ FRANK H. CUSHING.
NO BRANCH OF
the Industrial
Alts of the Zufii
Indians is shown
so clearly as in
their farming cus-
toms and meth-
ods, first, the in-
fluences of climat-
ic environments
on a people's re-
.:=; ligion and culture,
^^ then the effects of
this belief and
philosophy on their daily life. Before noticing
these curious topics, however, a considerable — ^butl
hope not wearisome — digression must be made, to
give some idea of the land laws of Primitive
Pueblodom.
In a former issue of this series the Zufii concep-
tion of the origin of Indian sociologic systems was
given. Fundimentally these are the organization
into Oentes, or Clans— the warp, so to speak, of the
Zufii governmental fabric.
The Zufii tribe .to-day (I shall speak of it fre-
quently as a Nation, for of such it is the remnant)
includes only between sixteen and seventeen hun-
dred members. This population is divided first,
into six sub-tribes each taking its name from the
Ki'wl-tsln, or sacred house to which it belongs.
Again, without reference to this plan of subdivision,
the tribe contains thirteen organizations, orders or
sacred societies, founded upon four primary ele-
ments in savage life; War, the Chase, the Priest-
hood and the Medical fraternities.
Yet again owing allegiance to neither of the pre-
ceding is a third sub-division, into the farming tribes
which derive their names from the summer-pueblos
near which their pi-incipal fields are located. The
names of these geographic tribes are, in order of
precedence, three:— TdMorJirwe,— "People of the
Planting Town;" He^sho-ta-tsi'^a-kwe, — "People
of the Pictured Town" (from the sculptured picto-
graphs on the foundation walls of their village),
and the KHap'-kwalyna-kwe, or "People of the
Town WhenceTiow the Hot Waters." More im-
portant than any of the preceding in its relation to
the tenure of corn-land, is the Gentile sub-division,
for there are finally, in-espective of these, sixteen
clans, or gentes. In order of their rank they are
named as follows : The Parrot, or Macaw people,
the Com or Seed, the Badger, Sun, Eagle, Turkey,
Crane, Deer, Bear, Coyote, Frog, Grouse, Tobacco,
Spring-vine, (or Chickweed), Tellow-wood and
Battle-snake peoples. The Parrot and Seed gentes
are nearly equal in membership, either containing
about three hundred. From these there is a dwin-
dling down throughout the other gentes to five of the
Tellow-wood people, and only one living represent-
ative of the Eattle-snake clan, a man, with whom
of course, the gens will cease. Thus, it may be
seen that one small nation is organized on four dif-
ferent principles, no one of which has, save in the
religious aspect, dependency on any of the
others. — (1) The Sacred government — according
to the places of worship ; (3) the Secular govern-
ment according to landed and water possessions ; (3)
the Medical government — according to professions
of "Medicines" and f etichism ; and finally the Social
government according to family organization. Were
this paper treatmg rather of the Sociology, than of
the food productions of the Zunis, I could show how
these four kinds of sub-divisions harmonize with
one another; how, indeed, the first three were the
outgrowth of the fundamental social principle of
the tribe, and how finally, with the addition of the
phratral combiaations of g^tes (now modified or
outgrovm among the Zunis) all four features were
well nigh universal to aboriginal America. As it is,
I must confine further remarks to what these things
seem to tell us of the pre-Columbian Pueblo-life,
and to a discussion of the relation they bear to the
land and water and food possessions of the tribe.
In addition to the gentes above named, Zufii tradi-
tion says that the tribe formerly possessed several
others; the Water, the Macaw, (as distinct from
the Parrot) the Crow, the Sea Serpent, the Eed-
hi luse and the six com-gentes, (Yellow, Blue, Bed,
White, Speckled and Black) now merged into one
—the TA'-orkwe, or "Seed-people." The same
traditionTsay that the Nation of to-day is a rem-
nant of three great tribes, the Middle, the Southern
and the Northern. At the time of these tribes, a
vast area of New Mexico, Arizona and minor parts
of the Southwest was covered by inhabited towns of
them, few individuals living in a single place, and
the people were more nomadic than at present.
When at last these tribes confederated, and chose,
one after another in the order of precedence above
given, the great valley of Zufii as their permanent
home, they numbered many thousands, inhabiting
no fewer than nineteen towns. When discovered
in the early half of the Sixteenth century by the
Spanish Friar Niza and later subdued by Vasques
Coronado, they were living hi the famous "Seven
Cities of Cibola." The native names of these
towns were : *1, Mdt-sa-ki' ; 2, K'idrki-^ma; 3, HcMVir
k'uh; 4, Kia'-na-wa; 5, Ham-^as-sa-^an; 6, Ke'-
tchv^na (?) and 7, Horlo-na; the last being the only
one of the towns now inhabited, save in summer,
and the ancient name for modern Zufii, {Halona
*The Spanish names of these towns were, as may be seen
below, invariably derived from the Zuni. {1) ^^Mazuqui,
(2) Cnqulmn, (3) Aguico, (4) Canahi, (5) ?, (S) Aquin-
8a and (7) .4Iona."— From writings ol Ad. F. Bandelier,
the authority on Spanish America, and old documents.
I'tiwana— "The Middle Place of Happy Fortune,"
"The Middle Ant Hill of the World." [These di-
verse interpretations are both customary and ety-
mologically correct]
Although the early Spaniards doubtless exagger
ated the population of Cibola, (more through imper-
fect means of getting data than from willfulness)
in stating it as great as "Eleven thousand souls,"-^
we may safely conclude from a computation of the
rooms in the six ruins above named, that altogether,
they and ancient Zufii contained more than six
thousand inhabitants. This seems only reasocable
when we study the immense stock of lore, ritual
and ceremonial of the tribe, and more than all else,
the elaborate and highly difEerentiated organizations
above mentioned. All these point not to a vast or
dense population, but still to a very numerous and
quite highly yet naturally developed ancestry.
When, during the years of the Pueblo rebellion
(1680 to 16$2), the Zufiis sought to fortify them-
selves from Spanish vengeance on the Rock Moun-
tain of Thunder, they had for nearly half a century
been inhabiting six towns only. On the top of the
Mountain of Thunder they built their town, not all
together but in six different blocks or terraced
masses, each mass representing one of the aban-
doned towns. This was significant. Great error
has always been committed in considering the Indi-
ans, particularly the Pueblos, as (in our sense of
the word) communists. Not even among ourselves
is the division of property or individual land-tenure
carried further. It is in consequence of a native j
method of speaking, law or custom regulatuig the
disposal of land, that these curious people have
come to be regarded as property communists.
Suppose that a young man belongs to the Parrot
g««*P'he cannot marry any girl, however remote
her relationship to him may be, who belongs to the
same gms^ As descent is on the mother's side, his
children do not belong,to him nor to his clan, but I
to his wife and her gmer If he, either before or |
after his marriage, "raises the sand," (takes up or !
clears) a field, it belongs strictly to him, but is
spoken of as the property of his clan. In case he j
makes no provision that it shall descend to his chil- 1
dren or to his wife; in case,. moreover, he has no
nephews or nieces on the sister's side, the property i
remains after his death, m the Parrot clan, may be j
claimed and cultivated by any member of that clan— I
preferably by near relati ves-but neither by the man's '
wife nor by his own children. Any one man be- j
longing to the tribe of Nutria, cannot, even of his
own fields, give land to any one person belonging
to either of the other pueblos, unless that person
happens to be a member of his clan. Nor can any
man living at Pescado, go and take up even un- 1
claimed land at Nutria, or Ojo Caliente, unless with ,
the consent of the body politic of the tribe which
he wishes to join. No Zufii, whatever his rank, .
can, withoutthejioiis ent of the Cora .fljul (jgjlaia J
56
THIS nv-OXiLSTOiETES.
ApEIL, 1884.
other priests of the tribe, give any member of a
stranger tribe or people, either portions of his own
land or of any part of the tribal domain. With such
a people as the Zufiis, therefore, the reservation
from sale is, by their native tiibal law customs,
without intervention of government, already pro-
vided for.
The procedure by which a Zufii seeks to bequest
the lands which he has Inherited or reclaimed, is
curious. Nominally, as above explained, such
lands belong to his clan. In bestowing them upon
his children, by doing which, of com-se he transfers
them to the clan of his wife, he has la the absence
of all writing, to make arrangements in whatever
one of the thirteen secret organizations of sacred
medicine [Ti-KUla-ipon, or Ti'-Ma) he may be a
member of. In the presence of the council of this
society, he sta,tes with great minuteness all the par-
ticulars of his Dequest. Tears may pass. Not one
of his items is, however, revealed, unless by himself,
until after his death. If then, any question arises,
the members who listened to his declaration, acting
as witnesses to one another, reveal what the will of
the deceased had been. In illustration of their pro-
cess nothing can be more interesting or instructive
than an account of a lawsuit at which, as (at the
time) Second Chief of the tribe, I once presided.
One evenmg In the aut»mn of 1881 my old brother,
Pa'-la^wah-tirwa, the Head Chief, said to me ;
"Younger Brother, wash your eyes in cold water."
"Why ?"
"An old beast who belongs to the clan of him
who was his uncle, wishes to get a peach orchard
away from his brothers [cousins] the children of
the dead one."
Soon after I heard the herald call out a council
from the distant house-tops.
The old njan had only finished stuffing the big
black throat of the family hearth with pifion sticks,
when the members of the coming council began to
steal m. Each was wrapped from nose to instep in
his blanket, each, moreover, as grave and dignified
as any senator of history. From the depths of each
blanket would issue, as the threshold was crossed,
the invariable greeting — "How be ye these many
days?" to which was responded expressionlessly
Kets'^n-irshi; i-ti-^i-Tc'ia.'— "Happy ; gather and sit,"
by my brother, myself and all former arrivals.
Sheep pelts, dog skins, buffalo robes, retired blan-
kets, four-pronged stool-blocks, bundle of corn-
shucks and long slender rolls of dry cedar-bark were
strewn about the floor, and a bag or two of rocky
old plug tobacco was lying in the fire-light. As tJie
council gathered in, everything except the shucks,
cedar rolls and tobacco was appropriated as a seat,
no sooner than which the place sounded like a hail
storm on dry fodder — which sound resulted from
the rustling of corn shucks — for every one who eat
down — and none remained standing — immediately
made a grab at the shuck pile and began to cut out
a piece of husk with his thumb nail, of suitable length
to serve as a cigarette wrapper. When cut, the shuck
was dampened with the tongue and scraped to a
proper state of thinness and pliability between tlie
teeth. It was then neatly rolled tothe shape of the
prospective cigarette and stuck into the top of the leg-
ging to take form. Meanwhile a nubbin of the dried
plug was attacked with the same thumb nail untU
a small quantity of coarse dust had accumulated in
the pahn of the opposite hand. Then the husk was
unrolled, the pecked tobacco deposited in the last
coil, and the wrapper without trouble rolled back
to the shape it had been taking under pressure of
the legging. As this process — tedious equally with
its description — was completed at about the same
time by two-thirds of the council, every person help-
ing to make up that two-thirds called out at once,
"Kidthl'fhla'-kuA-mon-^!" or "Kiathl-^'-te-an-
n(«.'"— "Hither with the 'root!' "or "This way with
the 'blossom !' " the "root" being the roll of bark,
the "blossom" the fire at tlie end of it. Now all
these things are told of, because out of the two or
three hundred comacils and lawsuits I've attended
they are the opening proceedings, as invariable as
toasts are the fit endings of public dinners.
So far, all is peace. The call for the "root" and
"blossom" means just as many clear, tiny blue col-
umns of smoke as there are mouths in the room.
It means too, such universal contentment that wild,
very witty, somewhat coarse jokes and general up-
roariousness begms, even a few practical — not very
gentle pranks, and any quantity of sarcasm, make
the place as nearly like as It can be in Zufii, to a
meeting of jolly students bent on a lark.
1 sit next my ' 'Old Brother" who has uttered never
a word save the responsive "Happy ; gather and sit I"
smce he took his station by the fire-side. ' There is
order in this chaos. If you look carefully, there is
a little space along the middle of the room, ranged
on either side of which is a party. As yet, however,
every pair of lips not smoking a cigarette is stretched
with a broad grin, every arm vigorously gesticulat-
ing — that is', with four or five exceptions. One of
these is a sullen looking old fellow, who sits like a
Zuiii eagle after "picking tune," on his stool, smok-
ing liis cigarette and glaring into the fire. The
other exceptions are (unless my bored brother be
included) one or two despondent looking young
men. It need not be told that these are the char-
acters concerned in the issue. I edge over closer
to the Old Chief.
"Brother 1"
"Ha?"
"Why is this orchard quarreled about ?"
"Shut up 1"
"But I want to know."
"Well, that's what these beasts are here to cackle
about."
The old man deliberately finishes his cigarette —
the joldng is as loud as ever — then suddenly throws
the stump away, spits, and hisses, "Shsshh," and
says with a frown and a curse :
"Shut up, you beasts !"
For a moment no effect is produced. I thump
on the stone floor with a staff of office and yell (be-
ing echoed by every sub-chief in the room) '^Hi'td"
which means "Listen." Every eye turns toward
the now composed chief. With tlie gentlest de-
meanor possible, with absolute ignorance and lack
of feeling expressed in the tone of his voice, the old
man says to the silenced council :
"My Brothers and Children, 'why and wherefore'
are we gathered together this night ? For, it is not
for nothing that people meet one another in coun-
cil ?"
This is the signal I The mine has been fired I
Both sides start up at once. Positive pandemonium
ensues. I yell at the top of my lungs :
" One at a time, one, one I" — and every sub-chief
cries— "JSK'fd.'"
The clatter runs on for a moment — having boiled
over in fierce personal abuse — until I jump up and
yell:
"Shut up, every one of you ; shut up 1" — and again
the sub-chiefs shriek, ''Hl'td! hi'tAI"
Silence reigns. A sub-chief rises up, goes over
to the front of the sullen smoker (the picked eagle)
and sits down.
Two others of like rank come forward and sit
down so as to face him, f ormmg a breastworks, as
it were, of despondent young men. Then the real
business begins I
Now with regard to the officers of a Zuni council
of law.
The head chief is the Judge. His function is to
as nearly resemble a dirtily dressed stone statue in
sitting posture as possible. Throughout the pro-
ceedings—save to occasionally grimt a curse, look
exceedingly disgusted aiid smoke unceasingly— he
fulfills this mission perfectly.
The second chief is at once "Sergeant-at-Arms"
and Justice or, more precisely. Secretary. In the
former capacity he has to rage and swear and thump
the floor with his staff, jumping up, sitting down,
and expressing ferocious wrath in his every action
but keeping his heart as imperturbed as a Hindoo
rishi's during penance.
In the second capacity, he has to listen intently !
This, with a view of straining twenty-five minutes
of serious signiflcant statement of fact, out of from
five to seven midnight hours of vituperant recrim-
ination and violent personal abuse, which scorns
not to rake uj) from the traditionary tribal annals,
every scandal, calumny and other vicious bit of back-
bite comprised within at least two antecessorial
generations of the parties "mentioned the council."
Add to this the fact that the "lawyers" (the. sub-
chiefs to a man parceled equally to either side)
occasionally in their warmth of zeal get into a little
private discussion and reach such heat that the
words of three or four of them let off simultaneous-
ly with those of a like number opposite, fairly
sti-ike fire (or ought to) in crossing; that the wit-
nesses amounting to a dozen or so chime in with
charming vigor, and you have some conception of
the work he has to do, in order to distill from all
this, enough material to make a clear recapitulation
or "brief" — leaving out no single pertinent detail —
to the silent judge toward the end of the proceed-
ings.
This office, it has been my happy lot to fulfill a
few times ! Happy, I say, because it was exciting
and a better educator of the faculties of perception
and memory than all the courses m Oxford, though
(I must confess) in other respects not quite so edi-
fying.
Now in telling this I hope I have served two pur-
poses. Have given a near account of this particu-
lar lawsuit up to the production of my brief, and
have demonstrated the fallacy of the sweeping as-
sertion — "Two Indians are never known to speak
at once." I grant this, but mind ; I grant it simply
because, during all my experiences while fulfilling
the office of second chief, I never, by any amount
of floor-pounding, could induce fewer than from
five to fifteen to speak in the same breath.
When I turned to state the case to the Governor
the substance of it proved to be about as follows.
Only the interest of the whole council in what was
to be presented to the Head Chief for his judgment
— with the added taint of a desire to criticise — can
be adduced to explain the silence which prevailed
during its utterance :
"The old man died last year leaving one girl and
two sons, ail well grown. When these children were
young the 'dead one' with their assistance and that
of an old friend, planted a large peach orchard.
This has grown up, is fruitful and contams eighty-
six trees. The nephew claims he is the dead one's
son in inheritance because the son of his sister.
That the old man who was never arranged to make
his very children his children in inheritance. He,
therefore, wants the whole orchard. Now the talk-
ers of the children of him who was, say that the
nephew caused the old man years of 'thought' (an-
guish) by his laziness, impudence, gamblmg and
consequent wish to have things for nothing; there-
fore, the peach orchard could not have been thought
of for him by the dead one ; that the children helped
plant the orchard and care for its growth, which the
nephew had not aided in ; hence, even if the father
who was had not ' brought words to the sitting
place of his brothers' he intended his very children
should have that which he had ' looked upon with
Apeil, 1884.
THE INOiLLSTOI^TIES.
57
labor' and they deserved it, nevertheless, above the
nephew.
"The question is, 'What did the old man who was,
want ?'"
"Wait!" replied the Head Chief, as though he had
suddenly thought of something, but with a suspicious
gi'in on his face.
"Here, 'Bit by a Bear,' and you 'Arrow-Scratched'
and you, too, 'Straw Counter' " [the old man was
addressmg his sub-chiefs] " 'w'ant after' the four
oldest men in the Cac-
tus band, [society of sm-
geons] run quick!'" So
the three sub-chief s be-
took themselves to re-
mote and widely sepa-
rated parts of the
pueblo.
Meanwhile the joking
was resumed, but I no-
ticed that some of the
chief disputants turned
their backs on one an-
other. Still the question
in hand was dropped
■pro.tem.
Soon returned the
three sub-chiefs with as
many sleepy old men
staggering after, and the
rear brought up by an
antiquated ex-chief.
"The other couldn't be
found," they said, and
sat down to cut shucks.
"Thou hast come,"
said the Chief (address-
ing the nearest of the
fresh arrivals). "What's
your heart up to ?"
"Sleep !"
"Oh! I thought it was
meditathig mischief be-
cause these rattle-
mouths [a wave at the
sub-chiefs] made it nec-
essary to pull you out of
your dreams. Can you
tell me where 'Dried
Bean Pod' is ?"
"Why here; he came
along with us !"
As the one thus de-
signated, after being
vigorously punched (he
was somewhat deaf)
came forward winking
his eyes in the fire-light,
I giggled.
"What are you laugh-
ing for ?" said the Head
Chief.
"Has the grandfather
no other name ?" said I.
At this the whole
coimcil grinned, (the
"Dried Bean Pod" not
so much, for he didn't
hear), while the Old Chief explained that "This
was the best knXnvn name, but not the Tbest one the
old man had, as his 'Cactus name' was lu-ai'-Uh-
glrwa, which meant nothing but his name, but that
^ThUvp'-K'us-na' was the bestfor a council, because
young people never remembered Tl-K'ia mames, nor
those given by gmtes at birth. My brother finished
by declaring apologetically to the council:
"Tou see the young brother is smart, and the best
'side carrier' [assistant] I ever had, but he grew up
on 'Me-U-lcdn' milk, therefore doesn't know every-
thmgl S^'l"
The last exclamation, the cut-off hiss "Ssi'l"
brought the council to order, and I recapitulated at
the top of my voice in the Dried Bean Pod's deaf ear.
"Ah 1 ah !" croaked the old fellow, when I had
finished, poking an empty shuck at me for "sneeze
stuff" (powdered American tobacco) and saying
that his thumb-nail was broken.
Occasionally appealing to his two companions,
"Oh ! ah I yes, yes ! you see it was in winter time;
— no, near spring, not long after the cliffs on Grand
mountain caved iu and we thought the world was
going to vomit corpses, and sent fine turquoises,
prayer meal and shell beads to harden the earth; —
isn't that so, younger brother ?"
"Yes."
"Tes, and just before we broke up god Po'sha\
for burning the forests."
"Yes, yes."
^ 2)riJ dean, or "Barrier. '////
D Second, embankments. '^gci-rtl \-A
* — p^ ^.^^ ■/', \ ^'^'
o Ti- TcwcL I, and.posiiim^^:^-:^i^
afW-kwa.. "^^^—^
d Tosiiion of sacrifice. M:^s^^
e "Baandaru stones. ,,.\^^\ ,^v\$<"
7//,
^li^
i I Hi
THE
CONSECRATIO,
QF THE
FIELD,
ZUNI CORNFlEilu
renewal and Yresheiirriffoii
this old dotard gave a histoiy of his childhood, his
initiation into the Cactus Band and that of the de-
ceased, hints of the Mexican war, the first coming
of Washington (Americans), the Navajo wars, the
starvation times, copious draughts from his ritual-
stored brain showing the duty of every Ti'-T^ia mem-
ber, until he worked down to the time when the
orchard had been planted and— stopped !
"Yes, yes, but did the dead never tell what should
be done with the orchard ?"
"Well, he said to us
when we were 'In [fast-
ing] for the third day,'
said he, 'You see no one
can tell how long day-
light may last, my broth-
ers, therefore I say this
day my cornfields ex-
cept one I give to my
two boys, the one to my
girl ; my peach orchard
I want to divide half and
half between Wa-mu,
my nephew, (unless he
turns out bad), and my
my very children all;
but then Wormu, be-
cause he is a bad boy
and does not love
me "
"You lie!" shrieked
the said Wa-mu, "My
uncle never said so !"
"Shut up!" said I.
"What?" queried the
deaf old man. "Ah yes,
says he, for that reason,
and because he may turn
bad he must give part
of the trees to my broth-
er Chu-^a-thla' -Shi-Ma
(Old Corn Bin) because
Old Corn Bin helped me,
and he didn't. So, aui't
it, brothers ?" concluded
the Dried Bean Pod.
"True ! true !" echoed
the others.
"That will do, Dried
Bean Pod," said the
chief, and the old man
was glad to resume ex-
clusively his cigarette.
Now then, fury re-
doubled! Wa-mu
howled to prove that he
had always been faith-
ful and good. Every-
body on one side ac-
cused everybody on the
other side of unreliabili-
ty, citing numerous in-
stances as proof, until
1 yelled :
"Shut up, all of you !"
They were silenced
after a fight of five min-
utes or so.
"Now," said the Head Chief to me in an under-
tone, "Ask the Old Women's Governor [the ex-
chief mentioned above] to scathe these sub-chiefs;
they're fighting on then- own accounts, you see, to
prove which is past the other m lying."
The Old Women's Governor needed only a
hint. He kept his eyes closed or squinting, for
tA priest executed some twenty years ago on charge of
witchcraft. The name is a contraction of Po'-shai-any-Hia
— the god of medicine orders.
5i/
TJB-iii is/nrrjusrcoTTB^.
Apetl, 1884.
they were sore, but he turned them toward me
"Talk to these children ?" said he, ironically wav-
ing his lean hand over the heads of the wrangling
chiefs, "these are the days when every 'Slender
bone' [ungrown boy] swallows shame and vomits
impudence, and 'chiefs!' ha, ha I ho, ho! chiefs
think such talk is wisdom, so they try to imitate it.
They only rattle, rattle, do you hear me ? When I
was young a chief thought his duty was to travel
the middle ti-ail, but these, these, why they split
apart as a band of runners do meeting a mud pviddle
and sling brine [caustic words] at one another from
either side."
"So ! so ! True ! true I" exclaimed the chief, and
I said "Hi' -1(1," whereupon, behold! every sub-
chief looked at every other and said "Hi'-t&!"
"Sit down, old man, it's useless ! The morning
star is up !" said the Head Chief, addressing Old
Women's Governor. Then turning to me he asked :
"How much has it gone on, Younger Brother?"
So I repeated the essential features of the Dried
Bean Pod's evidence.
"Listen?" sa,\d Pa-lo-^vah-ti^a. He then waited
for about five minutes and the council clamored for
his decision, but he waited. He seemed intent only
on finishing his cigarette, but there was a thought-
ful expression on his face. Then he said quietly,
not a single ray of emotion in his eyes : -
"Brothers, it seems Wa-ynu is a bad man, but he
belongs to the clan of his micle who was. He shall
have forty trees, and as he wouldn't of his own accord
(because he wanted the whole orchard) give a sprout
to the Old Com Bin, he shall be told to have
thought of giving eight trees to this old friend of
his uncle for helping to plant the orchard, which
WorTnu did not do. The rest of the orchard shall
belong to the dead one's children, and they shall
give how-many-soever they like to the Old Corn
Bin. Day after to-morrow Scratched by an Ar-
row, the Straw Counter and I will go to lay out
the boundaries, and my Tounger Brother here [re-
ferring to me] shall do as he likes. Thus much !"
I expected to hear a torrent of dissatisfaction,
but every one said as meekly as catechised cliildren,
"Indeed !" or "It is well !" and this is the rule, as
the decision of a Head Chief on such occasions is
final. When I said, "Thus much we have straight-
ened our thoughts, see that complaint crooks them
not again," which meant the council was over, light
spirits seemed to descend from the dense blue clouds
of tobacco and corn husk smoke among the rafters,
and the Jokes, pranks, gossip resumed sway once
more, merged soon into yawns and remarks on tlie
nearness of dawn, and then one by one the party
left, seeming wafted through the open doorway out
into the silent gray light by the draught-drawn
smoke-clouds.
As I turned to roll up in the corner the old man
who was cleanmg away the "lame shucks" and
"dead cigarettes" remarked with a dyspeptic grim-
ace "What kind of animals do they most resemble,
prairie dogs or bumble-bees ? Well, they're not to
blame after all, for since those bearded beasts, the
Mexicans, came,' we never have had decent chiefs
or dignified councils. No, we have had to sit as
though watching for daylight, with the interrogation
of every small question. May you happily wait
until the morning, Tounger Brother."
Two ends have been served by this long account.
Relative to lands, the rights of water, the trespass
of animals and children, lawsuits are the order of
the day (or rather night) of each autumn. As they
are all carried on in much the same way, this de-
scription of one shall stand for the many which
must be mentioned hereafter. Moreover the law
custom regulative of the transfer of land by be-
queathal from one clan to another has in the above
a fair, although only partial illustration.
When a young Zuiii wishes to add to his landed
possessions, he goes out over the country, caring to
all appearance, nothing at all for distance. He se-
lects the mouth of some arroya Cdeep dry gully or
stream course) which winds up from the plain into
the hills or mountains, and seeking, where it merges
into the plain, some flat stretch of ground, his first
care is to "lift the sand." This is done by striking
the hoe into the earth at intervals of five or six
yards, and hauling out little heaps of soil until a
line of tiny boundary mounds has been formed all
around the proposed field. Next in this space he
cuts away the sage brushes with his heavy hoe, and
clods of grass, weeds, etc., all of which he heaps in
the middle of the field and burns. He then throws
up long banks of sand on the line first indicated by
the heaps of soil. Each embankment is called a
so'-piUhlan [sand string]. At every comer he sets
a rock, if possible columnar, sometimes rudely
sculptured with his tokens [see Initial Letter]. It is
rare he does anything more to the piece in a single
year. Not unfrequently even years before the land
is actually required for cultivation, the "sand is
lifted" aiid a stone of peculiar shape is placed at
one corner as a mark of ownership. Ever after, the
place is, unless relinquished, the exclusive property
of the one who lifted the sand, or, in case of his
death, of the clan he belonged to.
In riding over the ancient country of the Zuiiis I
have sometimes found these rows of little soil heaps
as many as f oi'ty miles away from the central val-
ley. Even after the lapse of years, overgrown with
gi-asses, each the bases of a diminutive sand-drift,
these marks of savage preemption are distinct. Thus
too, for ages they will i-emain to serve the archaeol-
ogist when the Zuiii and his theme shall have passed
away, as material for speculation. Distance could
not have been the sole cause for the abandonment
of these pieces, as some fields, still under the hoe,
are equally as far away ; yet give evidence of hav-
ing been cultivated, probably in consequence of
great fertility, for several generations.
\ With the ZuiSis one-half the months in the year
are "Nameless," the others are "Named." The
year is called "A Passage of Time," the seasons
"The Steps" (of the year), and the months "Cres-
cents" — probably because each begins with the new
moon. New Tear is called the "Mid-journey of the
Sun;" that is, the middle of the solar trip between
one summer solstice and another, and, occurring in-
variably about the nineteenth of December, usually
initiates a short season of great religious activity.
The first month after this is now called I'-kohr^pu-
yOrtdhun, "Growing White Crescent," as with it be-
gins the Southwestern winter, — tlie origin of the
name is evident. The (tnciciit name of the month
seems to have been different in meaning, although
sti'ikingly similar in sound, I-shoh-hfb'arpu-ySr
tohunor "Crescent of the Conception," doubtless a
reference to the kindling of the sacred fire by drill-
ing with an arrow shaft into a piece of soft dry
wood-root, a ceremony still strictly observed. In-
teresting evidence of this meanmg may be found on
the old notched calendar-sticks of the tribe, the first
month of the new year being indicated by a little
fire socket at one end
The second month is Ta'^dm-tdhvryiMchun, so
named from the fact that it is the time when boughs
are broken by the weight of descending snow.
Then follows O-iian-uhaTi-T^ieu-lmMim^iirtohun,
or the month during which "Snow lies not in the
pathways," with which ends winter or the "Sway of
Cold."
Spring, called the "Starting Time," opens with
ThW-te-kwa-narkiartsa-^a-^drtchun, or the month
of the "Lesser Sand Storms," followed by ThU'-te-
liwa^na-Uia-thla'-na^a-tchun, or the month of the
"Greater Sand Storms," and this, theu^est^eason
of the Zuni year, is closed by Yortchun-Java-sM -am-
ona, "The Crescent of No Name." Summer and .
Autumn, the period of the "Months Nameless," are
together called O'-lo-irliia, the season "Brlngmg;
Flom--like Clouds." In priestly or ritualistic Ian- ■
guage these six months although called nameless are
designated successively the "Tellow, Blue, Bed, ,
White, Variegated or Iridescent, and Black," after
the colors of the plumed prayer-sticks sacrificed in
rdtation at the full of each moon to the gods of the |
North, West, South, East, the Skies and the Lower
Regions.
In common parlance these months and the mi-,
nute divisions of the seasons they embrace, are re- f
ferred to by the terms descriptive of the growth of
corn-plants and the development and natures^encej
of their grain. There will be, on a future page, oc-
casion to illustrate the tendency of the Zuiiis to make !
corn the standard of measurement and comparison
not only for time, but for many other things, by the '
reproduction of a singular song of one of the sacred ■
orders. ^^
Early in the month of the "Lesser Sand Storms" ^
the same Zuni, we will say, who preempted, a
year since, a distant arroya-field goes forth hoe and
ax in hand, to resume the work of clearing, etc.
Within the sand embankment he now selects that
portion which the arroya enters from above, and
cutting many forked cedar branches, drives them
firmly mto the dry stream-bed, in a line crossing its
course, and extending a considerable distance be-
yond either bank. Against this row of stakes he
places boughs, clods, rocks, sticks and earth, so as
to form a strong barrier or dry-dam ; open, however,
at either end. Some rods below this on either side
of the stream-course, he constructs, less carefully,
other and longer barriers. Still further dovra, he j
seeks in the "Tracks" of some former torrent, a
ball of clay, which, having been detached from its
native bank, far above, has been rolled and washed,
down and down, ever growing rounder and smaller
and tougher, until in these lower plains it lies em-
bedded ii and baked by the burning sands. This
he carefully takes up, breathing reverently from
it, and places it ononesideof the stream-bed, where
it is desirable to have the rain-freshets overflow. He
buries it with a brief supplication in the soil and
then proceeds to heap over it a solid bank of earth
which he extends obliquely across, and to some dis-
tance beyond the arroya. Returning, he continues
the embankment past the clay ball either in line of,
or at whatever angle with the completed portion
seems to his practiced eye most suited to the'
topography. i
To those not acquainted with savage ways of
thought, this proceeding will gain interest from
explanation. The national game of the Zuni is
Ti'-liwa-we, or. The Race of the Kicked Stick.
Two little cylindrical sticks of hard wood are
cut, each the length of the middle finger. These, '
distinguished one from the other by bands of red
paint, are laid across the toes of either leader and
kicked in the direction the race is to be run. At
full speed of the runners these sticks are dexterously
shoveled up on the toes, and kicked on and on.
The party which gets its stick over the goal first is
counted the winning side. This race is usually nm
by no fewer than twelve men, six opposed to an
equal number. The distance ordinarily accom- :
plished without rest or even abatement, is twenty-
five miles. Now the time taken in running this race
is marvelously short, never exceeding three hours; 1
yet, were you to ask one of the runners to undertake
the race without his stick, he would flatly tell you he
could not possibly do it. So imbued with this idea
are the Zuiiis that frequently, when coming in from |
distant fields, and wishing to make haste, they
ciTt a sticky and ki ck it o n ahead of them, runnmg
Aprh,, 1884.
THiiJ ^^-OXiLSTOlsTB.
to catch up with it and so on. The interesting fea-
ture about all this is, that the Indian in tliis, as in
most things else, confounds the cause with the effect,
thinks the stick helps him, instead of himself being
the sole motive power of the stick. The lump of
clay before mentioned is supposed to be the Tl'-kwa
of the water gods,;fashioned by their invisible hands
and pushed along by then resistless feet, mot hinder-
ing, but adding to the force and speed of the waters.
The field-maker fancies that the waters when they
run down this trail again will be as anxious to catch
up with their Ti'-kwa as he would be. So he takes
this way of tempting the otherwise tameless, he
thinks, ton-ents out of their course. Yet, to make
doubly sure, he has thrown a dam across their
proper pathway. On the outskirts of the field thus
planned, little inclosures of soil, like earthen bins
are thrown up wherever the ground slopes how lit-
tle-soever from a central point, these inclosmes
being either irregularly square or in conformity to
the lines of the slope, f
My hope has been in so minutely describing these
beginnings of a Zuni farm to give a most precious
hint to any reader of The MiLLSTOinE interested
in agriculture, or who may possess a field some por-
tions of which are barren because too dry. We
may smile at the superstitious observances of the
Indian agriculturist, but when we come to learn
what he accomplishes, we shall admire and I hope
find occasion to imitate his hereditary ingenuity.
The country of the Zunis is so desert and dry, that
times out of number within even the fickle memory
of tradition, the possession of water for drmking
and cooking purposes alone, has been coimted a
blessing. Tet, by his system of earth banking the
Zuni Indian and a few of his western brothers and
pupils — the Moquis — have heretofore been the only
human beings who could, without irrigation from
living streams, raise to maturity a crop of corn
within its parched limits. ''
The use of the principal barriers and embank-
ments may be inferred from the terms of the invo-
cation with which the field is consecrated after the
completion of all the earthworks. The owner then
applies to whatever corn-priest is keeper of the sar
cred "medicine" of his clan or order. This priest
cuts and decorates a little stick of red willow with
plumes from the legs and hips of the eagle, turkey
and duck, and with the tail-feathers from the max-
miUan's say, night-hawk, yellow-finch and ground-
sparrow, fastening them on, one over the other, with
cords of fine cotton. From the store of paint which
native tradition claims was brought from the original
birth-place of the nation (a kind of plumbago) he
takes a tiny particle leavening with it a quantity of
black mineral powder. To a sufficient measure of
rain water, he adds a drop of ocean water with
which he moistens the pigment, and with a brush
made by chewing the end of a yucca-leaf, applies
the paint to the stick. With the same paint he also
decorates a section of cane filled with wild tobacco
supposed to have been planted by rain, hence sa-
cred! These two objects, sanctified by his breath,
he gives to the applicant. Taking them carefully
in his left hand, the latter goes forth to his new
field. Seeking a point in the middle of the arroy^
below all his earthworks, he kneels, or sits dowA
on his blanket facing east. He then lights his cane
cigarette and blows smoke toward the North, West,
South, East, the Upper and the Lower regions. Then
holding the smokmg stump and the plumed stick
near his breast he says a prayer. From the sub-
stance of his prayer which, remarkably curious
though it be, is too long for literal reproduction
here we learn the important facts relative to his
intentions and his fa ith. We find he believes that :
tin an accompanying plan I have attempted to give some
iaea of these features of an Indian oomfleld.
"He has infused the consciousness of his prayer
into the plumed stick; that with his sacred cigarette
he has prepared a way 'Like the trails of the winds
and rains' [clouds] for the wafting of that prayer
to the gods of all regions. That having taken the
cloud-inspiring down of the turkey, the strength-
giving plume of the eagle, the water-loving feather
of the duck, the path-finding tails of the birds who
comisel and guide Summer, having moreover severed
and brought hither the flesh of the water-attracting
tree, which he has dipped in the god-denizened
ocean, beautified with the very cinders of creation,
bound with strands from the dress of the sky-born
goddess of cotton — he beseeches the god-priests of
earth, sky and cavern, the beloved gods whose dwell-
ing places are in the great embracing waters of the
world, not to withhold their mist-laden breaths, but
to canopy the earth with cloud banners, and let fly
their shafts little and mighty of rain, to send forth
the fiery spirits of lightning, lift up the voice of
thunder whose echoes shall step from mountain to
mountain bidding the mesas shake down streamlets.
The streamlets shall yield torrents ; the torrents,
foam-capped, soil-laden, shall boil toward the shrine
he is making, drop hither and thither the soil they
are bearing, leap over his barricades unburdened
and stronger, and in place of their lading, bear out
toward the ocean as payment aud faith-gift the
smoke-cane and the prayer-plume. Thus thinking,
thus believing, thus yearning, thus beseeching, (in
order that the seeds of earth' sliall not want food
for their growing, that from their growtli he may
not lack food for his living, means for his fortune)
he this day plants, standing in the trail of the waters,
the smoke-cane and prayer-plume. §
The effect of the net-work of barriers is what the
Indian prayed for — attributes, furthermore, as
much to his prayer as to his labors — namely, that
with every shower, although the stream go dry
three hours afterward, water has been carried to
every portion of the field, has deposited a fine loam
over it all and moistened from one end to the other,
the substratum. Not only this, but also, all rain-
fall on the actual space is retained and absorbed
within the system of minor embankments.
At tlie stage of operations above last described,
the field is again left for a year, that it may become
thoroughly enriched. Meanwliile, during the same
month (the first of spring) each planter repairs
the banks in his old fields, and proceeds to adopt
quite a different method for renewing or enriching
the soil.
Along the western sides of his field, as well as of
such spots throughout it as are worn out or barren
he thickly plants rows of sage-brush leaving them
standing from six inches to a foot above the surface.
As the prevailing winds of the Zurii plains hail
from the southwest, and as during the succeeding
month ("the Crescent of the Greater Sand Storms")
these winds are laden many tens of feet high in the
air with fine dust and sand, behind each row of the
sage-brush a long level; deep deposit "of soil is
drifted. With the coming of the first — and as a
rule, only — rain-storm of the spring-time, the water,
carried about by the embankments, and retained
lower down by the "earth bins" redistributes this
"soU sown by the wmds" and fixes it with mois-
tm-e to the surface it has usurped.
Thus, with the aid of nature's liand, without plow
or harrow, the Zuni fits and fertilizes his lands, for
the planting of May-time, or the Nameless month.
§The kind of philosophy which can give rise to faith in
■ this remarltable reversal of nature's order — malting the
growth of willows the explanation of the presence of waters,
instead of the consequence ; malting summer birds the
hri/ngers of summer instead of suturaer the incentive of
their yearly migration — is, strange as it may seem, the
teaching of nature by her appearances, for natural philoso-
phy is hidden under natural phenomena. Therefore, won-
der not, ridicule not the retrogressive reasoning of savages.
Rather, loolt to this, this one great dissimilarity between
child-mind and civilized mind, as the fruitful cause of mis-
understanding between the American and the Indian. A
misunderstanding which will end, moreover, only with the
death of this peculiar philosopliy or the doom of its devoted
adherents.
-A-JO. Xll-ULS-tjrcfc-ted llOioxx^lily vTo-CLxma,!^ X>e'v-o«ed -to -tbe .^^cl.-vcuioexss.ezi.-t of nSllUxxs A'^^cI. ACeoIi.a.zilocKhearted labor-
ers you ever saw.
According to these stories, it was not like this
in the olden time of which they tell. Many of the
laborers of primitive pueblodom were given
their tasks which they had to finish under a
priest's inspection. Later on (and even that was a
a long time ago) war originated these hoeing bees
(or "staving councils.") They were not then as
now light-hearted crowds. Each member of them
was like a deer on an open plain, fearful lest every
puff of wind should bring sounds or sight of some
enemy. Full often the enemy did come. Daring
not to attack the terraced town, he hung about the
distant fields, seeking vengeance for those of his
tribe who had fallen under the knotty clubs of ZuSi.
And woe to the workers if they proved but few !
Armed even as they worked, brave with despera-
tion, it was rare they ever saw Zuni again; for the
cowardly Navajos rarely came but in swarms. Some
of the most thrilling traditions of Zuni tongue con-
cern these and the harvest days of long ago ; and it
is with regret that I pass my notes of many a long
recital by for the short and perhaps less interes.ing
tale below.
Below the Pueblo of Zuni westward, in one of the
long arms of the valley, there stands, perched upon
he summit of a high rock, an ancient tower of stone.
You reach the doorway of this solitary little citadel
by means of an old log notched at intervals to form
rude steps. Entering, you find a neat little room,
well plastered, in one comer a tiny fire-place, and
opposite a single mealing-slab, while above hangs a
blanket-pole. The cinders yet lie on the hearth-
stone, the pole glistens still brightly from its shad-
owy recess, the meal clings even now to the rough-
ened face of the millstone.
It seems as though only yesterday the fire was
kindled, as though its light still lingered along tlie
polished pole, as though the women had but just
ceased to ply the moKna in the mealing trough and
had gone out to watch the wide cornfields or bring
water. But it is fifty years since the flames died
away on that hearthstone ; fifty years a little streak
of sunlight has played along the blanket-pole — r
placing the fire's ruddy glow; and for fifty years
the story has been related at each hoeing, how the
woman went out one morning — never to return.
And the half of this tale is already :old if you
but climb another no'tched log leading through the
trap-door by the chimney into an upper room. There
are double port-holes here, which from without
seem like the sightless sockets -of a crumbling skull.
By the light they let in you see that the plaster is
broken and stained here and there with dark
patches. Splintered shafts and shivered stones lie
strewn about — un gathered by those who anxiously
searched there fifty summers ago at sunset.
For the little house on the rock once belonged
to Um'-thla-na — "He of large muscles." He
was living there with his family to 'tend the corn-
fields. The women went out early one morn-
ing to get water. No sooner had they neared the dis-
tant pool than they heard the tread of many horse-
hoofs. Then they saw, sweeping down the valley,
a crowd of mounted warriors. They dropped their
water-jars and fled — one to the neighbormg rocks
— hours after to appear breathless and fainting at
Zuni ; but the younger toward the little tower, the
steps of which she never ascended, for, caught up
by some wrangling horsemen, wrangling for her
possession, she was borne away into years of cap-
tivity.
Um'-thla-na heard the rush of the riders, grasped
up his war-club, bow and arrows, and not pausing
to close the doorway, clambered the step-log in the
corner and barricaded the trap-door. Soon the Na-
vajos thronged into the lowerroom. They snatched
the scrapes from the blanket-pole, they stole tlie
basket of corn cakes and paper bread. Wild with
glee over these delicacies so rare to their roving
life, they never noticed the uap-door, but ran out
and sat down about the doorway to feast. Alas,
Um'-fhla-^a! why did he not keep quiet ? Peering
out through a port-hole, he saw a big Navajo calm-
ly sitting near the step-log eating a roll of paper
bread. He drew an arrow to the head, let fly, and
struck so fairly the feasting raider that he uttered
never a groan but fell over against the ladder still
grasping his roll of guyave. Another, sitting near,
saw him fall, but ere he could call an alarm he too 1
was pinned with one of Um'-Uila-na's arrows. As
this one fel!, Um'-thla^rw. raised a yell of victoyr.
94
"changing his key that the Havajos might thinli
him many. " At first the enemy fell back, but When
they found there was only one man, they rushed
toward the house again. For awhile TTm'-IMa-na's
arrows fell so thickly that the hazard of near ap-
proach kept the Navajos from charging. Even
when his shafts were spent he pulled stones from
the wall and broke them against one another, cast
ing them down at the enemy. The port-holes were
small and he had to stand qute close to them. Soon
an arrow whizzed through one, sticking him in the
arm. Um! -thlorna clinched his teeth and plucked
it out, shooting it back.
Ere long he was wounded in many places and
weak from loss of blood, still he stood bravely at
bay by the port-holes. One of the Navajos more
distant than the rest, saw Um! -tula-no's face at the
hole. Taking careful aim he let go so cleverly that
Vm'-thla-na, dodging was shot through the neck.
He staggered back, falling heavily, then roused him-
self and sat up against the wall, clutching his war-
club. Ncfw the Navajos rushed toward the door-
way. Suddenly they fled away, for, behold I com-
ing swiftly across the valley in a cloud of dust was
a band of Zuni horsemen. The Zunis pursued the
flying Navajos, never thinking of Um'-1Ma-m,a. At
last the poor old man, hearing no soimd, pulled
some of the arrows from his wounds, broke others
off, and slowly, painfully clambered down the step-
log, and staggered ojlt
into the plain toward
Zuni. Fainter and faint-
er he grew until he
swooned by the trail-
side. Toward sunset
they found him there,
those who came to seek.
Some staid to tenderly
care for him, while oth-
ers went to search for
the young w?tman. They
did not find iter, but ly-
ing dead on the rocks
near the tower were five
N6vajos. One of them
was leaning against the
step-log still grasping in
his hand a roll of paper bread. Um'-fhla-na lived
to teli the story, but grew worse as the arrow
wounds rancored, and "kUled himself that he might
be divided from pain."
Nobody lives in the little house now. "It is a
place of painful thoughts," say the narrators; but
it stands always the same, for its builder was "He
of large muscles."
At snns6t the men file in from the field. The
women have spread or rather strung the feast out
on the lowest roof. Ten or twelve great bowls in
a row, smoking hot with stew, everyone as red with
chili, as its rising vapors are with the touches of
sunset. There is a row of breadstuff, thin as paper,
flaky as crackers, red, yellow, blue and white, piled
up in baskets down either side of the meat bowls.
Outside these, two other rows, this time of blankets
and stool blocks. The first man whose head appears
up the ladder is besieged with polite invitations to
"Sit and eat, sit and eat," from as many pairs of
lips as there are women on the house-top. When
aU are seated, a sacrifice is made to the household
fire; up to this time the talking has been rife; now
it ceases altogether. Everything except eating seems
talm until the feast has disappeared, and the cigar-
ettes are rolled and lighted. Then talking resumes
and long into the night continues.
At the second or third hoeing, which takes place
usually after one of the late summer rains, they
'^hill" the com much as our eastern fanners do. In
ancient times a sort of broad pick-axe or hoe made
from the scapula of an elk and bound with rawhide
to a wooden handle (see Fig. 7 May Millstoot;)
or a hoe of hard wood similarly fastened to the
handle and sumiounted by a heavy stone (see Fig.
8 May Millstoste) were used for this purpose.
Autumn comes and the "com children" have been
taken in to meet their "Father and Mother," the
yd'-po-fo and the mi' -Tdiap-pan-ne. A while later,
another search is made through the field, this time
for such corn as gives no promise of ripening.
Blanketful after blanketful is picked, husks and all,
and carried to some distant wooded hill where the
soil is solid. Here, with sharp sticks and hoes, a
hole is dug resemblirtg a well, (see illustration.) At
the top, it is cut larger around, to the depth of a foot
or more and walled up neatly and solidly with sand-
stone. Below this wall, say a foot, the hole is grad-
ually enlarged toward the bottom, until it embraces
a room several feet in diameter and cone-shaped, the
apex as it were, being the walled, circular opening.
From the windward side of the hill, a trench is dug
to a level with the bottom of the excavation. A hole
or passage, about two feet in diameter is cut from
the end of the trench to the interior. Dry grass, old
leaves, pitchy sticlt s, are thrown in from above, and
arranged by a man who has entered through the
trench. On top of these wood is piled until the hole
is full. The mass is now fired. As soon as the nighl>
wind rises, flames dart upward through the circular
hole, many feet into the air, straight, lurid, setting
the woodlands around and the skies above, fairly
aglow with ruddy splendor. All night long, a mer-
ry group of young people dance, sing and romp
around this volcano-like oven. Wood, whenever
needful, is piled in until late next morning. At
last the embers have burned low, and smoke has
ceased to rise from their glaring red depths. Corn"
stalks, green and plentiful are thrown in, more are
tucked into the large draught-hole, and preparations
are made for artificially ripening that which nature
has procrastinated over. A beautiful, long, fresh
stalk is chosen, leaves, tassels and roots complete.
Two fine ears of corn are stripped of their husks.
One of them is laid against the stalk, the other
cleansed of its silk as though for boiling. The chief
of ceremonials biteS off from this all the milky ker-
nels mouthful by mouthful, chews them to pulp, and
blows their substance into fine mist over the heaps
of plucked com. He then places the cob by the
side of the other ear, and binds both firmly to the
stalk. This, in the brief prayer he presently makes,
is called the shi'-worni or priest. It is cast into the
still glowing pit, and then, men, women, young and
old, begin to hurl in the unhusked com from all
sides until no more is left. Most likely space re-
mains at the top. If so, it is quickly filled with green
stalks, more of which are bundled up and used as a
cork for the circular opening. A mound of damp
soil is heaped to a considerable height above this
impromptu stopper. As night again comes on, camp-
fires, bright enough it is ti-ue, but pale compared
with the flames of last night, are built at convenient
distances. Muffled sounds come all night from the
buried oven. Sometimes, though rarely, the top is
blown off, but usually next morning the momid is
found unchanged and the sounds havei ceased.
Now comes a sight whieh would surprise a strang-
er miles away though he might be. The earthen
mouiid is removed and the stopper of corn-stalks,
with great trepidation, most gingerly jjulled out.
Instantly, hissing and seething, the steam from the
heated corn and stalks below, shoots himdreds of
feet into the air. On a clear day in green-corn time
dozens of these white columns may be seen rising
from the wooded slopes around the vale of Zuiii.
It is not until toward afternoon that the mass is suf-
ficiently cooled to admit of approach. As soon as
possible the com is handed out through the draught
hole (which has been enlarged for the purpose)
sewed up in blankets, strapped across Irarros [don-
keys] and ti-ansported to the town. Every member
of the party, as it approaches Zuni, may be seen
gorging this — really delicious — baked com. When
it is miloaded into the spare room, the heat has not
yet left it. With all possible haste, the husk.s are
stripped down, and the ears, now brown and plump,
are braided into long bunches, and the whole is
liung up to dry in an upper room.
Many of the leaves in the field still remain gieen.
These are gathered,care-
fuUy dried and folded
into large long bundles,
for winter kitchen use.
Quantities of late squasli
and pumpkin flowers
are stored away hi jars
to serve a similar end.
As the con> ripens,
you may see fires burn-
ing at almost any of the
quaint little farm huts
(see illustration), for
children or very old men
watch there day and
niglit,to keep crows,coy-
otes, and hurros away.
The crows are worse
than they were last spring. The coyotes are not out-
done by the crows at either time, but the Tnirros are
worse than both together. They are, to quote Zufii,
Mi'^wirhd or "adopted of com." You may putthem
in the corrals, tie their fore-feet close together^ or
herd them as you will, but some of them will "leave
tracks and love corn in every field." The remedies
are many and ingenious, but all more or less
fatally shoi-t of happy results. Each man in Zuiii
knows every other man, and equally as well, he
Imows every other man's burros. If a burro be
found in a cornfield some morning, the field owner
counts the exact number of missing ormjured ears,
and drives the burro home. Forthwith he seeks
out the animal's owner. If the latter prove ob-
durate, the sufferer informs the chief and bides
his time. Woe to that burro if he get into the
cornfield again. He may cousider himself fortunate
if he lose but one or even both ears. Sometimes he is
gagged with a big stick, a cord being passed from
either end of the stick up over the shoulders and
back, and under the tail, (see initial). The burro
is then welcome to remain in tlie cornfield as long
as he chooses. At other times, the luckless annual
is thrown and a few of his teeth pulled Zufii-fash-
lon; which is to say, a thread of sinew is looped to
each, a heavy stone tied to the sinew, and hurled
into the air. I remember a lawsuit of three nights'
dm-ation over one of these animals. Ever after lie
was called the "short-horn," and little wonder!
For his ears had been shaved close to his head, his
' , 1' H m OSOXiljSTOIfrE)
%
tail cut off short, the tip of his tongue and part of
his teeth amputated, his left eye put out, and his
back so stiffened by castigation that a five-foot
straight-edge laid lengthwise along the very acute
angle of his vertebra, would have touched at every
point. Two years I knew that tmrro personally.
His working days were over. He used to get de-
plorably hungry, and I sometunes fed him ; for, win-
ter or summer, he dared not stir from the protect-
ing although inhospitable shadows of the walls of
Zuni. He preferred picking cedar baa-k from the
fire-wood, anything he preferred, to going abroad.
In fact, had he been able to run he would certainly
have done so at the sight of a field of com.
In pity both for crows and burros, I have some-
times pleaded mitigation of the customary severe
measures. My experiences at such times lead me
to advise all aspiring ethnologists to mind their ovra
business when corn is in the question. As I have
said before, the Zufiis, and
probably most other In-
dians, are touchy on the
subj ect of tlieir breadstuff.
Frost comes, changing
the gi'een of the stalks to
yeUow gold, the leaf-like
shucks to feathers. In ev-
ei-y field are corn pickers
and buskers. Such com
as is not husked in the
field, is packed with con-
summate method on bur-
ros or in carts and a few
second-hand wagons, and
brought to the town.
Husking bees are formed
by the women, and at
three o'clock any after-
noon you can see around
a comer, mouniiains of
cast-away shacks, and
many a black, frouzzly
head sticking up from
their flaky slopes, bob-
bing bodilessly with the
severance of every ear
from its rattling wrap-
pings. At such times
husks in great numbers
are selected, bundled into
neat bimches.and stmng
several feet long on
threads of yucca fiber.
They will be needed be-
fore the month is gone,
particularly in the council
chambers, where every
night brings the weary
law-givers of Zuiii fresh cases of trespass for consid-
eration.
How the roofs groan under the weight of drying
ing com; how the walls gleam and glory with the
festoons of chUi or red pepper! But in time the
com is dry, the peppers ripened enough for storage,
and the work of "com-sorting" begins. The dif-
ferent colors, yellow, blue, red, white, speckled and
black are separated. The "nubbin-ears" are put in
a cellar by themselves for sale or for bwrros, and as
described before, the corn is corded up in the gran-
ary around the tutelar divmities of the place— the
"Father and Mother of com crops."
Patient reader, forgive me for having lingered so
long in Zuni cornfields. However closely we may
have scratmized these crops growmg green, golden
gi-own as they may have been, w« have but barely
glanced at them according to the rules and practices
of their dusky owners. In illusti-ation of his watch-
fulness—quite as well as in memory of a former
promise— I repeat below a song of the growth of
corn plants. Let me begin, however, by saymgthat
I shall give only in the first verse the prelude and
refrain which opens and closes each stanza of the
song.
"A-he-e'-lu, a-he-e'-iu!
A-he-e'-iu, a-he-e'-lu!
Sa-ni-hi'akia tchu etal'-e
Te-tchl-nal-u-le, te-tolil-nal-iu-le'e'o."
"Sou shorn and spread by storms!
Sou shorn and spread by storms!
Band of Hunters, their corn grains planted
There may now be seen, there may now be seen."
n.
Sa-nl-hi'-akia, ke'-mu-tol'-ye, —
Band of hunters, their com grains sprouted.
m.
Sa-nl-hl'-ttkla, thla-kwl-moi'-ye,—
Band of hunters, their com (/roins rooted.
Sa-nl-hl'-akla, sho-ho-nal-ya,—
Band of hunters, their com earl stllumed.
XII.
Sa-nl-hl'-akla, o-sho-nal-yo,—
Band of hunters, their com pTants Hooted.
xni.
Sa-nl-hl'-akla, thla-shl-nal-ye,—
Band of hunters, their com grown aged.
This song, although beautiful in the original lan-
guage and music (possessed as it is of perfect metre,
fairrythm and considerable poetic sentiment) defies
exact translation. Not only is it framed in arehseic
syllables, but the terms in Zuiii for every phenom-
enon connected with com and its growth, are so
numerous and technical that it is as difficult to
render them into English as it would be to translate
into Zuni the terminology of an exact science. I
have, however, introduced this approximation as
illustrative not only of Indian powers of observa-
tion, but also as giving a
fair example of the terms
wherewith from planting
time to harvesting time
may be designated any
given period ; for the Zu-
ni, simply adding to any
of the above expressions
a syllable expressive of
time, thus divides the
quarters of the "Name-
less Months."
IV.
Sa-ni-hi'-akia, k'e-tslthl-poi'-ye, —
Band of hunters, their com leaves fluted.
V. •
Sa-ni-hi'-ftkla, la she yal' ye,^
Band of hunters, their ram leoMcs featlwred.
VI.
Sa-nl-hi'-akla, ta-a-nai-ye, —
Band of hunters, their com stalks tasseled.
vn.
Sa-nl-hi'-akia, u-te-ai'-ye. —
Band of hunters, their com plants blooming.
vm.
Sa-nl-hl'-akia, te-k'u-al'-ye, —
Band of hunters, their com ears sta/rted.—[i. e. en-
folded within the leaves.]
IX.
* Sarui-hi'-akia, thla-k'u-nal'-ye, etc.,
Band of hunters, their corn ears shooting.— [i.e. stari>
ing forth from the leaves.]
X.
Sa-ni-hi'-akla, mi-i-al'-ye, —
Band of hunters, their com earn kemeied.
.A-nx Xllixs'tjrcfc^«cl. BCoxi'tlB.ly vToxLarxiCfcl^ ^^e-voled 'to tlxe -A.d-v-c^xxoexn.ezi.l; of ndlliz&g c^xid nXeoliCbXilochl Xxitea^sMta-
PTJBIiISHaa) BY 1 \//-»| IV
David H. Rauck. j VIJL,. lA..
INDIANAPOLIS, IND., JULY, 1884. NO. Vll. {o»e nSuar p'e'i A^Ttum.
[Copyrighted 1884, by David H. Ranok.]
ZUi^I BRE/IDSTUFF— VII.
I'no te kwe a -wen I'ta -nre ; or' "Th.e Food of
the Ancients."
FRANK H. CrrSHINQ.
HERE IS A
wonderful de-
gi'ee of inge-
nuity shown
methods em-
by primitive
man for the production
and preparation of his
food. By primitive
man I signify here, the
chief figure of a pris-
tine picture faintly
lighted up against the
darkening mists of an-
tiquity by the dim rays of tradition, which rays
even stUl flicker from the hearths of Zuni, and
throw their fading glow backward through it may
be, a thousand generations of men, and westward
over desert ranges, far toward the slopes that bound
the "Ocean of the sunset world."
Thus seen, he is as dark as the shadows of the
cliffs he dwells among, and clothed in rudely plaited
or stitched garments of rush or skin, as scantily as
the barren nature around him. Rough sandals of
fiber, turned up at toe and heel, but partly hide
his feet, calloused and grimy as are his bare knees
and meager, naked thighs. A fillet of beaten yuc-
ca, red or green, confines the coarse hair he has not
yet learned to restrain in other ways. Through his
nose is thrust a spine of cactus or the quill of some
bird of prey, and depending from his ears, hugh
glistening rings of white shell, gathered in the ter-
ror of vague reverence from the distant sea, and
fashioned in fitful persistence with flinty tools
against blocks of gritty stone. More of the same,
yet smaller and of different shapes, strung on sinew
or hair with scales, fangs and glistening stones of
talismanic power, adorn his neck.
Stiick through the left side of the rawhide belt
which girdles to his waist the kilt of rush or bark, is
a stick into which is socketed and lashed a chisel-
shaped stone, his all-important possession— ax and
war club in one. A bow nearly as long as himself
and a bundle of cane arrows, tipped with di-
minutive flint and obsidian points, which he has
fashioned with delicacy and rapidity by the pressure
of a prong of horn or splinter of bone against a
buckskin-covered anvil of stone or his own hardened
palm, are clutched for instant use. A broad, long
dirk, made shape, method and material like the ar-
row tips, dangles in a pouch of fur in front of the
hafted chisel, like the latter, weapon and untensil
in one. Beside him stands the limited village of his
clan: low huts of plastered stones half sunken in
the ground and thatched with bark and sticks like
bee-hives, which most they resemble, save that they
are here and there huddled together and ranged row
above row along the steep side of the lofty headland
they are biiilt upon. Out in front of the doorways of
these huts stand the household baskets — huge, shal-
low bowls plastered with gritty clay, (see Fig. 16) bot-
tles rendered water-tight vrith pitch, and closely wov-
en pot-shaped wicker vessels, (the uses of which we
may learn further on), trays and great panniers, the
former fan or scooii-shaped, (see Fig. 11) and the
latter peaked and wide-spreading, (see Fig. 10)
like the thatched roofs of the round huts against
which they are confusedly stored. A fire smol-
ders in front of each doorwaj over heaps of red-
dened stones, while out of holes in the roof-
thatches puff now and then faint films of smoke,
proclaiming kindi'ed though less glowing brands
within. Between the fire and the doorway crouches,
flabby and angular, the ugly mate of this ancient
master — for master more than his modem repre-
sentative is this man of his mate. She plies with a
coarse-grained rubbing rock on a slanting slab of
sandstone beneath which is spread a hairless skui,
close-woven mat (see Fig. 13) the family meal of
grass seed. By means of, a stick of burning pith,
she has bobbed her hair oil evenly above the
eyebrows, which, however; has left it frouzy and
rusty, while the masses of side-locks and rear,
untrimmed and uncoufined, fall dovra over the
square mat or skin, which, tied at two corners
under her chin, covers her back and shoulders.
Fastened to this in front or with a strap around her
neck, is a lighter and longer garment of dressed
skin, widening downward, wrapped around the
thighs, skewered together at the back or side, and
forming apron or skirt as you will.
Such as these were the remote ancestors of the
Zunis, scattered over a thousand plains instead of
one, slowly working toward a civilization which,
half reached already, had it not been stunned by
the cnlverin of the Spaniard, had ultimately rivaled
Aztec and Inca in its barbaric splendor and con-
ventionality of art. Such too, with slightest variation
of detail and background, the progenitors of every
civilization on the globe to-day, and hence the story
of these special ancients, Indians though they be
who haply dwell still within the pale of memory
and monument, is surely of interest, if only that it
may give us a glimpse by comparison of the ugly
man, who evolved from an uglier environment, the
possibilities of all we prize to-day, food, raiment,
and appliance, religion, science and art.
The alien reader of The Millstone will there-
fore pardon me if I briefly record as an introduction
to the ouAsine of the modern Zuni, the first chapter
of this prehistoric story.
That the primeval Zuni was not unlike what tradi-
tion has painted him, is evidenced by the inyths, in-
stitutions and language of his modem lineal descend-
ants, and by the remains he left in the devious trails
of his centuries of migration. He must have been,
even thus anciently, according to these various
sources, ratlier superiorto the surrounding.tribes,and
perhaps liis closest representative to-day is the Ha-
va-suypai', or Coponino, of Cataract Caiion, in Ari- ;
zona,* and a knowledge of whose daily life serves,
I confess, to give color and vividness to somewhat
that would otherwise lack these requisites in the
following paragraphs. There is, however, one
difference to be noticed between what the Co?onino
is, and what the earliest Zuiii was, which has a de-
cided bearing on the breadstuff of the latter, name-
ly, that while the Cogonino is a horticulturist par
excellence during one half of the year, the Zuni of
those remote times practiced only to the most lim-
ited extent the industry which distinguishes his
medifeval and modem representatives, both con-
saiiguineal and comparative, from the majority of
the North American tribes of history or of to-day.
It thus happens quite naturally that Zuni tradi-
tion will tell you in obscure yet poetic language, that
the "Seeds of the Ancient were sown only by the
Beloved and his herds herded by the gods of Prey
themselves;" which interpreted signifies that he
gathered the seed cultivated by the winds and rains
alone, and that his herds, the deer, antelope and
other animals of the chase, were so wild that none
could watch and follTiw them save the brotherhood
of the coyote and the mountain lion.
Yet by no means meager were the repasts or lim-
ited the cuisine he derived from these apparently
precarious sources. In illustration of this I pro-
pose to give a somewhat representative and long
list of the plants which supplied him, trasting rath-
er to the interspersed narrative of his ingenuity in
gathering and rendering relishable these usually
unpalatable products of Nature's broad fields, as
well as to the entire novelty of the theme, than to
the quaint Zurii style and wonder-lore of former
pages, for sustaining the interest.
The story of ancient food can be but half told.
within the limitation of this paper on Breadstuff.
Half told indeed 1 for on the chase more than on all
else depended the ancient Zuni for his support, es-
pecially during winter, when the elements assisted
his rude yet effective contrivances, (snares, stone-
pointed weapons, pil^f alls, gigantic stockades or cor-
rals covering sometimes thousands of acres), ren-
dering animal food abundant and the necessity for
lessening his limited stores of roots, fmitsand seeds
less pressing.
As spring advanced and the chase yielded each
day less and less, these stores so patiently garnered
during a past year, so carefully guarded or concealed
during a long winter's wanderings, were now drawn
fromin times of need; for although the snows dis-
•I have written some accounts of a personal reconnoisanoe
of this tribe for the Atlmtio MontMy of 1882. """"''"^""e
108
THiil nVyOniiLSTOIsrEI.
appeared and the sun glowed warmly by day, the
hot winds drove the sands on the bare, dun plains
and the clouds in the bright, dry skies hither and
thither, so that "growing things dared not appear."
Yet from among the barren wilds which environed
him, this ancient knew how to seek for and find
means of eking out his wasting substances.
Among the high mountains grew many trees,
which, stripped of their outer bark and scraped,
yielded a sappy pulp and sweet fiber — hard of
digestion, it is true, but none the less grateful to
his meat-sated appetite. Most valued for this kind
of food and easy of access with his rude instruments
was the yellow pine, thousands of the trunks of
which were annually whitened on the southern sides
by the scrapers of the ancient Zuflls. Oftentimes
only the pulp thus obtained was eaten raw, and the
strmgy, stringent fiber was wrapped mto bundles —
huge skeins — and carried home for cooking. Some
of it was boiled with bony joints of dried meat.
Thus were brought into use the huge, closely-plaited
basket vessels mentioned at the outset; for, filled
with water, into which the joints and well-pounded
bark strings were thrown, these vessels were then
set out in front of the huts near the fires and made
to boil violently with numbers of the reddened
stones, hot as glowing iron, which were dextrously
ti-ansferred by means of flat pokers and cedar bark
holders from fire to basket, from broth to fire-place
again, and so on, until the cooking was complete.
Deep down in the sand which bordered, and for
a time almost choked the starved streams issuing
from the mountains, were dug the juicy roots of
certain rushes which, sweet and earthy in taste, al-
though scarcely morenuti-itious than the bark-pulp,
were like the latter grateful for the variety they
afforded. They were eaten raw, or else slightly
toasted in the ashes, dipped in salted water, ' and
used as relishes for roasts of jerked meat. Another
root which every child sought and grubbed for with
avidity was the fcwi'-mi a'-tc?ii-?cwci, or "Sweet-root, "
a kind of vnld licorice which, nevertheless, differed
so far from the product with which we are acquainted
that an unwholesome amount of bitter was mingled
with its sweet. Yet extremely popular was it with
these denizens of the night of history, as it has con-
tinued to be late into the noonday of the present
Zuiiis. Doubtless, too, the ancient Zuni, like the
modern, dried the root to serve as an ingredient for
other foods. With the advance of the season the
rush stems grew tough, the licorice more bitter than
ever, and they were replaced with great quantities
of water-cress (Pi-'k'ai-a), like in taste and appear-
ance, though smaller, the celery we all prize. It
grew abundantly in every spring and living stream-
let, was boiled and eaten with other food, the resi-
due each day being made into flat, compact cakes,
and dried with salt into greenish-black, very stem-
my and durate bricks, which were packed away for
.second cookings.
' Another far more nutritious food, but one requir-
ing masterly care in its preparation, was a diminu-
tive wild potato (K'ia-pia mo'^we), which grew in
all bottom lands favored to any extent with moist-
ure. These potatoes were poisonous in the raw
state or whole, but were rendered harmless by the re-
moval of the skin. As they were never larger than
nutmegs, this had to be accomplislied by a prelimina-
ry boiling with ashes. Afterward the potatoes were
again stewed and eaten with the water they had been
boiled in, usually with the addition of wild onions
as a relish. A very important addition, too, were
these onions, which gi'ow in springtime under many
of the ranges of cliffs throughout the Southwest,
and although true onions resemble in size and ap-
pearance the Eastern garlic. They were invariably
eaten raw, in which condition they were almost
gtrong enough to temporarily benumb the organs of
taste, flood the eyes, and annihilate all sense of ev-
erything in the region of smell save themselves.
Peeled and di'ied for preservation, they resembled
diminutive hickory-nuts, which may have suggested,
with the foregoing, their Zufli name — Mo'-ku/i tet-
tchi, from mo, nut or fruit, Tiwi-mavrne, a root, and
tetrtchi, to stink — "Stinking root-nuts."
Apace with the season more and more plants fur-
nished food material. Everywhere that rain had
fallen on the lower plains grew in fitful and brief
luxuriance a small variety of milk-weed which bore
in abundance little seed-vesicles resembling those of
the common mustard, although a trifle more corpu-
lent. These were called fhla'-vh-a-we, meaning
"hanging pods." Divested of their skins, they were
eaten raw, or boiled with other food, or, again,
toasted in hot ashes and soaked in the all-important
brine-sauce with mashed onions.
A kmd of wild, hard-shelled squash, from which
doubtless were derived varieties of the true garden
plant cultivated by the Zuiiis to-day, grew abundant-
ly in moist arroyas, the fruit of which, while stUl
green, was cooked in various ways. Principally,
however, it was boiled to paste, mixed liberally with
rancid suet, and fried on hot stone slabs. As such
it resembled egg-plant fried in butter, the far-gone
smell and flavor of the suet being, curiously enough,
only to a limited extent recognizable in it.
A great luxury was a kind of puff-ball, or fungus,
produced in warm seasons in spontaneous liberality
by the rains. These were peeled, toasted and eaten
with a sauce of brine and ground onions, flavored
with the aromatic seeds of certain caraway plants
native to the country.
During early summer the unripe seedy pods of the
yucca (Spanish bayonet, or palmtta),3. quart or two
of which may sometimes be gathered from a single
stalk or spike, were much sought after by the an-
cient Zuiiis. They were boiled excessively either
in water, or in water and ashes. When afterward
cleansed they had much the appearance of gherkins,
which indeed they prove similar to in taste when
pickled in vinegar. They were eaten either plain
or with a liberal allowance of the flavored brine-
sauce {K'ia'thl-k'o-se). Like them, gummy, with a
flavor of cauliflowers, were the hearts of a species
of the century plant (agave), which were prepared
in the same way. Later on the large green fruit of
the soap-weed, or Da'tila (see Fig. 14) a plant simi-
lar in appearance to both of the above men-
tioned either roasted thoroughly in the ashes
or else boiled, were esteemed quite as much as
the yucca pods. Both forms of food are still
prepared, in their seasons. The century plants,
however, more rarely because not native to the pres-
ent habitat of the ZuSis. So important were the two
former sources of food considered, that they were
credited with having possessed, in the Mystic days,
conscious existence, and extremely jealous disposi-
tions. Doubtless their jealousy and virulence were
attributed from the observed fact that either was
equal to the other as food, and both were pois-
onous if eaten raw. As illustrative of this belief,
you will not unf requently hear some old member of
the Zufli household tell the youngsters stories like
the foUowmg, which, although absurd, are curious
and ridiculous enough to cause universal laughter
and clapping of tiny hands. The old worthy men-
tioned, very likely with his mouth full of the
boiled fruits, will champ a little faster and exclaim:
"Oh yes, little ones, by the way! Did you ever
know that in ancient times, when plants and animals
talked, some Na'^i-an-we [palmitas] and Su'^pla-
a'n-we [datilas] dwelt on two opposite mesas and
grew extremely quarrelsome with one another ?
Well, it was this way: You see, as the pods grew
big on the Palmitas and the fmit swelled out on the
til the biggest and oldest Datila bent over in the
breeze and sang out:
" 'Au Na'-p1rcm-we', Na'-pUaru^e'i
Sho-to a'-Hiwi! sho-to a'-kwi!'
[O, Palmita-pocls, Palmita-podslj
Tour ribs are split! Your ribs are split!]
" 'Listen, father, listen,' said the young Palmitas,
'the Datilas over there are scolding us, and calling
us "Split-ribs." '
" 'Wait a bit,' said the old Palmita, 'and I'll give
them back as good as they send.' Whereupon he
stretched himself up and retorted:
" 'Svrpira'n-we, Svrjyira'n-we,
HorWi tsu'-kwi! ha-k'i tsu'-Hwi.'
[Datila. Datila,
Your forehead is blood-stained! Your forehead is blood-
stained!]
"That's the way the plants of the Beloved scolded
one another in the days beyond guessing, but aU the
same the Na'^pirarirwe' keep splitting down the
belly, and the Svr^a'n-we grow very red at the
ends of their noses where the sun strikes them, eveu
to this day."
With the close of summer, during the middle
part of which and the latter, rare but copious rains
have fallen, behold the deserts of the Southwest 1
Weeds, grasses and shrubbery are spread out abun-
dantly, albeit brokenly, all over the vast sand plains,
vying even more richly with the dark woodlands on
the elevated, wide mesas. In the canons and down
the mountain slopes, grow with an evanescent aspi-
ration to forest grandeur, yet in tangled dwarfish-
ness, the wild fruit trees and nut-oaks. The dustr
shrouded world has suddenly turned "Blue with the
mist-laden breaths from Summerland !" so say the
Zunis of this verdure. Everywhere the "Fields of
the Beloved" are ripening their harvests. I may
not then, longer follow ancient Zuni in the order of
his gathering. I have thought well, therefore, of
telling rather in the order of their simplicity as food,
first how he availed himself of the natural fruits
and nuts of the forests and valleys, then how he
collected and manipulated the sterner stuifs and
seeds which required the exercise of his crude ge-
nius and industrial art to their fullest, to render
them fit food for his palate, however undiscriminat-
ingthls may have been judged in the preceding
recipes of dish-shifts.
First to ripen, first, too, in importance among the
fruits, was the datila, called Tsu'-pira-we, (see Fig. •
14) instead of Su'-pi-a-we, on account of its blushing
color when ripe. Few who have not visited the Soutv
west in autumn imagine that, dry and sterile thouga
it be throughout most of the year, a fruit rivaling
in its size, shape, color and exceeding sweetness the
banana, grows there in abundance on the warmer
plains. Yellow and red, this long pulpy fruit hangs
in clusters so heavy that they bend or sometimes
break the stalks that bear them. Yet, however de-
licious, these, like the fruit I have compared them
with, may not be eaten raw in large quantity, with
impunity; for their effects on the digestion are,
though opposite, equally summary. Tempted by
their rare sweetness, ancient Zuni must have early
discovered how to remedy this defect, by pleasing
his taste — as predatory school-boys do with green
apples — in chewing but not swallowing the datilas,
for we find that exactly this process is the initiatory
step toward rendering the pulp harmless, equally
delicious and even more nutritious than it is in a
state of nature.
After great stores of the fruit had been gathered
in little square burden baskets by the men and
heaped in shady, cool places, it was peeled by the
women and thoroughly masticated. By this means
not only were the seeds separated from the pulp
but the latter was thus made ready to be set away
in water-tight basket-bowls for fermentation. By
Datilas, they kept looking across atone another un- 1 fermentation an agreeable pungent taste was added
TJESZEi -NATT .T .i=mo-Nrm
109
and the saliva acting on the glutinous or mucilag-
inous ingredients heightened the sweetness. The
process was stopped by excessive boiling» which re-
duced the pulp to homogeneous paste, which on
cooling was kneaded into little flat cakes. The lat-
ter when partially dried were pounded together and
rolled into large cylinders. In the course of time
these cylinders grow quite solid and gummy, and
semi-translucent like tlie gelatin ink rollers used
by printers. In taste the food resembled black lic-
orice. A little slice being hacked off was immersed
in two or three quarts of water. When thoroughly
soaked it was stirred, churned, squeezed ai}d strained
until a dark red pasty fluid was formed, than which
hardly any delicacy known to the ancient Zufiis
ranked more highly or commanded such extrava-
gant bargains in barter with
the surrounding tribes.
DThe possible rival of Tsu'-
j>i-a-M)e was made from the
hearts of the mescal plant
or the mature agave. When
large quantities of these
cabbage-like hearts had
been gathered, great jits
were dug in gravelly knolls.
Within and around the pits
fires were built which were
kept burning whole days
or nights. When the ground
had been thoroughly heated
the mescal hearts were
thrown in on a layer of
coarser leaves of the same
plant, with which they
were also covered. They
were then buried deep In
the hot gravel. Huge fires
were kept burning over the
mounds thus formed until
the mescals were considered
done.
Meanwhile crowds gath-
ered, dances of a semi-
sacred, though not very re-
fined nature, were cele-
brated, and the pits were
opened amid universal re-
joicing. The time was di-
vided between riotous feast-
ing and serious mastication
of the baked, already very
sweet leaves to separate
them from the'fiber. The
pulp or paste thus formed
was spread out thinly over
large mats, (see Fig. 17)
and when dried could be
conveniently rolled up for
transportation. Another
and more wholesome meth-
od was pursued, if the
quantity furnished by the pit proved too much for
the maxillary powers of the party. This was to
pound the leaves and if necessary moisten them
slightly to give them a pulpy consistency, and thus
spread and dry them on the plaited mats. Although
much less valued by the Indians, this kind of food
was toothsome and more nutritious, perhaps, than
any other ancient preparation.!
+Tlie Apaches, Havasupai, Hualapai, and other tribes of
Indians wlio now inhabit the primitive country of the Zunis
still prepare the mescal, although their methods and ac-
companying ceremonials differ somewhat from tliose above
described. The modern Zunis rarely practice this once fa-
vorite industry of their grandfathers, as long pilgrimages
beyond the limits of their own country are rendered neces-
sary for the purpose. They often purchase, however, the
preparations of the tribes named, working the material
over to suit their more cultivated tastes.
The Juice which exuded from the plants from which the
In dry season or wet, there was one class of fruit
that rarely failed; hence we find modern ceremonial
and ancient folk-lore teeming with allusions to it,
the Cactus. Of the many varieties of this plant
growing in the Southwest three were especially
fruitful, bearing juicy, plump berries of an acid-
sweet taste peculiarly agreeable during the hot dry
season in which they ripened. Of these the Kd-shi,
or formidable club cactus, bore the largest and per-
haps sweetest fruit (tui'-a-we) of a brilliant although
dark scarlet color, and in sliape and size not unlike
gumbo. The Shu'^ne-pp and Me'-wi, (see Fig. 15)
two varieties of the low-lying chain cactus, bore red
and yellow fruit which though smaller was more
luxuriant and less spiny, hence preferred.
On account of the barbed spines which arm the
cactus and its product, and which had the unpleas-
ant quality of sinking deeper and deeper into the
flesh once fixed in it, special apparatus had to be
employed for gathering the berries or pods. A pick-
er was made of flexible wood, slitted as are the bark-
peelers used by willow weavers, and forming long
tweezers with which the fruit was grasped, (see Fig.
18). The baskets used were closely woven, quad-
rangular, although somewhat flat, to fit the back, and
gradually tapering from the large opening toward
the bottom. They were supported by a band or
hearts had been cut was collected in large vessels, allowed
to ferment, and thus formed, when imbibed in large quan-
tities, a fiercely intoxicating drink. The practice long aban-
doned by the Zunis, has been kept up by the other tribes
who, under white instruction, have learned to distill the
juice, thus rendering it even more intoxicating.
Strap which passed around the forehead or over
the slioulders, (see Fig. 9). Leaves or grasses
were thrown in to prevent the spines from piercing
through the meshes.
When a basketful had been gathered it was car-
ried home and emptied upon a bed of clean sand.
With two flat sticks the fruit was then stirred about
in the sand until divested of its spines, after which
it was eaten raw, dried, or roasted slightly in the
ashes as an additional security against the spines.
Large quantities were gathered for preservation by
drying, but as the fruit thus prepared was liable to
injury by worms, it was usually ground on a meal-
ing-slab (see Fig. 13) aud either stored away in skin
bags, to be used in connection with other material
for bread-making later on, or formed into huge
cakes by the addition of
water which rendered it
adhesive so as to be easily
molded in baskets.
Undoubtedly, many gen-
erations later these fruits
of the cactus played a lead-
in^part in the food econ-
omy of the Zunis, and ap-
parently commemorative
. of wiis is a highly pictur-
esque dance usually cele-
brated by the modern Zu-
nis in early spring and
called the "Beings of
Old." In'this dance, besides
other characters, are repre-
sented an ancient woman
with a narrow, hollow-
cheeked, remarkably long,
and prominent-chinned
mask, gray frizzled hair, a
tattered cloak and short
worn skirt, which although
made of cloth, evidently
represents the prehistoric
costume of the tribe. Her
feet, with the exception
of make-shift moccasins
representing sandals, and
arms are bare, although
painted like the mask, pink.
Stiapped to her back is a
hu'-tche-pon, or one of the
quadrangular burden-bas-
kets previously described,
and in her right hand she
carries one of the forked
wooden cactus tweezers,
while she grasps with her
left hand, as if for sup-
port, a long wooden staff
like a shepherd's crook.
This character is called
Ta-a-na tui'-ash-na 0'-
k'iat-sirhi, or the "Ancient
moon-woman cactus-picker." During the perform
ance of the ceremonial she wanders about industri-
ously striving to overtake an equally grotesque
character who as ceaselessly eludes her pursuit.
This latter is a man vrhose face and head are cov-
ered with a cylindrical rawhide mask painted green,
the eyes being represented by diminutive elongated,
square lioles, while a huge black beak well serrated
and toothed represents his nose and mouth. The
crown of his mask is entirely covered with leaves
and branches of the green cactus, on which are seen
temptingly red among the spines the iui-a-we, or
ripe fruit. As the cactus on account of its warlike
spines is assigned, by the Mythology of the Zunis,
a place in the Martial priesthood of plants, this man,
Clothed in the ceremnoial garments of the sacred ,
110
'J-'iijij i,£TZiL.^^a-isrm.
Zuni dance, (which are of cotton beautifully em-
broidered,) bears in his left hand the insignia of war
— a bow and several arrows,'and in his right a rat-
tle with which he teases his pursuer. Two other
figures among the dramatis personw of this dance
claim our attention because related to the pair de-
scribed. They are, one of the corn beings masked
and bearing in either hand an ear of corn, and a
man, dancing ever near, whose face is covered
with a smiling, conical pink mask, whose hair is
bovmd with a fillet of yucca fiber, whose costume is
a many-colored blanket cape and embroidered cot-
ton kilt, and who carries as emblematic of his oftice,
,a little wooden hoe of the ancient style. (See
Initial). While the "Old Moon Woman" and the
"Cactus Being" ceaselessly pursue and elude each
other, the "Corn Being" and the "Cultivator of
■Corn" dance with the other characters in sublime in-
difference. All this is wonderfully poetic and sig-
nificant, if, as it seems, it represents the personified
conflict between the wild fruits of the nomadic Zu-
fiis and the cultivated harvests of their sedentary
descendants ; and that this significance is as it seems
is indicated, surely, by the wild triumphant song-
notes of the "Com Being" and its follower, and the
querulous cries of the baffled cactus picker. |
Among the sandy defiles of the upper plains,
mesas and mountains grow abundant low bushes
bearing very juicy little yellow berries called if 'ia'-
pcytimo'we, or the "juice-filled fruitage." These
berries were in high favor with the ancient ZuJiis as
food. They were collected in great quantities and
boiled or stewed, forming a sweet but acrid sauce
which, although u' it quite so acid, resembled other-
wise the cranberry.
Another favorite berry was the small and equally
acrid fruit of the wild currant, called in Zufli Ke-la
shl'-u-^i or the "first to leaf out," which grew along
the edges of malpais mesas in verdant luxuriance
rare to be seen in the Southwest. Like the two lat-
ter the choke-cherry or "Bitter hanging-fruit" formed
- the ingredient of frequent sauces. The wild plum
or Si'-lu-e-la mo' we was used not only in the raw
and stewed state, but was also dried and preserved
for after use.
A much more abundant fruit, very sweet and aro-
matic in flavor was the Ta'-kwlmo'-we, or cedar ber-
ries. They were collected in large quantities,
boiled, roasted or dried and ground to form the meal
with which were made several varieties of cake,
and which will be mentioned with other prepara-
tions further on.
In late autumn ewormous quantities of sweet, di-
minutive acorns were gathered from the dwarf oaks
which everywhere grew in the mountains of the
Southwest, and still more plentiful stores of the
He'-sho k'u'^we, or puion-nuts, which were borne in
prodigal plenitude on the low pinon trees of al-
most every mesa or mountain plateau. These nuts
together with the O'^ma-tsa-^ak'u-we, or wild sun--
flower seed, were treated similarly in preparation
for food and will be briefly referred to in future par-
agraphs, as wiU also the following list of seeds, up-
on which more than on all else, depended the ancient
Zuiii for his vegetable food supply. I therefore beg
that my reader will kindly bear in mind the names
by which these seeds are distinguished from one
another.
First among them was the K'u-shiirtsi, a kind of
purslane or portulaca, not unlike the garden pests
of the same genus in the East. This plant bore
plentifully a small,black, very starchy and white-ker-
neled seed. It was gathered by pulling the plants
just before the seed had ripened, then drying and
tThe dances of primitive peoples were more often strictly
sacred observances than amusements as with ourselves.
The Zunis undertook during these performances dramatic
representations of their mythology as did the Egyptian
priesthood in the esoterteplay of "Osiris and Sis."
threshing them either by agitation, or by pounding
them over mats or screens. A method of gathering
such seeds as had advanced too far toward maturity
was to sweep up the surface, usually sandy, of the
ground on which they grew, dust and all, and after-
ward to carefully winnow the seeds from the soil.
An equally important seed, though less abundant,
was borne by tlie Su'ihl-to-k'ia, a certain round-
topped weed resembling in its grain stalks and foli-
age the common pig-weed or goose-foot of the East,
but more bushy, yet undoubtedly belonging to the
CTienopodmm genus. Quite a different method was
pursued in harvesting the grams of this plant. As
the bushes grew somewhat above the surface of the
ground the seeds were threshed and collected at
once by placing a closely-woven, large shallow tray
near each promising bush and energetically slapping
the latter with a wicker fan or scoop. Hard-
ly excepting the pinon-nut and sunflower-seed,
this grain is probably the richest and most delicious
ever known either to the ancient or modem Zuni,
and its disuse as a som'ce of food must undoubt-
edly be attributed rather to the difficulty attending
its production than to any lack of quality. Another
plant, blue-leafed, but otherwise resembling the last
described, probably not however of the same genus,
furnished seeds which although less rich and oily
were, if we may trust tradition and their taste, more
meritorious, and, in fact, as nearly like corn as any
ofthewild varieties of grain used by primitive Zuiiis.
Hence the archaic name by which it was distin-
guished, Mi'-ta-li-k'o, signifies as nearly as may be
determined by its etymology, "Father-in-law of
Com." These seeds were gathered as were those of
the su'thlrto-k'ia.
Two grasses, among several varieties which might
De mentioned as sources of supply to the ancient
Zmii, one the Te'-shu-koma ("that searched for")
or a kind of wild rice, and the oihes: Pish-shvrli-a
("sweep rush"), or a feathery grass, both of which
grew on the wet lands of the Southwest, fui'nished
rich grain. The height to which these plants grew
enabled the women to sweep the seeds into the
large conical panniers (see Fig. 10) without un-
swtnging the latter from their backs.
Last of this long list, and perhaps most important,
as the actual predecessor of the modern bean, al-
though very rarely made into bread, was the No-
kHa-mo-li-a, or wild pea, more properly bean than
pea, although shaped it must be confessed like the
latter.
These various nuts and seeds were quite similar-
ly prepared for food and several varieties of them
were not unfrequently compoimded to form a single
kmd of bread or cake. For this reason I have
not dealt with them separately as with the bark,
root and fruit products, but have deemed it better
to make, as it were, a brief chapter of the cookery
of which they formed the material basis.
■A.xa. Xll-v&s'tx-t»ted!!]IXoxi.tl^ly mF€3VLVxxa^lf ^De-vo-ted -to -tlie .^^d-vc^xioexis.exa-t of ZkSllllaas «^xx.d. na:eolia.zilocftl Xzi-tex-evtM-
PUBIilSHED BY
David H. Raiick,
} VOL. IX.
INDIANAPOLIS, IND., AUGUST, 1884. NO. VIII,
f STJBSCKIPTION PKIOE
\ One Dollar Per Annum.
[Copyrighted 1884, by David H. Kanck.]
ZUlfl BREj tlDSTU FF— VIII.
Na'na k-nre awen I'tawe or "The Food of the
Grandfathers."
FBANE H. CUSHINO.
CD US suppose that the lines of the last chapter
extend far over these; for as the age of a fath-
er lingers on into the early manhood of his
son, so did many of the. arts and industries of the
Hmiter-Zuni* survive, and commingle with those
fostered by the horticulture of his Farmer-descend-
ants. The line which divides one era of culture
from another is as vague as a twilight
shadow: as well try to define the
boundary between daylight and dark-
ness in an evening sky 1 As indefinitely
separated, then, though different their
names, these chapters.
So long continued and often inter-
rupted was the labor of collecting the
various nuts and seeds described in the
last number of The Millstonb, that
they were dried, almost as fast as gath-
ered, by toasting. The means whereby
this toasting, or more properly parching,
was effected were ingenious, but tlie
method most laborious. Into one of the
shallow trays, which the reader will re-
member were plastered with clay freely
tempered by the addition of grit to keep
it from cracking, (see Fig. 16 in July
number of The Millstone) a quantity
of glovnng wood coals was placed, to^
gether with two or three quarts of the
seeds or nuts. The operator, quickly
squatting, grasped the tray at opposite
edges, and with a rapid, spiral-wise mo-
tion of the basket, kept the grain and
coaJs dancing separately around and
around, yet almost touching one another,
meanwhile puffing the embers with every
breath to keep them alive and free from
ashes. So dextrously was all this done
that the grains were evenly browned yet
none of them scorched; and the frail
basket, protected by the thm coating of
clay grovm hard by long use, was never
, burned by the fiercest heat of the mov-
ing coals. If thus the seeds were rendered
more palatable, less liable when long kept
to germinate, readily tractable on the mealing stone,
how much more owed the later Zunis to this early in-
dustry ! For with the separation from its osier matrix
of the thin clay lining baked hard enough in some in-
stances to form a vessel by itself — lo 1 is bom the Pot-
! ter's art! And probably from this crude beginning,by
easy,yet lingering steps, all tlie marvelous beauty and
perfection of Pueblo fictile productions werematured.
Most probably did I say ? Most certainly I may now
say; for the spirally built cooking-pot of the older
Southwestern ruius (see Fig. 20) was but the repro-
duction in clay — ^rough surface, zigzag ornamentation
and all — of the spirally woven basket bottle (see Fig.
19) — the name of which earlier object lingered on to
distinguish the ".basket m clay" as but the off-shoot
of the basket in osiers. In no other way can the
angular and other extremely conventional features
of the ancient Pueblo ceramic decorations be ex-
plained, than by referring them to the imitation of
basketry patterns — themselves the mere outgrowth
of discolored splint lines. Moreover, by a similar
train.of reasoning it is seen that the Pueblos owed
»See illustration on following page, also description in
July number of THE Millstone.— Ed.
too, the art and patterns of weaving— embroidery
and all— to basketry; proof almost positive of
which exists to-day in the etymology of the names,
of stitches and designs.
Does the reader then, realize with me, how far-
reaching has been the influence of our Breadstuff?
Such portions of the parched seeds and nuts as
were required for immediate use, were stored in
bags about the edges of the lodge, which bags were of
varying colors or materials to distinguish their con-
tents, and were used by day as seats, by night as pil-
lows. The remainder of the grain yvas carried away to
the granaries. These were formed by stopping up the
crevices and plastering with mud the interiors of
anv suitable holes in the cliffs that happened to be
protected by overhanging rocks, which, when filled,
were closed with rude masonry, of such ingeniously
selected materials that the completed depositories
were almost indistinguishable from formations
around them. Bef orp the mud-plastering with which
these half natural bins were cemented was dried, the
owner stamped into it with the tips of his fingers, not
onlyfigm-es indicating the varieties of the contents,
but sometimes special marks of o wnership,or totems,
which latter were as faithfully respected
as is the seal among ourselves. Thus at
once the grains were disposed of, or pro-
tected from moisture and the inroads of
seed-devouring animals, hidden from the
enemy and recorded in kind, as proper-
ty. From this latter practice, it is prob-
able th8,t the system of pictography or
symbolism was developed, which was so
f a.r elaborated in latter ages as to become
expressive mnemonically even of mythic
conception, and to which there came to
be attributed supernatural origin and
magic efficacy. The explorer of the
Southwest, sometimes miles away from
the ancient sites to which they pertained,
discovers now and then these diminutive
granaries of the cliffs; and often tliey
are found to contain,perfectly preserved
if spared by the graniveri, examples not
only of the seeds heretofore described,
but of others which it has been deemed
unnecessary to mention.
The pinon-nuts and acoms were rarely"
used alone for bread-making but, like the
simflower-seeds and sufhlrto k^ia grain,
which were extremely rich in oil, were
added to the meal of the more starchy va-
rieties as seasoning or "shortening." The
nuts and sunflower seeds were shucked
by being reheated in the roasting-tray
and while still hot, rolled lightly under
the muUer or molina on a coarse slab of
lava. The brittle shells were broken by
this slight pressure, while the oily meats,
rendered soft by the warmth, came out.
clean and perfect. In this shape they were
usually eaten. If designed lor thicken-
ing soups or stews, which purpose they served ad-
mirably, or for use as shortening, they were care-
fully parched yet again until friable, then slightly
ground on a fine grained stone. So rich were the
sunflower and suthl-to k'ia seeds that no amount of
drying made it possible to reduce them to meal ex-
cept in the condition of paste. As such, however,
they were formed with the fingers into little patti-
cakes which, laid on leaves, or hardened by roasting
deep buried in the ashes, were eaten with other
food in the place of meat, supplying the lack of the
latter — at least to the taste — most admirably. The
130
THIS :]yi:iLLSTOisr:E3.
dryer, more starchy seeds, such as the mi'-tcLl i
k^o, K^u' shu' tsi, or purslane, wild rice and va-
rious grass-grains, were of course readily ground
and were susceptible of being made into a great va-
riety of mushes, breads and cakes.
For mush, the meal was left coarse and added to
boiling water until a thick sticky ra ass was formed, to
stir which was no longer possible. "Whatever of
this half-cooked mush happened to be left over, was
rolled into balls, flattened out and dried, or baked
on the embers in which measure of economy arose,
no doubt, the earliest suggestion of bread. Bread
of other kinds soon followed as a few selected recipes
might well show, but let us first consider sorne kind-
red culinary inventions.
It will be borne in mind that these ancients had
to effect the boiling of foods with hot stones.
Doubtless surviving many efforts to thoroughly cook
mush in this way without either filling it with grit
or wasting it, were
two methods deserv-
ing of attention.
Some coarse meal
was moistened with
hot water sufficiently
to render it adhesive.
This was thoroughly
kneaded and rolled
into little elongated
balls or cylinders.
These cylinders were
then encased in
leaves and thrown
into the boiling bas-
ket — together with
the heating stones —
until sufficiently
cooked, when they
were dipped up with
a wicker scoop. Af-
ter the stones had
been fished out, the
fluid remaining, now
thick, like gruel or
gravy, was allowed
to settle, when all of
it was poured off ex-
cept the sandy dregs,
and served with the
lumps of mush or
dumplings. Occa-
sionally little slices
or fragments of
jerked meat were in-
cased in the meal
cylinders to give variety; or, notunfreqnently meal
of jmiiper berries was kneaded in to impart its
sweet taste and aromatic flavor. Both of the form-
er varieties of boiled bread were sometimes seasoned
with sprigs of cedar by throwing the latter into tlie
water as the boiling progressed.
Griddle cakes were made by cooking as much as
possible, fine and coarse meal equally blended, with
scalding water. The resulting paste or batter was
poured over liot, well-polished slabs of sandstone.
"Stone-cakes" were made in the same way, ex-
cept that as a preliminary to the baking, huge sand-
wiches composed of alternating layers of hot sand-
stone slabs and batter (see Fig. 31) were built up,
carefully inclosed in a easing of larger slabs ce-
mented with mud, and buried in a hot pit over which
a fire was built. These cakes were made sweet;
very like "Indian pudding" although more solid, by
the addition to the paste of wild honey, or by the
mastication and fermentation of a portion of it pre-
viously to the baking.
Sometimes for the baking of separate loaves,
these little pits were lined with flat stones set up
edgewise around the sides. A rock of lava if possi-
ble was provided for the lid, and thus was com-
pleted the earliest style of ouen known to the Prim-
itive Zunis. By far their most perfect oven, how-
ever, was the smaller of their granaries. These nat-
ural cavities which art had but completed as recep-
tacles, were seldom used for baking sive when
great feasts or long journeys made requisite large
quantities of bread. This bread was mixed like
mush with the addition of som- dough or stone-
cake tomakeitrise. It was kneaded into little lumps
not exceeding ordinary cookies in size, but much
thicker. Meanwhile a fire was kept burning in the
oven (or granary) until the sm-rounding rock was
thoroughly heated, when the brands and coals were
withdrawn, the cavity swept out with wisps of cedar
brush and the little lumps of dough now swollen, laid
in, row after row, with long spatula-shaped staves.
The opening was closed witli a sandstone slab, every
crevice perfectly cemented with mud, and the whole
thing left to itself while the sun traveled one long
"step" through the sky. At the end of this time the
"closing stone" was broken down and the loaves tak-
en out — darkblueor brownish gray in color, but thor-
oughly done and as palatable as any bread since de-
vised by even the most modern Zuiiis.
The last described class of seeds and breadstuffs
held with these ancients the place filled to-day by
corn ^ yet long after the introduction of the latter
grain they continued in use. Even now, when a
rainy season has made them especially abundant, the
Zuiiis collect large quantities particularly of the
K'u' shut si, which they store away for use in the
sense that "a little leaveneth the whole mass" of
their corn-foods. Tliey aflirm that by thus nourish-
ing themselves with how little soever of the food of
their forefathers, they partake of the hardihood,
courage, wisdom and possibly some of the super-
natural qualities witli which they fail not to endow
their remote ancestors. How long the ancient
Zuiiis lived, as here described, on the products
of nature and the chase alone, we know not, nor
may we ever know ; but of this we may be cer-
tain, that the scenes and generations of their
life shifted many times during that lengthened
period, and that cotemporaneously with their or-
ganization into true clans or tribes, or at any
rate early in their history as such, they became
to a certain extent horticulturists. Evidence there is
that with their first coming to the desert country, they
had to displace, or at least to guard against the in-
cm-sions of a ruder people, hence the remains of
their older villages are perched among the most
isolated and grim lava mesas, far out of reach, and
often near caves or over tremendous fissures. When,
in the course of time, peace ensued and it became
possible for them to leave the malpais wastes a d
descend into the fertile valleys, they adopted and
cultivated corn, beans, the squash, and possibly
one or two other
plants. It was dur-
ing this middle pe-
riod, as we may call
it, that, no longer
fearful of any ene-
my, they divided into
little clans or large
totemic families, fol-
lowing whitherso-
ever moisture of soil,
presence of water,
or otherrequisites for
their limited cultiva^
tion led them.
Hence everywhere
we find, broadly scat-
tered within the
region claimed by
tradition as at one
time or another their
habitat, the ruins of
single houses little
or large.
It is interesting to
note in this connec-
tion the evidence of
language. The Znni
name for a Navajo
lodge, which is a sort
of bee-hive-shaped
structure built of
sticks and earth, is
"-Lea/-lodge" or
"Brush-Toof." We
may infer from this
that the earliest fnrm of hut among the Zuiiis
was shaped like the Navajo hogan, but roofed
with leaves, bark or brushes. The most an-
cient name for a house, now restricted to the
sense of a wall, was Hi-sho-ta, from hi-sho,
wax, and sho'-tai-e, leaned together circularly.
This points to the lava regions, the rocks of
which resembled wax, and wore doubtless the
first used for building. The modern name for
a house is K%a'-kwi'n-ne, from Via'-we, water, and
Imi'n, the place of, which indicates that the first
regular houses were single and distributed accord-
ing to the occurrence of water in any way. Again,
the name of an upper story or room Is O'sh-te-nu-
fhlan, from o'shte, a rock-shelter or shallow cave,
and u'-ftiLornai-e, surrounding or built around. This
evidences exactly what the ruins of the scattered
liouses do, namely, that at the beginning of the peace
of the middle period these houses were one-storied.
As time went on and the cultivation which charac-
terized this period was developed, distant, more
savage tribes— the Bedouin element of Desert
THE IMULLSTOIfsrE.
131
America — tempted by the rich plunder offered by
the little isolated f arm-houses,descended upon them,
driving the inhabitants to seek shelter, not in the
lava regions where their all-important corn could
not be raised, but among the cliffs as near their
farms as possible. Here, on shelves or under shal-
low grottoes, which everywhere characterize the
sandstone canons of the Southwest, they built like
swallow nests the first- "Cliff-houses," the necessi-
ty of finding shelter for the whole clan leading
to the construction of second and even third stories
against tiie rock wall of the cliff. Naturally this
portion of the dwelling took the name most charac-
teristic of it — as the portion "built around the cave
roof." We have only to suppose that when in an
interval of peace the cliff fugitives descended
to rebuild their farm-houses the idea of the second
story was carried with them, and that its first name,
slightly modified, remained, as it has even to this
day. Conformable to all
this is the testimony fur-
nished by the latter
house-ruins of the mid-
dle period, which are
sometimes two and even
three stories in height.
Finally, when, as will
be shown in a future
page, the necessity for
mutual protection com-
pelled these scattered
clans of house-buUders
to confederate into tribe-
communities ■ and be-
come village-builders,
or Pueblos, they named
each huge, huddled
structure, TMu-ellon-ne,
which derivatively sig-
nifies, "Many standing
together."
I have ventured these
details because they
bear very directly on
aU that relates to even
the daily lives of those
whom they concern.
The introduction of hor-
ticulture, for instance,
enabled the Zunis to
build and live perma-
nently, which fostered .
the cultivation of arts and industries, customs, etc.,
before limited or unknovra. The rude, half-spherical
cooking vessels, first made of spirally vroven grasses
andosiers,thenofspiraUybuiltropesof clay,assumed
now more regular and ornate forms. The necessity of
frequent change of location no longer existing, this
pottery was not subjected to the frequent breakage
of journeys, hence gradually replaced the canteen,
water-bottle, boiling-vessel and roasting-trays of
wicker. The mealing-stone, formerly propped up
over a mat or skin, (see preceding illustration and
Fig. 13 in July number of The Millstone) was
now permanently built into a stone bin out in front
of orinsidethehuts;the dome-shaped oven, some-
times of gigantic proportions, though rarely, re-
placed the hole in the ground and the recess in
the rocks, as the fire for stone-heating was re-
placed by the sunken, flueless hearth in a comer of
the dwelling room. "Within the little recesses of
this room, or in separate smaller apartments, was
stored the grain, both wild and cultivated, and with
these improvements, slight howsoever they may
«eem, the mediaeval Zufii had, already advanced far
toward his ultimate barbaric status of culture.
Although he continued to gather and prepare wild
fruits, nuts and grains, one added source of supply
— com, outweighed them all ; for was it not the
author of his improvements, the object of his affec-
tion, care and devotion, the sure promise of his mas-
tery of the desert?
We may now turn to the foods he made of it.
Most easUy rendered suitable among these were the
green-corn preparations. As with ourselves, the
ears were roasted on the coals (or, as he had it,
"ripened"), or boiled in his little narrow-necked
pots of clay. The delicacy of the year was the far-
famed succotash, made by scraping the milky ker-
nels from the ears, mingling them with little round
beans, which had now come to be domesticated, and
with bits of fresh meat, the whole being seasoned
with salt, thickened with sunflower seeds, suflilrto-
k'ia, or pinon-nut meal, and boiled until reduced to
an almost homogeneous stew. A little dish, then
and long after common to the Zuiiis, still a favorite
with their distant, primitive neighbors, the Havasu-
pai', than
which no green-
corn cookery of
civilization can
boast anything
more delicious,
was made by
scraping the kernels off in great quantity, grinding
them excessively in their own milk with simflower
seeds and green squash. Sprinkled with salt this
paste w s boiled until evaporation left it thick and
gelatinous like curdled milk, although more adhe-
sive when warm, more solid when cold.
Of course the baked corn — not baked in under-
ground ovens, but in the abandoned granaries of a
former period or in the dome ovens (seeillmstration)
nearer at hand — was well known.
After the corn was ripened two modes of making
it eatable were extremely simple. Still on the ear it
was toasted, or, in the kernel, parched. In several
ways this parching was accomplished. Crudest of
all these, was burial and constant stirring in hot
ashes ; but the favorite process was to half fill a
Thle'^mon-^ne, or black, shallow ro'astmg pot or pan
(see Fig. 22), with clean, dry sand. The pot was
then set over the fire until the sand became thor-
oughly heated, when the corn was poured in and
constantly stirred with a bundle of hard-wood sprigs
(see Fig. 33) so loosely tied at the middle that they
could be spread apart in order that the sand and
corn might readily pass between them. When well
browned and swollen, a judicious shaking of the
toasting vessel brought all the kernels to the top,
whence they were easily separated from the sand.
Of the corn thus parched a highly concentrated and
nutritious substance was made, the grains first be-
ing cracked, re-toasted, and then ground to fine
flour. A little of this flour stirred into cold water
made a gruel which required no cooking and was
capable alone of sustaining life throughout extended
journeys, where liglitness of burden and ease of
preparation were prime requisites. Mixed with
water and sweetened by a means heretofore de-
scribed, or happily by the addition of ground licor-
ice-root, fermented and slightly boiled, it made a
thin syrup or sweet
gruel (Tsa'-shi-^ve),
ever the favorite at the
Zuni evening feast.
When the corn was
designed for consump-
tion without further
' preparation than by the
parching, salt, if abun-
dant enough, was used
in place of the sand,
imparting to the kernels
roasted in it a delicate
seasoning unattainable
by the cruder methods
first described.
Simplest of cereal
foods, as it was, one va-
riety or another of this
parched corn formed
one of the chief articles
of diet with not, only
the people here de-
scribed, but among all
the more advanced
tribes of ancient Ameri-
ca; in proof of which
one need not search far
into the chronicles of
our early explorers and
pioneers to find repeated
mention of it. Nor are
the monuments of pre-
historic times scant in
their testimonials of its
universality. Among
the forest middens of
Central Niew York, in
the ashes of excavated
mounds . along the
Mississippi valley, frequently in the granaries, cliff-
ruins, and caves of the great Southwest, and even
in the collections from the huaoas of ancient Peru
I have found these toasted grains carbonized by
age, yet preserved unbroken long after the very
bones of the hands that poised the p6't they were
parched in have crumbled to lime.
.^Sk-xi. Xll-ais-tzrcfc-tec3.rAdCoxi.-tli.ly «ro-u.zr3ci.cfcl7 Z3e-v-c3'tec3L -to -tlie .A.cl-v-axLoexxiexi.-t of 3SdCl.ll£xLs axicI, 3k[eola.R:ia.loehl Xzi-tex-oM-tn.
Hvld-HT^auclc. } VOL. IX. INDIANAPOLIS, IND., SEPTEMBER, 1884. NO. IX. {o„eDSliarpfr Annum.
D[Copynglitea 1884, by David H. Ranck.]
ZUifl BREjtlDSTUFF— I}^.
of
Y-
'ThelToung Men "Who Were Fond
Parched Corn and S-nreet Grnel ; or,
The Four Atrkvard Suitors."
FRANK H. CUSHING.
ITTLE wonder, — if we con-
sider its importance as indi-
cated by the closing lines
of the last chapter — that
parched com and its chief
productions should have
entered into the mystic folk-
lore and legendary fancies of
the people who most prized
it. So in winter time, when
the com grains, sputtering
petulantly over the embers,
remind the
sitters by
the Zufii
fireside that
they may
soon crack the kernels for which their mouths never
fail at such times to water, some old fellow who is
debarred from the coming feast by lack of teeth con-
soles himself by telling a tale like the following,
which the Zunls call "The Young Men Who Were
Fond of Parched Com and Sweet Gmel ; or, The
Four Awkward Suitors :"
In ancient times, though not very many men's
ages ago, there stood in the valley of the "Great
Flowing Waters" (El Rio GrandedelNorteof East-
em New Mexico) four towns. One of them was
where San Filipe now stands, another over the
mountains to the eastward where people now gather
turquoises, the third away to the northward and to-
ward the southward the fourth. Who can tell the
names of all these towns ? I cannot, for they were
not the homes of our ancestors. But anybody who
will look where they were will see their ruins, and
many others between, on the bluffs and in the
mountains along the valley of the Great Flowing
Waters !
Well, in those days there lived in We'-fhliirellor
Tcwin — ^that was the name of Old S an Filipg , you
know — an aged and rich oaciqu6 who had an only
daughter. This maiden was thought the prettiest
of her tribe. She was proud, and when she went
dovm to the river of an evening to get water she
spoke to none of the young men who waited to see
her along the way. She always carried the hand-
somest jar, and wore the wfiitestmoccasiiis, and the
finest dresses and blankets in the pueblo. This it
was that made her so haughty, and hence no young
man in the town where she lived dared ask her to
look upon him with the light of favor in her eyes.
In the northern pueblo lived at that time a young
man who was a good hunter and had blankets and
shell beads of his own. He was very timid and bash-
ful — this young man.. Yet once he had seen in the
dance at Old San Filipe the caciqu6's daughter. He
was never contented after that. One autumn morn-
ing he made up a bundle of deer skins and neck-
laces. Then Ije said to his old ones :
"Oh, my fathers and mothers, I have seen the
maiden of Wi-thlvrella-kwin. She is beautiful, and
I think oflier all days."
The old ones were surprised, but said, "Son, be
it well."
He took the bundle and started south that day.'
It was a long way, but at sunset he nearedthe corn-
fields that surrounded Old San Filipe, and a little
after dark stole into the plaza which fronted the
house of the caoiqu6. The house was large and
the old cacique' had relatives, among them many
young men — nearly all married — but who were fond
of sitting in his house autumn and winter evenings
and smoking, as they told stories in the light of the
fire, for the old man was merry and hospitable.
Well, the young man looked at the windows of
the house. The red light was shining brilliantly
through them. "Ha!" said he in his heart, "the
house is full of visitors, else why do the fires burn
so brightly. What shall I say when I go in ? Oh
yes : I will say, 'My fathers and mothers, my sisters,
friends and brothers, how are you these many
days ?' " This he kept repeating to himself, as a
novice does prayers before his initiation. Mean-
while he peered in at the Windows. They were
very small and high and he could see only the feet
of the sitters. "Possibly I know some of them,"
thought he. "If I should, that would make it easier
for me to go in. I'll just climb the ladder and peep
down the sky-hole." He hastily slipped the burden
strap from his forehead and slung the bundle over
his shoulder, then cautiously clambered to the roof
and crept over to the sky-hole. Placing one hand
on one side and the other oh the other he gently let
himself down until he could see thg shins of the visi-
tors. He stretched down a little further and could
now see their knees and the chins of some of the
short ones. "Onlya little further," thoiighthe, when
suddenly the bundle giving way knocked him on
the head, his hands slipped, and, poor fellow I down
he tumbled, end over end, into the room below. He
jumped up — he did not know what to say. Then
he bethought himself and cried out, "Oh yes; I — I
mean, my — my fathers and mothers, my sisters and
brothers, how are you these many days ?" Every-
body was surprised, but they now began to laugh
so hard that the bashful boy, losing heart, fled head-
long up the ladder. That was the last they saw of
him, for he ran home and never had courage to try
again.
Now a young man who lived in the pueblo on the
Turquoise mountain happened to hear the cacique''8
relatives telling the story of the bashful northern
fellow. "Harha, wa-ha," he laughed with the rest ;
but he thought, "What a stupid fool ! If I had bfeen
in his place I should have walked right in. What's
the use of being bashful like a little boy or a young
girl ?" He thought so much of this that he decided .
at last himself to make a trial, and told his parents:
The old ones were well pleased. So the young man
made a bundle with many turquoise bea;ds and other
precious things in it. One day he too started, and
when he came in front of the cacique"s house that
night the light, sure enough, was shining as bright-
ly as before. "But," thought the young man, "what
care I ?" He bravely climbed the ladder, did not
even stop to say, "Are ye in?" but slid down the
step-log, marched into the middle of the room where
the light shone on him (and his bundle) and said :
"My fathers and mothers, my sisters and brothers,
how are you these many days ?"
"Happy I happy !" cried the people; "sit down,
sit down;" while the old man looked up and said:
"Whence come you, my lad ?"
"From the TurcpuAse mountains," answered the
young man with great confidence.
"Daughter," said the old man; "come, the young
man is a stranger and must be hungry. It is the
daughter's place to spread food before the hungry
stranger."
The daughter arose and went to the mill trough.
There she had placed a fresh tray of parched corn.
Now this yoimg man was particularly fond of
parched com, and, moreover, he was very hungry
after his long journey. Yet he knew he could eat
but little, for he feared giving the impression that
he was a heavy leeder — as all young men do when
they go out courting I*
The maiden placed the tray of com before him
and said with a smile :
, "Eat."
"It is well, thank you,^' replied the young man.
He stretched out his hand, taking a kernel or two,
and after he had thus eaten very deliberately for a
little while he said :
'• . hanks." Yet all the while he had been think-
ing to himself "If I could only eat all I wanted of
this parched com I How can I eat all 1 want?
Never mind, I will watch and see where she puts
it;" so he only said:
"Thanks."
"Eat more and be satisfied," said the maiden and
the old mother.
"Oh, thank you 1" he replied, "I have eaten to
satisfaction."
So the girl took the tray away, andplaced it near
the trough. The young man watched her closely,
and the old man looked over toward the old wo-
man and raised his eyebrows as much as to say,
"See how he watches our daughter ? Very well,
*A custom always enjoined and generally observed in
Zuni to the present day, as it is argued that the recom-
mendation of being a light eater is of paramount importance,
since a man is no sooner married than he goes to live with
bis wife's family.
152
HIE ILdZILLSTOITE.
he has many turquoises, and I hope that will satisfy
our proud daughter."
The young men who had peen smoking with the
cacique' before the stranger came in pretended to
be sleepy.
"Look here," cried one ; "it must be late !" He
went over to the sky-light and glanced up. "Why,
, sure enough !" he exclaimed. "The stars are in the
middle of the sky !" With that they all arose and
tlirowing on their blankets, said "Good-night," and
went to the "various homes of their relatives in law."
It was not late, you know, but they knew what the
young man had come for.
After they had gone the old man turned to the
youth and said :
"Have a cigarette and smoke with me." As the
young man filled the cigarette the old one con-
tinued —
"It cannot be thinking of nothing that you come
so far to the house of a stranger ?"
"Quite true," said tlie young man as lie lit the
cigarette,and he seemed to be thmking of something,
indeed I for he turned absently toward the mealing-
trough.
"And what may it be that you came thinking of ?"
said the old man.
"Well, 'hem, well," said the young man, "I am —
that is — 1 came with thoughts of your daughter."
"Daughter," said the caciqu6, looking toward the
maiden, "Daughter, listen; you have heard, what
thmkyou?"
"As my old ones think, so think 1," said the girl,
quite meekly— for a few days before they had
spoken to her about being too proud toward the
young men.
"Be it well, my son " said the old man; "you
hear what the daughter has said." For a long time
the young man was silent, and the old caciqu6
thought he was bashful. "Pass the night with us,"
said he at last, and turning to his old wife, who was
napping against the wall, he added, "Old girl, is it
not about time to stretch out?"
The sleepy old woman roused herself and spread
a buffalo skin and some blankets on the floor in the
I far corner, and there the old people ly down and
I soon were rasping away through their noses — thle-
lo-lo, fhle-lo-lo-k'ea — as soundly asleep as though no
stranger had entered the house. Then the girl
spread a robe at the end of the room nearest the fire
(which of course was close by the mealing-trough),
placed a blanket on the robe and another by the
side of it You see, the young man was so ab-
stracted she pitied him and thought he must be
bashful I So she said, "Come over here and sit down
by my side." The young man joyfully obeyed, but
presently became as silent as before. "What can
be the matter with him ?" she thought. "The
I brother did not act so when he came to see sister."
So she sat nearer to him and tried to cheer him.
; "Why is 'mine to be' so thoughtful ?" said she.
} The young man started and said, "O ! I am tired."
"Would you like to sleep ?" asked the girl. "Oh,
no," replied the youth ; you see he was thinking,
I "How can I get some more of that parched corn ?"
and ithus became silent again.
j ."Here, take my hand ; perhaps you fear me. Why
should you fear me ?" said the girl, and she laid her
hand on his arm, for she thought "Poor young fel-
low ! he is bashful." And she waited and waited,
but the young man made no further move than to
sigh, so the girl, who like most women could not
keep awake doing nothing, fell asleep.
"Ahl" thought the young man, "now is my
chance I If she only stays asleep, what a fine feast
I shall have." The girl still slept. The fire died
down until it was quite dark. Then the young man
listened a moment, and little by little took the girl's
hand off his arm. Then he moved her a trifle and
presently felt for the tray of parched corn. He
found it. Cautiously he took a kernel out and put
it between his teeth, but when he attempted to bite
it, it cracked 1 He started and ceased to listen again.
"How can I stop that noise," thought he. "I have
it I That's it !" he said to himself. He pulled some
wool out of the buffalo robe and stuffed his ears full
of it. Then he reached over and took out two or
three kernels. He cracked first one, then the others
altogether, but heard never a sound. "Tchvr'kwe!"
said he to himself. "That's the way; now I can
eat all I want." But the fire had gone down and
he felt chilly now that he was thinking no longer
how to get at the corn. So he took up the tray and
guardedly crawled over to the hearth. He sat down
on the floor with the basket between his knees and
began to eat. What with the enjoyment of the
parched corn and the warmth of the embers, so
great was his satisfaction that he closed his eyes and
fell to eating more slowly to protract the pleasure,
but with mouthful after mouthful he made so much
noise that the old woman woke up. She listened a
moment, then punched the old man. "Old one, old
one," she whispered.
"What do you want?" growled the old man.
"What do you want now?"
"The dogs must be on the roof eating our venison.
Don't you hear them cracking the bones ?"
"Oh, yovi always think you are hearing something.
Go to sleep, old girl."
"But listen," persisted the old woman. He
raised his head. "Quite true I" He heard the dogs,
so he thought, gnawing the bones. "Wait and I'll
drive them away," said he; and rising slowly, for
his joints were stiff, he went over to the hearth and
laid some cedar bark on the coals. Still the youug
man sat there, his eyes closed, eating parched corn.
He was too sleepy to see, and too deaf to hear, for
his ears were stuffed with the buffalo hair. The
old man blew the fire until the cedar bark suddenly
blazed up so that it lighted the whole room.
There sat the young man, his back to the fire.
"Why, my poor young man !" exclaimed the old
cacique', "why didn't you say you were hungry ?"
Still the young man sat there. "What can be the
matter with him ? He wasn't deaf, neither was he
blind, when I talked with him this evening."
"Young man ! young man I" called the old caciqu^.
"Son ! son !" he cried. Still no answer. The old
man stepped over and slapped the youth on the
back.
The young man started. He dropped the parched
corn, looked around, and fled up the ladder as pre-
cipitately as had the one who had tumbled in — leav-
ing, blanket, bundle, and everything e'se; nor did
he ever come back to get them.
"Ha, ha!" laughedayoungmaninthepueblotothe
south, when he heard the story. "Think of a young
fellow's liking pop-corn better than a pretty maiden !
Anybody's sister can parch corn,but caciques' daugh-
ters are not everybody's sisters I" But as he too had
seen the proud maiden, he was seized with a passion
for her, and the more he thought the bolder he
grew. "After all," said he in his heart, "she as
good as accepted the Turquoise fellow, if he hadn't
been— like a crow — so fond of corn that he forgot
everything else." The up-shot of it all was, he
tried, too. He was quite as brave when he arrived
at the girl's house as the other had been, even a
trifle more attentive, but when the girl, mindful of
her foi-mer experience, placed sweet-gruel before
him, he was seized with as great a longing as the
other had experienced to get his fill, for he had
never tasted better in his life. So he watched the
girl as she put the new shining bowl of the delicious
syrup away opposite him in a niche in the wall. And
when she spread a robe down almost under it and
invited him to sit there with her his joy knew no
bounds; but being more crafty than his predecessor
he talked to the girl gently, and when she drew
her mantle off because the fire was so warm, took it
and fanned her with it, singing the while, until she
nodded and presently fell asleep. That was just
what he wanted. He softly laid the mantle down
and reached up to the bowl. He dipped one finger
over the edge and withdrawing it licked off the gruel.
Then he put in two fingers at a time, and finally
began to dip the fluid up in the palm of his hand.
Every time he withdrew his hand the fluid streamed
down his wrist, so that he had to wipe it off with
his other hand until both were wet all over. Final-
ly he grew impatient. Reaching up he took the
bowl down and rested it on the palms of both hands,
while he squared himself back against the wall for
a good drink. He slowly raised the edge of the
vessel to his lips. But alas ! in tilting it the bowl
slipped through his wet hands, and tsu-lvrU, the
sweet-gruel poured down all over the young man's
chin, neck and front. He made a clutch for the
bowl, but it slipped from his hands again and
crashed on the floor. The young man jumped up.
He grabbed the girl's mantle and wiped the gruel off
his clothes ; then seemg the shattered bowl on the
floor, and thinking he heard them rousing up, he
stole out on tip-toe, and ran away as the others had.
Next morning the girl awoke where she had been
sitting. She looked around for the young man, and
seeing his blanket thought to herself:
"Well, he's gone out hunting ;?i€ is a man; I will
grind some meal and cook his breakfast." Thus
thinking she reached for her mantle. It all came
up at once! "What's the matter?" thought the
girl. She rubbed the mantle, but it was stiff with
the sweet-gruel which had dried on it. She smelled
it. "Mother of men !" she exclaimed, "it is sweet-
gruel." Then when she saw the broken bowl she
understood. "Never," said she, awakening the old
ones, "will I have anything more to do with them.
One courts me for my pop-corn ; another for my
sweet-gruel. We would have fared finely with such
or such a glutton for a son-in-law I"
Now when the corn and melons had all been gath-
ered in the people began to have feasts and dances.
One cold night before the day of a festival, a young
man of the town where the girl lived, who had long
watched her with longing heart, determined to go
and ask her to let him marry her. He went around
to her house, but his heart misgave him, so he looked
in at the window. The girl was kneeling before
the fire kneading bread for the feast, and there were
no visitors save an old aunt. "I wish she'd go away, ''
thought the young man. He waited and waited
until he grew cold. "Will she never go away ?"
thought he, as he looked in at the window again.
"Well, I can wait as long as she can," said he, and
he began to look about for a nook in which to get
shelter from the wind. He espied a big oven by the
corner of the house. "Ha !" said he. "Just the
thing;" and he crawled in and curled up in the back
part with his blanket muffled about his head, until
he was as warm as if he had been in the house. "How
lucky I" thought he; but gradually he grew sleepy,
and soon fell asleep in good earnest. There he slept
all night long, dreaming that the girl's aunt had not
gone yet. Before daylight the next morning an old
granny from the house above came to the sky-hole
and called the girl. The girl was already up.
"Do you hear ?" screeched the old woman.
"Yes; what is it ?" answered the girl.
"Is your bread ready ?"
"No," said the girl.
"Well, may I use /our folks' oven a little while ?"
"Oh, yes," said the girl; "I shall not bake till
after sun out."
The old woman limped away and gathered some
cedar bark and splinters. These she piled up In
THE IMZILLSTOITE.
153
the mouth of the oVen, and tucking some coals un-
der blew until the splinters blazed and crackled and
smoked round and round in the oven. Then she
went away to get some more wood. Presently the
young man began to cough and strangle. Then he
woke up and remembered where he was. Muffling
the blanket around his head he dashed out through
the fire and ran away. But, alas ! he had not cov-
ered the top of his head, so that the hair burnt off
the crown and frizzled up all around as tightly as
the beard of a buffalo. The poor boy's hair never
straightened out, and the girl taking pity on him
married him after all. They lived together with
but one vexation to mar their happiness: their
children were all kinky-hau-ed ! People say that is
the reason why so many old men in San Filipehave
bald heads and curly hair.
Lxx Xll-uai-txrcfc«edr3&Xc»xi.-tIily «ro-uxrxi.ctl^ ^^e-v^-ted. to -tlse .A.cil-VA.xaoexxiexi.t: of nCllllxis ax^^d. 3iaCeo]ici.xxloa.l Xxi.-te3re«-tM-
PUBLISHED BT I" \/^M i xx
David H. Rauck. J VUL. lA.
INDIANAPOLIS, IND., OCTOBER, 1884. NO. X. {oneDSuarpfr Annum.
[Copyrightea 1884, by David H. Kanok.]
ZUffi BREjtIDSTUFF— 5^.
Ta-a r-ta-we ; or the "Food of the Seed of
Seeds."
FRANK H. CtrSHINO.
EKE we
need no
longer fol-
low by the
uncertain
light of tea-
dition, or
by the
scarce -
lymore
satis-
factory
uidance
I of compar-
ative study
the ways
of the
ancient
Z u n i
bread-maker. We may now go to the house of her
modern descendants and watch, if we wiU but ac-
cept their hospitality,— not always easy this!—
their every process in the preparation of Breadstuff.
First,' however, let us consider the changes that
brought together in Pueblos— some of which as-
tounded the Spanish explorers with their regularity
and extent— the scattered denizens of the Cliff and
Valley houses described in the last chapter.
The incursions of predatory bands of savages
from the border regions of the desert areas wherein
the House-builders found their homes and lands,
increased with the prosperity, population and
growth of the dominion of the latter and the tribes
which, subjugated by them or encouraged by their
example, imitated their industry, until almost all
were driven well nigh permanently to the cliffs of
fertile caiions. Here, regular villages instead of
single houses were built wherever foothold could
be found for them out of the reach of assault. (See
illustration page 175.) What though hundreds of the
enemy came ! These houses, which, to all intent sus-
pended midway between earth and air overlooked
the crops, were to the inhabitants accessible with lad-
ders which they drew up after them, to the stranger
soaleless. And now the sunflower, cultivated along
with corn, assumed greater importance, for tradi-
tion says that the Cliff-dwellers, often beleaguered
at a distance, were debarred from the privilege of
the hunt and hence compelled to subsist long periods
at a time on the products of their plantings alone.
Yet, although by their lengthened and desperate strug
glefor life these people became small of physique
hey were h a rdv.and increased to such an extent that
they were gradually forced to abandon their hanging
villages as too limited, and ascend to the tops of the
cliffs and mesas — first near at hand, then further and
further away, building their great clustered, terraced
towns, imtil Vke dwellings of the cliffs became only
the occasional resort of planters and harvesters, the
towns on the mesas the permanent habitation of
many congregated clans or tribes. These looked for
security, to their numbers. Their common dangers
developed in them a kind of communal brother-
hood, a parental priesthood which gave rise to a
democratic yet almost absolute government, bound
firmly and controlled by an elaborately ceremonial
and ritualistic worship. Such, all too scantily des-
cribed, was the pre-Columbian Pueblo, whose type
found its most perfect realization,its highest develop-
ment, in the Zuni of fifteen or twenty generations
ago. The food of these older Pueblos, less in va-
riety it is true, and differing in some few of the
methods and materials of its composition, was nev-
ertheless so like the latter. Indeed even that of to-
day, that the following descriptions, save where
otherwise specified, must be regarded as embracing
the cookery of both periods.
The green com, boiled, roasted, and baked,
stewed and fried ; the ripe corn toasted and parched,
have been already mentioned; yet there remains one
or two other descriptions of eatables formed with-
out the service of the mealing-stone, or metate.
Almost as simple as the parched com was the
Mi'-lira-we, which was no other than baked com
boiled on the ear. A variety of food very like this
was called Tcfiu-U-a-we, ordinary com on the ear
being roasted or browned over the coals, then
shelled and boiled in water, either with or without
meat. A more elaborate food was called "skinned
com," which was similar in many respects to the
hulled com of the Northern states. The com being
first excessively boiled in wood-ashes and water
was then thoroughly washed and again boiled,
either for consumption in the simple condition in
which it left the cooking pot or by combination in
various ways to form the basis of bread, dumplings,
griddle-cakes, or the like.
In order that the preparation of the more elabo-
rate kinds of com food, in which the metate and
molina bore a conspicuous part, may be the better
referred to and understood, I must risk a little repe-
tition by giving below the Zuni classification of their
materials as introductory to some following more
descriptive paragraphs.
As the reader is already aware, the generic term
for com in Zuni is Td'-a, or A'-t6lra, the approxi-
mate English of which is "the seed of seeds," yet
which applies not only to the grain itself in the ab-
stract, but also to the green plants which produce
it. Corn on the ear is termed Jkfi'-we, in the grain
Tchu'^we. When the corn grains have been simply
cracked on the coarse grinding-stones, they are
called Tdiu' -thlOrtsa^e. When skinned through
the agency of ashes and water, as above described,
or by boiling in water alone, and careful rubbing on
themealing-stone,it is termed T&iu'-tsMajaahrna-we.
Broken under the muller into very coarse meal or
samp it is called Sa'-k^owe; reduced to meal, O'-we;
and when ground to exceedingly fine flour, O'-lu-
Passing over the various dislies which answer to
our hasty-pudding, mushes, and the like, which
were all well known, we may be interested to find
out how the settled, semi-civilized, pueblo Zuni im-
proved on the baked things of his farming or cliff-
dwelling predecessor. His most notable advance was
perhaps the introduction of ashes, or of very finely
ground lime, called . This same
dough minus the yeast, and thin-
ner, like batter, was used to make
"Johnny-cakes" or "corn-dodgers,"
which were baked on little flat
stones. at first well heated, then
placed very near a hot fire.
The rudest forms of true hread
were made by placing in a bowl fine
flour, into which enough cold water
was poured to make of it dough,
and sufficient lime-yeast to leaven
it. This was then kneaded and!
molded into thick cakes, which
were set away a short time to rise,
after which they were cooked on hot
coals by frequent turning, in which
form they were called Mui-iirti-we
(fire loaves) ; or baked, buried deep
under hot ashes. In this shape they
were known as liU-pan-mu'-lct-'kcyna
or ash-bread, which differed as
much from the former as though
made from entirely foreign ma-
terials. It is needless to say that
this bread was also frequently baked,
especially for feasts, when it as-
sumed under the artistic treatment
of the Zuni women most extraordi-
nary shapes, (see initial illustration)
in the large dome-shaped ovens or
in the little fire-boxes on the tops of the houses.
We now come to the greatest delicacy in the way
of bread known either to the older or the recent
Zunis. In its simplest form it was known as K^os-
Ue^a-lo-kia, or "salty buried-bread." It was made
by the mixture of Sa-Tco Wo'-ha-na, ot the samp of
white corn in water to which enough fine flour of
the same corn was added to render the batter very
sticky. Broad husks, made pliable with hot water,
were Ihen laid on a flat stone ; the paste spread
over them to the thickness of aboufan inch, covered
with more husks folded at the edges to keep the
batter in place, covered over with another stone,
and so on until a sandwich like that described for
"stone-cakes" was built up (see Fig. 21 of the Au-
gust MrLLSTONB^. Instead of being inclosed in a
casing of thicker stones, this was buried in the
hearth-cist — which had been previously heated al-
most to redness —then sealed up with mud, and
baked by a night-long fire. Leaving salt out of this
THE IMILLSTOlsrE.
175
recipe and adding to it dried flowers, licorice-root,
wild honey, or, more frequently than any of these,
masticated and fermented meal, this buried bread
was made sweet like our own Indian pudding which
it exactly resembled in taste. The latter variety
was baked, however, even more slowly, and quite
as often cooked in a small mush-pot of earthen-
ware, well lined with husks to keep the batter from
adhering fo its sides, as between flat stones.
Perhaps one of the most curious delicacies, for
such it was considered, ever known to the Zunis,
was made not by baking but by freezing. This was
called TMem^miUhl-to-we ("slab-bread"). The plain
variety was simply thin mush re-
duced to paste by boiling, then
placed between two stones which
were laid in cold places and left un-
til thoroughly frozen. The.unbaked
batter of the Tchik-Jc'wi-pa-lo-'kia, or
"sweet buried-bread," excessively
boiled, then treated in this manner,
made wbat we might call an exceed-
ingly coarse ice-cream -and certainly
prized as highly by these ancients,
to say the least, as is the latter deli-
cacy among ourselves.
Before describing the all-impor-
tant H6-we, or paper-bread of later
days, and some of the really delicate
foods it gave rise to, it will be nec-
essary for the reader to be made ac-
quainted with several branches of
Zuni industry which, apparently not
connected with our subject, in reali-
ty have the closest relationship to
it. I will pause, then, to relate
some fragments of an olden story,
and tell of an art which within the
present generation wiU wholly or
mostly cease to De ; visiting the while
with my readers, the quarries and
workshops of an age of stone :
Miles to the westward of where
the eleven towns of the older Zunis
used to stand, is a beautiful volcan-
ic bill or mountain, sacred in the
oral annals of this most venerable
tribe, the home it is said, of the
myriad gods and heroes of the Kd-
hd, or the Dance of "Worship ; for it
rears its steep sides and brown,
rounded brow, seemingly out of the
very depths of the dark Lake of the
Dead. Here, many generations ago,
came a beautiful Goddess of the
Ocean, the "Woman of the White
Shells," younger sister of the Moon.
Not less kind than the Moon-
mother herself, most lovely of all
beings, this goddess was the especial
patroness of beauty and grace; who
loved to number among her disciples
the daughters of men, and like
Hathor and Isis of the ancient
Egyptians, imparted an attractive-
ness almost equaling her own, to those into whose
hearts she deigned to breathe. That she might not
be defiled, she dwelt in a cave before the portal of
which the Zuiii pilgrim removes his head-band and
reverently bows as he passes, and whence the un-
known deeps of which the gods caused a ceaseless
breath of wind to issue, in order that no lighted
torch might reveal the path of entrance to shame-
less mortals. To this day blows forth the cold
wind from the cavern !
"Once, when some maidens were passing near the
mountain, suddenly the beautiful goddess appeared
to them, sitting high up among the rocks, arrayed
in snowy white garments of cotton. With her hand
she beckoned to the maidens and as they neared
lialf fearing, banished with her smile their timidity
and wonder.
" 'Sit ye down by my side,' said she to them, 'and
I will teach ye the arts of women.' Then with a
sharp-edged fragment of jasper she shaped by chip-
ping and hewing, a mealing stone of lava, hollow
from end to end, yet flat from side to side. Another
stone of finer material, long enough to reach entirely
across the metate she hewed and flattened and bev-
eled. Then taking from her girdle white shells and
white kernels of corn, she ground them to fine pow-
der between the stones she had fashioned, teaching
with each motion a grace of movement before un-
known to the women of men. Now leaning ever
so lightly on her molina, and glancing slyly under
her waving side-locks, she talked to the watching
maidens teaching them how to tease their lovers ;
then dashing the hair from her eyes she turned to
the metate, and with gentle and swerving yet rapid
movements of her arms and body, plied the rubbing
stone with her left hand, with her right scattered
under it the shining grains, singing meanwhile in
time to her labors, the songs that ever since young
women have loved to sing, young men loved yet more
to listen to. She ceased and plucked from the moun-
tain slope some long stems of grass which she del-
icately bound together at the middle, then return-
ing, swept into the corner of her mantle with the
brush thus made and many a turn of her wrist and
arm, the flour she had been mealing. Of this she
apportioned to each of the maidens an equal meas-
ure. 'Take it,' she said, 'and remember ho w I have
made it that ye may be blessed with children and
make more for them and they for theirs. With it
men and women shall cast their prayers to the Be-
loved and maidens shall beautify their persons,'
saying which she placed a little of the flour between
her palms and applied it lightly to
her face and bosom, when lo ! her
countenance appeared almost as
white as her mantle, and as smooth
as dressed doeskin !
"And ever since that time women
have won the most lingering of lov-
ers with the wiles of the meal-
stone;" and from the mountain
^^ where those wiles are said to have
been first taught, they bring, let me
add, aided by their now reluctant
victims, the favorite stones of the
mill-trough.
It is rela'ed that at another time
the same goddess taught how the
bright patterns on the many stranded
bread-trays were woven to represent
the flowers and butterflies of Sum-
merland. Hardly can it be claimed,
however, that she told of the most
beautiful art known and practiced
by the Pueblo women ; for in this,
all graces are lost, as laughter, song
and converse must be rigidly re-
frained from during every stage of
its progress. Perhaps, in explaining
why this is, it would be well to des-
cribe in full the potter's art; for
curious enough it is to have long ago
merited attention; only, that it was
not until the later Cliff dwellings and
Mesa villages were built that it
reached its highest productiveness
and perfection.
The clay which served for their
wares was seldom taken from the
native quarries without prayers and
propitiatory offerings. Dependently
upon the kind of vessel to be made,
it was the subject of careful choice.
It was brought from the distant
sources of supply in the form of dry
lumps, which, as needed, were pul-
verized on the metates, and mixed
with crushed quartz, sand or pot
shards, then moistened and kneaded
until in condition to be easily dented
with the tip of the tongue.
Porcooking-vesselsred clay was se-
lected and tempered with a larger al-
lowance of sand or grit than was used
for the finer wares. This not only kept the clay from
cracking as fit dried, but rendered the ware
tougher and better able to withstand the effects
of fire. Either a semi-circular bowl or basket
was used as a mold for the bottoms of the ves-
sels, the clay being pressed evenly into the inside
and drawn up half an inch above the margin of this
impromptu form. Around on the raised border,
then around and around on itself, shortened here to
form the contraction of the neck, there length-
ened to flare the rim, a little strip or flattened
rope of clay was spirally wound and cemented,
smoothed down outside and in with scoop-shaped
TJW
THET I&^^CHjXjSTOITEI.
trowels of gourd-rind or old pottery, and the vessel
was shaped; alter which it was set away in a shady
place to partially dry, thereby contracting so much
that it could easily be removed from the mold at the
bottom. It was then additionally smoothed outside
with pieces of sandstone and again set away in a
safe nook until thoroughly dry, when it was taken
out and placed in a little underground kiln or else
surrounded top and sides, above ground, with a
dome of turf and grease-weed or other light fuel.
Just before the summit of this dome was coinpleted
the woman, muttermg a short prayer, threw inside
a few crumbs or bits of dried bread or dough, which
ceremonial was pronounced the "Feeding." The
whole mass was then fired, and blankets held up to
intercept drafts. Within a few minutes all was
aglow with heat. As soon as the turf or wood had
been reduced to cjnders, the red-hot vessel was re-
moved with a long poker and gently laid on hot
ashes hastily dravpn to one side of the fire for the
purpose. Here it was thoroughly coated inside and
out with the mucilaginous juice of cruslied cactus
leaves, pinon gum being liberally applied in addi-
tion, to the interior. Another dome, this time of
coarser fuel was quickly erected, the vessel placed
inside and again fired. The effect of the cactus
juice and pifion gum under the second burning, was
to close all pores in tlie pot and cover the inside
with a shining, hard black glaze. So perfectly fire-
proof and compact were these vessels thus rendered
that they might be placed over a bed of embers
empty, heated almost to redness, and cold water
dashed into them without causing breakage or even
cracking. I have often with fear and vain remon-
strance seen this done, yet never witnessed an acci-
dent as the result therefrom. The women make in
the same way, only with the addition of a larger
proportion of sand, the crucibles with which the
native jewelers melt their silver.
In some details the process of manufacturing
water jars, eating bowls and other receptacles was
different. It is true they were built up in much the
same way, and when nearly dry, scoured smooth
with sandstone, but the clay of which they were
made was eitlier of a blue variety, or a kind of car-
bonaceous shale or marl. When the wares had
been smoothed, they were coated witha thin wash
of whatever argillaceous earth was found to produce
the desired body-color — white, yellow, red or pinlt
— and highly polished with little water-worn peb-
bles. The paints were usually ochres and jasper
for red and yellow; hematite with a sizing of prai-
rie-dog urine or the syrup of the datiJa fruit, for
black ; the simple iron ore ground with water for
brown; kaolin for white, or various combinations
of these pigments for intermediate hues. The de-
signs were laid on with little brushes made by
chewing the ends of sections out from fibrous yucca-
leaves split beforehand to the desired degree of
coarseness or fineness. /As I have said before,
throughout all of these operations attendant upon
the finishing and decorating of these vessels, no
laughing, music, whistling or any other mmecessary
noises were indulged in, and conversation was car-
ried on in faint whispers or by signs ; for it was
feared that the "voice" would enter into the vessels,
and that when the latter were fired, would escape
with a loud noise and such violence as to shiver the
ware into shards. That this should not in any event
happen, the voice-spirit in the vessels — especially
those designed for water and food, was fed during
the burning. Thus not only was it propitiated but
also rendered beneficent ; for— evidencing the strange
way in which mankind's superstitions have their
origin — curiously enough, unable to explain the al-
most human resonance in earthenware, the absence
of this characteristic from cracked pottery or the
violence of the sound which signified the ruin of
their dishes when broken by heat, these savages
supposed each vessel to be the birthplace at the time
of firing, the habitation afterward, of a conscious or
at least controlable existence, whicli they came to
regard as the source of lite and which, if properly
feasted and addressed, wouldcommUnicate its health
and life-giving properties or influences to any food
or drink placed within its fragile domain. As fur-
ther testimonial of this curious belief we may find
by examining any extensive collection, that on
nearly all the earthenware receptacles of the South-
west, the painted zones of ornamentation near the
rims — iriMde the food vessels, outside the water
jars, were left unconnected at one point or another,
and the space thus open, we wiU be told by the
native artist, is the "exit trail" {(ynorycUhl hwai'-
na.) If these lines were closed, not only would
the subtle source of life be debarred from escape
with food or water, but the woman who "know-
ingly" connected them (that is with her eyes open)
would either be prematurely smitten with blind-
ness, or have in herself the coveted source of life
forever closed and hence become as barren as
the most chaste of maidens. Hence, whenever
it became necessary to paint over these spaces, the
decorator tmned her eyes away and the same cus-
tom was observed in cementing the aperture at the
apex of any conical vessel like the native canteen^
A more intelligent explanation of all this would
involve a long discourse more properly the subject
of a scientific disquisition than of an article on
Breadstuff, but 1 have labored enough I hope, to
show the reader tliat the Zuiii did not consider tlie
nutritive qualities of food and drink entirely due to
his bread and water, but in some degree related to
the vessels wherein they were contained.
■A.X1. Xllima-txrA-ted, ASozi-tlily Jo-ux-xml, ^e'vo'tecA -to tlie .A.ca-vazKoeXB3ezi.-t c>f nAllllxts Axid. BXeoliaXkloal Xxi-tex^ea-tM-
Da^^'-SrKa^Tcfc. } VOL. IX. INDIANAPOLIS, IND., NOVEMBER, 1884. NO. XI. {o„e1Sfifa?'2.'fr!fi.?.um.
[Copyrighted 1884, by David H. Banok.]
ZUf^I BRE/IDSTUFF— X.I.
He'-ve I ta \ire ; or The Wafer Foods.
FKANK H. GUSHING.
OR no art or industry
within the range of the
domestic duties of Zuni,
is so much care and in-
struction bestowed by
the old women on the
young, as for every pro-
cess in the making of
the tiMue, or wafer
breads. Year in and
year out, too, while
these lessons are being
plied, it is told how the
famed and beloved
. "Goddess of the White
Shells" taught not a few
of her graces — and some secrets — in connection
with the daily occupation which forms their theme.
Of these secrets, a chosen few old women of
the tribe are the keepers. With many a mysterious
rite and severe penance, they quarry and man-
ufacture the enormous baking-stones on which
the flakyi toothsome fi6-we is made. Garrulous
enough, mercy knows I are these old crones on
most other subjects ; but they guard with sphinx-like
jealousy such of their methods and observances as
add prestige to experience in their occasional call-
ing. Indeed, it was only in the lead of an accident
—so curious that it must be related— that I came
to a knowledge of these things— not full, it is true,
but instructive :
There is a mesa, which you will find figured
among my articles in the Century, called "Thunder
Mountain." This grand and solitary, tree-covered
rock stands three miles eastward of Zuni. Over
some part of its enormous length rises the sun every
day in the year to the dwellers in the plain below.
Guarding them as it does with its morning shadows
and red evening reflections— telling by these signs
the season as the sun tells the time— and echoing to
their reverent ears the first storm-voices of the val-
ley, no wonder these sun and thunder-worshiping
people make it the principal pedestal of their finest
poetic fancies, their profoundest notions and their
most sacred shiines. Up this mount ain, one hot.
day in Autumn, I climbed with an Eastern friend
and an officer of the army who were visiting me at
Zuni, and who wished to see the altar of a-hai4iir
ta, the war-god, as also the toppling gray ruins —
gray and toppling these two hundred years — on the
southern brink of the mesa. Sated with their sight-
seeing, weary enough with their winding climb, and
thirstier than they liked to confess, my two compan-
ions followed me to the eastern edge; steeply down
from whence led the "trail of the bend." Below,
far toward the west, stretched the basin of Zuni,
like a map, framed in north and south by unbroken
table-lands and hills. But it was not the dun,
smoky dot that marked Zuni, nor yet the corn
patches — green specks on an ocean of sand — which
arrested my gaze. Straight down a thousand feet
from our perch, hidden amidst a maze of foot-hills
— some bulbous with accessory knolls, others ser-
rated and tortuous with their spines of uplifted
rocks— burned several little fires, as evidenced by as
many skeins and knots of smoke which mounted
and surged above the cedars wherewith those lesser
hights were speckled.
"Halloa!" I exclaimed, "they are clearing peach
orchards down there ; shall we go down by the near-
est trail ?"
"By all means," assented my thirsty friends.
Midway down, but all too late, they repented. The
sweat — of the cool kind — gathered on their fore-
head as they gazed on the twisting and frightfully
descending line of rock-niches by which they must
travel to the tops of the foundation-hills. With
palpitating feet, faint hearts — or stomachs — and
sea-sick heads, they cast themselves down on the
uppermost of these hill -tops as soon as we reached
it; while I, light-shod with moccasins, and unen-
cumbered by the buckskin shorts of Zuni fashion,
ran forward to find the tenders of the smoky fires.
My way led out of an amphitheater — if a hall-circle
of rugged, vertical cliffs eight hundred feet in hight
may be called such — and as I went along, wishing
to give warning to the supposed planters, I yelled
with all the strength of my recovered wind, a Zuni
song, until the rocks seemed fairly voluminous with
an artillery of voices— so easily answer the echoes
in that inland cove I Yet only self-answered were
mine, and at this I wondered as 1 scaled a ridge of
shingle — when behold! — before me was a hill-
bounded hollow, on the level spacious bottom of
which burned a broken circle of fires. In and out
among these hovered half a dozen old squaws, like
a double trio of the Witches of Forres. Propped
over each fire were huge flat objects, black with
soot, yet reeking, hissing and steaming with the
pitch, which ever and anon one or another of the
sweltering old women applied, by means of im-
provised, long sapling-tongs, to their scorching
surfaces.
Presently one of these weird beings issued from
the smudge which had until now half hidden her
and I recognized] by her white hair my Zuni
grandmother, "Old Ten."
"Ha-hua!" Ishouted, as I made a bolt for the bot-
tom of the hill. "My mothers and grandmothers,
be ye happy I A thirsty trail it is, up one side and
down the other of Thunder Mountain, to all except
sparrow-hawks and other wingsters — and my Amer-
ican friends are neither ; no, they are dying back
there ; and where Zuni mothers are there are can
teens in plenty, so " but I suddenly stopped as
I neared the fires. Each member of the party, in-
cluding an old priest whom I had not seen before,
was glaring at me with compressed lips. Dismay
was depicted on the countenances of all. Some
were fairly dancing — as well as their stifay-hinged
joints would admit — with the excitement they
tried hard to suppress ; others were frantically wav-
ing me off; but my old gi'andmother, knowing me
better, laid one set of sooty fingers over her lips,
while with the other she beckoned me nearer. As
I approached her she lowered the admonitory set
of fingers, but their prints, clearly defined in soot
across her mouth, continued to warn me from
speaking. What could 1 do ? I threw ray head
back, closed my eyes simperlngly as though ravished
with the delight of slaking thirst, and gurgled-
inaudibly, but as visibly as possible with my throati
— at the same time holding up two fingers and point-
ing with them back toward the hill. Forthwith, as
if to practically illustrate my meaning, appeared
the two heads of my American companions, who
had grown impatient and followed me. Anything
like the discomfiture of an American is a joke in
Zuni. The rage ui the faces of the old women and
the priest vanished, and they began to grin. "Old
Ten" seized the fringe of my shirt, dragged me out-
side of a certain imaginary boundary line, and be-
gan hastily whispering to me, (furtively glancing
from side to side, meanwhile) in the following
strain :
"Look here, my beloved, fool of a child I What'
have you not accomplished of misfortune to us this
day ? We are finishing lUl ash na k'ia-stonesi
Do you hear ? Your dreadful voice should have
stopped when you saw our signal-smokes; but no!
You are crazy; you sadly lack aged bearing; you
look no more where you go than a crust-eyed turtle ;
not content with rousing every echo-god in TA ai
yH'l Ion ne, you bounced down with your jabbering
clatter into our very 'silence tract I' Oh, the moon I
away with you. Eun along, now, with your dry-
skinned American friends. Fill them up with the
water (you will find plenty of it in a hole around the
corner of that hill) or they'll begin to mouth."
"1 know," said I, "but why "
"Never mind why— run along, and I'll tell you
some other time — go now, go, or every stone in our
fire-beds will be ruined 1"
"You should have told me this before, and then
I shouldn't have "
m
THE IMIILLSTOlsrE.
"Well, I will tell you ! Kun along, they're com-
ing."
So, supplementing as far as possible, the hasty
inventory I had talieu of the place while all this
was transpiring, I led theway, with a whispered word
of explanation, to the watering place below the hill.
It was evening when we reached home. Later
on the old woman, evidently impressed by what I
had said to her at the scene of their curious opera-
tions, came to me. There was a look in her face of
wonderful wisdom, strangely blended with vexa-
tion or disappointment, as she said :
"Hear me, child ; I knew your heedlessness would
cause great trouble and loss to us I Tou have broken
two of our best baking-stones with your giving of
much mouth to your voice at the foot of Thunder
Mountain to-day. "
It at once occurred to me that superstitions simi-
lar to those cormected with the manufacture of
pottery must pertain with equal force to the finish-
ing of hi-we stones. So I said in a conciliatory
tone:
"I am sorry that I did not know that the stones
were as touchy [a' ya vi] as baking clay. Never
mind I old mother, I will make presents for them.
But how was I to know ? As I said up there,
'Why?' "
" 'Why ?' indeed !" she repeated, "am 1 not telluig
you why ?' ' Wh ereupon she continued in the same
strain, as if her grotesque reasoning were the most
obviously natural in the world.
From all she said — it was not a little, for I led
her on by simulating stupidity — and from the little
I had seen at the quarries, I gathered what in part
follows :
I had seen that while some of the old women
were busy as I have described, applying pinon-
gum and rubbing crushed cactus leaves over the
hot, blackened objects — which proved to be baking
stones — others occasionally placed more fuel on the
fires and cast into them little green sprigs of cedar ;
which latter, besides augmenting the signal-banners
of smoke had, it was supposed, some potent effect
on the stones.
Out to one side of thelittle glade where all this
was going on, were still two others, working in a
sort of quarry. There, stones were lying in all
stages of preparation, from the freshly-mined
blocks, roughly chipped into shape, to those await
ing only the burning process by which all must
be tempered before use. These stones were com-
posed of a massive, very light gray sandstone.
Such as had been fully worked were four inches
thick and nearly as many feet long, by two and a
half in breadth. The surfaces designed to be low-
ermost were very roughly leveled by a "pecking
process; while the upper faces were beautifully
finished. They were not only as even as though
planed, but ground to the last degree of smoothness
(short of polish) by means of various flat, rudely
rounded blocks of sandstone. Even the chipped,
less uniform edges, partook to some extent of this
attritional finish. Thus far manipulated, .the stones
were left, the old woman told me, an indefinite
length of time to cure; and on occasions like that
which (happily for me) I had intruded upon, they
were carried, with great labSr, to the neighborhood
of the fires, there to be thoroughly dried and
warmed before being brought into actual contact
with the flames and embers.
The usual number of old women making up a
party of "stone finishers" is four or eight, rarely
more. Pour days previously to the tempering of
the stones they retire to an estufa or lone room,
there to fast and engage in certain ceremonials, in
which croning traditional chants and repeating rit-
uals play an important part. During these four
days they never come forth unless at rare intervals
and for a very short time (and then under the pro-
tecting influence of warning head-plumes) thatthey
may not be touched by the uninitiated. Yet, during
tlie intermissions of their religious observances,
they prepare great cakes of pinon gum, carefully
wrapping them in strips of cedar bark, and in other
ways make ready for the work at hand. On the
morning of the day succeeding the last night of
their vigil, they repau- in single file, headed by a
particular clan-priest — usually a "Badger," who on
no account touches one of them — to the quarry.
Before lifting the stones, before even quarrying any
of them, they recite long, propitiatory prayers, cast-
ing abundant medicine-meal to the "Flesh of the
rock." With other but shorter prayers the fire is
kindled by the old priest, who uses as his match a
stick of hard wood with which he drills vigorously
into a piece of dry, soft root, until the friction ig-
nites the dust of its own making, and to the new
flames thus generated, offerings of dry food are
made. The stones are then brought, and when
warm enough, placed over the fires; teiiig so con-
stantly annointed with the pitch and cactus juice,
which they greedily absorb, that they at last seem
solid masses of carbonized substance rather than
gritty rock. From the beginning to the end of this
tempering process never a word is spoken aloud nor
the least excitement or sprightly action indulged in.
Sounds uttered would penetrate the grain of the
rock and, expelled by heat or conflicting with the
new "being" (function) of the stone, split, scale or
shiver it with a loud noise. So also, the evil influ-
ence of undue passion or hasty action would alike
be communicated to it — with blighting future effect.
At certain times the stones are temporarily with-
drawn, and being coated with grease, assiduously
rubbed with hard, smoothly water-worn cobble-
stones. After several reburniugs and repetitious
of this treatment, they assume a fine black luster
amounting practically to a glaze on their upper
sides. They are now considered finished, bundled
up in old blankets and rags, and mounted on the
sturdy backs of attendant — or stray — burros; all at
least except one, the smallest of the lot, whicli, in
memory of former times it may be supposed, is
snailed home on the unlucky shoulders of the ac-
companying priest. This latter, by the way, al-
though an important functionary, leading, as we
have seen, in certain of the rites, is made, either
through good nature or custom, a general utility man.
The one I saw had at least that appearance. He
was alwayspottering about — without accomplishing
the slightest good — but stepped aside most oeferen-
tially when any of the ancient matrons came near,
and wore that bilious look which men so naturally
assume when representing the minority at, for in-
stance, a tea-drinking. From all this I argued that
his office was a survival of ancient days when his
protecting presence was a necessity in times of war.
Perliaps the bow and quiver which he carried — for
no discoverable purpose other thau in conformity
to a traditional whim — helped me to this inference.
The stones, when arrived at the pueblo, are dis-
tributed; for they by no means belong always to the
families of those who fashioned them. While not,
m the completed condition, arlicles of commerce,
still several in the lot have been made, as it were,
by subscription, and are, in the end, well paid for.
The setting of them up in the kitchen fireplace is a
matter quite ranking with our own old "Hanging of
the crane," though in nature a very different
ceremonial.
When all has been made ready in the household
for which one of them was designed, it is solemnly
ushered in by one or a couple of the ancient dames
who hewed and tempered it. By the latter it is
leaned, face to the East, against the wall, and "made
acquainted" with selected ears of corn which are
placed on either side of it. It, or something about
it, is then exorcised with rituals, and abundantly
"invested" with prayer-meal, and drinking-water
presented by sprinkling. Finally, it is taken to its
bed or "sitting place" in the -kitchen, (four strongly
built columns of mud masonry in the corner of the
wide hearth), laid out, and a fire of splintered cedar
built under, it. As it gradually heats— so that it
would hiss if moistened with the mouth through the
messengership of the fingers — a pot of thin paste,
composed of hot water and fine flour of all the six
varieties of corn, is set to cook, while a bread-bowl
is nearly fllled with a similar though thicker paste
or batter made in cold water, and placed near the
left end of the stone. The latter is now "tried for
heat" as above suggested, and if found right, is
scoured with salt, greased and well rubbed with an
old rag. A small bowl of the sticky, well stewed
paste is set also near the left end of the stone,
(some drops from each dish being dashed into the
fire underneath as a sacrifice), and the first baking
begins 1 The anxiety which attends this trial is by '
no means trivial when viewed, as it is by the assem-
bled women, in the light of an oracle. One of the
' 'chosen' ' ancients oflSciates. She squats on her heels
in front of the baking-stone, dips her closed fingers
first into the hot, then into the cold paste scooping
up just the requisite quantity of each, and then
with a graceful, skimming sweep of the hand along
the surface of the stone, applies thinly and evenly
to it the fluid batter. Instantly a clOud of steam
rises, hovers a moment over all, then joins the smoke
of the fire in its upward flight. No sooner this, than
the edges of the large sheet of paste now slightly
toasted, begin to roll up ; then they are grasped at
one side, slightly pulled and lifted, when lo ! the
whole huge, almost transparent wafer is triumphant-
ly laid on a square plaited mat near by. Sad would
be the occysion if this first effort should fail —
which it rarely does — for it would signify that the
slone was inimical to some of the six kinds of corn-
food to be cooked on it by and by — or they to it I
Leaving out all ceremonial except the little sacri-
fice to the fre, yet adding much coquetry and grace
to all motions accompanying this frequent occupa-
tion — especially among the younger women during
preparations for feasts — the above description will
apply in all cases. Since the successful hi-we, or
wafer-bread, maker may aspire to almost any match
outside of her own clan, no matter how high ; since
also, she is esteemed of the greatest importance in
her household to the very last of her working days,
no wonder this apparently simple art is practiced
by yoimg miadens more assiduously than any other.
Blankets may be purchased, embroideries for the
sacred dance paid for, pottery-making in any quan-
tity and quality hired, but the inferior ?i^-we-baker
dooms her family to tough, uneven, ill-cooked
shreds and bundles in place of crisp sheets and light-
some rolls, is herself doomed to the stinging ridicule
of her more fortunate sisters, and unending envy
of their ability. I know whereof I speak, critical
reader, for full often have 1 despaired and sought
the firesides of more distant kin, when the younger
of my adopted Zuiii sisters chanced to ply paste
over the bake-stone of our inner kitchen. Very
rare indeed is it for a young girl to become one of
these favored experts. The patience which, in
lieu of the immense experience required for this is,
as a rule, but inadequately encouraged by the pros-
pects of ultimate success, however assured and
bright these be. She must learn not only to apply
the paste to the hissmg hot stone with a steaay
hand (a painfully acquired experience this), but al-
so to mix it in proper proportion, and to combine
the hot kind ana cold with unerring judgment
as she hastily dips fiom either with the tips of her
fingers. If, for example, she lays on too large a
THE l^ILLSTOIsrE.
199
proportion of the coo/ced paste, her )i6-we will be too
tough — "too much like chewing-gum," some old
cross-patch will say. If, on the other hand, she
mixes in an undue quantity of the cold batter, it
will be "brittle as thin ice," or "like sand, chill the
bones of him who eats it." It, despite all this she
■wins the day, what a blessed day it is tor her ! How
poor soever she be, she is universally in demand.
At the houses of the wealthy on the eve of great
feasts ; at the clanship house-buildings, where more
than one lusty young fellow mindful of his future,
is enticed by her presence to the detested worlt, at
all these and many other places — petted, pampered
and well dressed to profusion — she may be unfail-
ingly seen. Like her drudging, rather more com-
mon sister of the milling-trough, she is a flirt. Like
her, too, she is a votaress of that wicked, fabled
"Goddess of the White Shells," at least so goes the
story ; but never mind the story I Goddess, or no
goddess, it is just the same with every tribe on
earth.
Six varieties of the Ui'We are in common use :
the yellow, the blue or green, the red, the white,
the brindle, or all-color, and the black. They are
the BREAD of the Zuiiis. No meal, however sump-
tuous, is every eaten without one or another of
them. Most of the colors result from the hues of
the corn grains used. If, for instance, yellow M-
we be desired, yellow corn exclusively is used for
its manufacture. The blue is deepened by the ad-
dition of lime-yeast to the meal of blue corn.
Green is produced by the equal mixture of blue
meal and yellow, and the addition of lime yeast
and ashes. It and the blue are the most constantly
used of all varieties. White is made whiter with a
little kaolin; black, or rather a sable purjle, with
certain charred and powdered leaves. The all-color
TiS-we is more difficult of production. Six dishes of
.paste are supplied, each as if prepared for one of
the above named colors. Three of these are cooked
(those containing lime or ashes) while the others are
left .old. For each sheet of the hd-we a tiny dip
into first one then another of the dishes is made,
each dip being dashed upon the stone. A mottled
or brindled sheet is the result. The appearance of
this being so far superior to its more substantial
qualities that it forms almost its only recommenda-
tion — makes it rather unpopular except on stated
occasions.
Of each variety of 7i^-we except the last described,
several kinds or grades are made. The thick, he-
yd'-hfytti, usually eaten warm, is formed of several
layers ; that is, three or four applications are made
coextensive the surface of the stone before the sheet
is withdrawn. It is then turned, quickly replaced
and neatly folded while still comparatively moist.
The salty, k'os-'h6-we, is perhaps the most whole-
some of all the plain breadstuffs of the Zunis. Salt
and lime yeast are added to the pastes, and a liber-
al quantity of suet— also salted— rubbed over the
stone before baking. When not designed for imme-
diate consumption, this salty hi-we is rolled into
neat little sticks or cylinders corresponding in length
to the width of the stone. No bread is lighter or
more tempting than these M po-lo-lo-we piled one
above the other on the bright wicker-trays in which
they are served. Another very grateful kind of
wafer bread is the kvA' Via-M-we, or milk hi-^e.
In the mixture of the pastes of which this is fonued,
milk instead of water is used, a food richer to the
palate than "cream biscuits" being the result.
Such of the wafer bread as is designed for daily
use is baked' at once in great quantity. The piles
of sheets laid one above another are often so high
that they look like huge bales of fine wrapping-
paper. Partially doubled or folded into masses,
which we may call quires or even reams, they are
packed away in permanent half-buried jars provided
vith close-fitting lids. Thus the moisture is pre-
served which keeps the }i,6-we from crumbling in
the fingers as it is eaten, and gives it tliS peculiar
feel and flavor in the mouth, which distinguishes it
as the most perfecct of all known corn-foods. Not-
withstanding the care used in storing it, this thin
food will, if kept beyond a certain time, become
dry and far more flaky than the most delicate pas-
tries. The flakes are carefully preserved together
with the crumbs of feasts and the residue from the
bread irays of each meal. When a sufficient quan-
tity has accumulated, it is further dried by expos-
ure to heat, then quite finely pulverized with the
hands. One of the several dishes made from this
chipped hS-we is wafer toast {he'l a-kwi-we). The
chips, together with salt and untried suet or scraps,
are thrown into a tTile-'mon, or earthen toasting-pan,
and stirred until well browned. This, ground on
the metate to the condition of coarse meal, forms
one of the staple artices of food for long journeys-
Chief among these latter preparations, however, is
the same meal of toasted h6-we chips, ground finer,
cooked in part as is the plain cornmeal batter, in
other part stirred into cold water and a second time
baked on the stone. In this condition it is called
double-done tiA-we, and no longer tastes like the
food from which it is thus made over, but rather
like the most delicate pie-crust.
A sweet tiA-we — hi-tchl-kwa — of a bright red col-
or, and in taste resembling "London sugar wafers,''
is made from the fine meal of red com. The cooked
portion of the ingredient paste being well boiled in
a decoction of red corn-leaves and shoots (plucked
earlier in the season and carefully dried for this ex-
press purpose) imparts the color and taste which
distinguish this from all other kinds of 7id-we hereto-
fore described. Yet another, h&-tchi-kwa, is made
by the chewing and fermenting process so often
alluded to on former pages. This, while neither
very sweet nor bright-colored, possesses a peculiar
flavor which is highly regarded by the natives,
making it extremely popular on the mornings of
feast days. The material of which it is made, quite
otherwise baked, is called "Buried-bread broad hi-
we" (he-k'ia-^a hi^a-lo-k^ia). Several smooth.^
thin baking-stones are heated and placed within
easy reach. Meanwhile the paste is thickly applied
to the regular hS-we stone, each sheet being taken
off as soon as it is done enough to hold together,
and placed between a couple of the hotbak ng-slabs.
Thus a pile of alternating stones and thick hi^we
sheets is built up to the hight of a foot or two, and
allowed to stand until the steam, which at first
pours out in volumes, begins to disappear. The
well-baked and pressed cakes (if we may call them
such) which result from this, are quite brittle, al-
though by no means tough when eaten in fresh con-
dition. In the course of time, however, they be-
come very hard, and in common with the dried bits
of the ordinary buried-bread, are reduced to fine
flour for the use of traveling or hunting parties.
Sometimes the meal of sweet corn is treated In
this or other ways, making a most delicious flour ;
of which a very little goes a long way toward satis-
fying hunger. Of all substances known to the Zu^
nis, however, none approach in nutritive quality
the tchu'-k'i-^a, or "moistening flour." White or
yellow corn is boiled with cob-ashes until the hull
may be removed. It is then dried a day or two and
well toasted in the parching pot, ground to coarse
samp, toasted again, ground to very fine flour, and
once more toasted, then carefully sifted. Thus
manipulated, what with waste and excessive reduc-
tion, a bushel of corn makes but a few quarts of
flour. A single teaspoonful of this powder when
stirred into a pint of water will make a tolerably
thick batter of it; in which condition it is drank, a
few sips sufficing to satisfy the most hungry appe-
tite. Wlien combined witli meat-meal or jei'ked
venison toasted and well ground up with red pep-
per and salt, it embraces all the elements necessary
for man's sustenance. Very rarely, all. this, too, is
made the basis of a kind of Ui-we; but as, in the
former condition, it may be preserved year in and
out, is ever ready for consumption without the in-
tervention of fire, and may be transported in small
compass yet in sufficient quantity for a long cam-
paign—it rarely gets further than its first stages.
Many a time have I subsisted alone on this meal
and the game I shot, nor did I ever long for other
foods the while. Tracts of barren country otherwise
impassable, are made, by this food, the easiest
routes of traders ; and in times of war when a fire
however slight, might doom the party who kindled
its flames, it becomes absolutely indispensable.
^ -^
Ik this month's chapter on "Zuni Breadstuffs"
, Mr. Gushing describes the process of manufacturing
: what is considered among this ancient people their
; most valuable and nutritious food product. It is
known among them as Tchu'-k'i-na, or "moistening
flour," and is made from corn. The reader will
observe that the process gives a hint to the gradual j
reduction methods of the present day. The most
remarkable thing about the flour ultimately de-
rived from the various reductions is that it retains
for years all the nutritive qualities of the grain. A
bushel of corn is so manipulated that but a few
quarts of flour is .the result, and one teaspoonful
of this stirred into a pint of cold water makes a
mush sufllcient to satisfy the hungriest Indian.
Combined with meat-meal, another product of the
culinary art of this remarkable race of men, and pro-
fusely seasoned, a food embracing "all the elements
necessary for man's sustenance" is the result. It
occurs to us that this food would be the safeguard
of men engaged in perilous undertakings in unin-
habitable regions, such as Arctic expeditions and the
like. An amount that would not burden any one to
carry would furnish a man the best of sustenance
for a year.
.A-ya. Xllus^K-ated Itf on*Ixl3r J'o'ux-xml, Z3e-vo«ed. «c» «Iie .A.d-v»zioexxieziit cjf aailllxiB and Saeclaaxilcal InteireB
PtTRI-ISHED BY
Davitl H. Kaiick.
} VOL. IX. INDIANAPOLIS, IND., DECEMBER, 1884. NO. XII,
f STJBSCBIPTION PEICE
\Oue Uollur Per Auuum
Ui
[Copyrighted 1884, by David H. Ranck.]
ZITQI BREjEIDSTUFF— X.II.
Khia' I ta i^e ; or Wheat Food.
The Introduction, Cultivation and Use of Wheat
Among the Zuflis.
FRANE H. CUSHINO.
HENCE and how came the wheat where-
with were sown the first fields of that
golden gralr '" ^^^ fip.sfirt. vn.1pR of Zimi?
Long indeed
this double query I '
only in meager outlii
it involves.
Three hundred ai
lived and ruled in
province of Mexico, w
high-handed prodigal i
— and iron-haaded wi i
al— a Spanish gram I
and president of N
Spain, named Nuno
Guzman. Among I
many Indian slai
was one named Te;
who had been captui
from the valley of ('
tipar. This Indian 1
his master of a g]
province lying beyond
vast sage-covered des-
erts far to the north,
wherein stood seven
cities, some of which, he
afiSrmed, were greater
than Mexico itself.
These cities he had vis-
ited in company with
his;.' father who, being a
merchant, was accus-
tomed to go thither to
trade the brilliant feath-
' ers of Mexican birds for
^ turquoises and golden
treasures, which the nar
tives of that country, he
said, possessed unstint-
ed measure of. Inflamed with a memory of the
brilliant conquest or the Aztecs, but a decade pre-
viously accomplished; anxious, moreover, to rival
his political en^my, the great Cortez, Nuno de Guz-
man set forth for the Seven Cities with an army of
some hundred Spaniards and more than 2,000 In-
dians. Arrived among the mountains of northern
Mexico, he was met by unexpected hardships, and
tribes of fierce savages daily attacked his starving
ranks, untU he was compelled to turn back. He
laid waste the countries he had discovered, enslav-
ed thousands of the inhabitants, and named the
whole vast region El Nuevo Eeyno de Galicia — the
New Kingdom of Gaul — over which, on his return,
he was appointed governor and captain-general.
" Three years previously, or, to be precise, in 1527,
the fated Pamphilo de Narvaez had left the shores
of Spain with his fleet and army for the conquest
of the Floridas, then an unexplored region includ-
ing a kingdom in its extent. Shipwreck after ship-
wreck, mutiny, malaria, starvation and barbarous
wars, soon reduced this
what is now Louisiana.
Of these, only one ofii-
cer — Alvar Nunez Ca-
beza de Vaca, and three men, Andr6s Dorrantes,
Alouso CasliUo and Estevanico— a Barbary negro
—survived and escaped. During nine years of in-
credible suffering, first as slaves, afterward as un-
clad, half-famished fugitives, these four men wan-
dered from tribe to tribe as far north as the Tennessee
River, westward to the Mississippi, which they
were the first to discover and cross, then southwest-
ward through Texas, New Mexico and thenarthern
states of Mexico to the coast of the Gulf of Califor-
nia where they fell in with a band of Guzman's
slave-hunting soldiery, and, thus rescued, ultimate-
ly reached the City of Mexico. Cabeza de Vaca,
noble by birth and only surviving officer of the lost
army of Florida, was received and entertained by
the Lord Don Antonio de Mendoea at his court and
palace. His almost miraculous appearance with
three companions, coming fprth from an unknown
wilderness naked and wild as if risen from the
dead, excited the profoundest interest in his won-
derful tale of vast countries, tribes, populous
provinces and cities
builded of stone. Again
the simple story of the poor
Indian slave, Tejos — long
since dead or murdered —
was believed. Meanwhile,
Guzman declining in fa-
vor, was thrown into pris-
on, his enslaved subjects
set free ' by thousands,
and a gallant noble, Fran-
cisco Vasquez de Corona-
do named as his success-
Excited by these novel
reports, the Viceroy Men-
doea determined, as had
Nuno de Guzman, to hum-
ble the pride, or at least
to emulate the discoveries,
of the insolent Cortez
who had just been created,
as a reward for his splen-
did conquests. Marquis de
Valle, and accorded al-
most princely honors and
station. In pui'suance of
this move, he dispatched
on a journey of explora-
tion toward the now fa-
mous Seven Cities, Fray
Marcos de Ni?a with a
companion priest named
Honoratus, and the negro,
Estevanico, as guide. In
the month of March, 1539,
this fearless and zealous friar, forced to leave his
companion lying ill at the town of Petatlan, set
forth alone with the negro and some Indian allies,
from the northernmost towns of Mexico into the
boundless wilds and deserts. For many days he
traveled parallel with the coast, but at last more by
mistake than intention struck off inland and arrived
at a "towneof reasonable bignesse," called Yacupa,
near the present site of Tucson, in Arizona. Here,
the friar determined to rest and reconnoitre. He
sent Indians westward to find the sea, and the ne-
gro Estevanico he instructed to proceed north, and-
should he find in that direction news of any great
province, he should send back word and a cross
proportionate in size to the importance of his in-
:)
224
THE ayniXjUiSTonsTE.
formation. Within four days an Indian runner re-
turned bearing a cross as big as himself witli a mes-
sage from Estevanieo, that he had learned of a
great province, distant a month's Journey, in which
stood seven cities, the first of which was called Ci'-
bola, and urging the friar to make all haste in fol-
lowing. Resuming his journey Fray Marcos was
met by other messengers from Estevanieo with an-
other equally large cross, and thus hastened he
passed village after village in one of which Este-
vanieo had set up a great cross and left word that
he would wait at the end of the first desert beyond.
Always hearing glorious reports of Ci'bola, always
venerated as a supernatural being, entertained and
assisted on his way by the Indians, he traveled
through a desert aid into a valley well inhabited,
finely cultivated and filled with large towns. In one
of the latter he found a man born in Ci'bola; who
claimed to have escaped from the "Governor or
Lieutenant" of that place. He was "a white man
of good complexion somewhat well in yeares, and
of a farre greater capacitie then the inhabitants of
this valley." He gave minute information of the
place of his nativity, and begged Fray Marcos to
take him back and intercede with the "Lord of
the Province" in his favor. Guided by this,
and many other Indians who had visited Ci'bola to
trade and labor for turquoises and the "dressed hides
of kine," he lef tthe fertile valley behind and entered
another desert, only to find that the negro had
again preceded him. What with his anxiety to see
the renowned Province of Ci'bola and to overtake
Estevanieo, he now made greater haste than ever —
little dreaming of the tidings which were even then
preparing for him. It appears that the negro, eager
to be the first to see a.s he had been the first to hear
of, the new country, never paused until he came
within a day's distance of the reputed city of Ci'bola.
When crossing the continent, he had often, in com-
mon with Cabeza de Vaca and his companions,
owed the preservation of life to a certain "great
mace made of a gourd" which had been given them
in return for medical services by some southern
tribe, and which, (being a sacred rattle, no doubt)
had been greatly venerated by the peoples they had
encountered. This mace, trimmed with hawk's-
bells and red and white feathers, he had brought
from Mexico. He now gave it into the hands of an
Indian embassy with instructions that it should be
delivered to the chief cacique of the city, to whom
he sent a message demanding hospitality and hom-
age, and threatening that if aught of evil were done
the baton, himself, or his companions, vengeance
would be visited upon the people of Ci'bola by
many others of his nation who were following.
"And when they came to Cenoja before the Magis-
trate, which the Lord of the eitie had placed there
for his Lieutenant, they deliijered him the sayde
great gourd, who tooke the same in his hands, and
after he had spyed the belles, in a great rage and fury
hee cast it to the ground and willed the messengers
to get packing with speed, for hee knew well
ynough what people they were, and that they should
will them in no case to enter into the citie, for if
they did hee would put them all to death."* When
. the Indians returned and told Estevanieo of this, he
made light of it and pushed on to the town where,
carrying a high hand, he was forthwith confinea
and stripped of his possessions. Trying, with some
of his Indians to escape next day, he was pursued
and slain as well as many of his company. Some
♦The curious reader may find relations of this and the
many other explorations of those days — among the earliest
ever undertaken within the territory now embraced in the
Union — in Hakluyt's "Voyages, Nauigations, TrafBquesand
Discoueries," Vol. IIIj Ramusio's "Navigationi et Viaggi,"
Vol. Ill; Ternaux-Compans, "Relation et Naufrages d' Al-
var Nunex Cafaega de Vaca;" and "Relation du Voyage de
Ci'bola," and in that rare and valuable work of subscrip-
tion, ••Colleecion de Documentos Ine'ditos, etc.,"TomoXV,
Madrid. ~- -
of the latter fled, and among them a young Indian,
who, covered with sweat find in horrible fright, met
the unconscious Friar when but three days remained
of his journey, and informed thechiefs accompany-
ing him, of the fate of the negro and his party. The
Indians set up a great howl of grief and indignation,
and Fray Marcos, fearing for his life, tried to calm
them by distributing nearly all the property he had
brought for "truck and barter." Finding it impos-
sible to persuade them to accompany him further,
he nevertheless pluckily determined "to see Cinola
whatsoeuer came of it." Accompanied by his own
Indians and but two of the others, he says, "I fol-
lowed my way, till I came within sight of Cinola,
which IS situate on a plaine at the foote of a round
hill, and maketh shew to bee a faire citie, and is
better seated then any I haue seene in these partes.
The houses are builded in order, according as the
Indians told me, all made of stone with diners
stories and flatte roofes, as farre as Icoulddiscerne
from a mountaine whither I ascended to viewe
the citie." Very many details the good father gives
in his quaint narrative, of this and of other cities
and provinces — Abacus, Acus, Marata and Tonton-
teac — affirming information of abundant gold, silver
and precious stones throughout, but let it suf-
fice that with the assistance of his Indians, he
raised a great heap of stones setting thereon a slen-
der cross, and took possession of all, in the name of
the "Lord Don Antonio de Mendoga * * for
the Emperour om- Lord," and "Thought good to
name that country 'El Nueno Keyno de San Fran-
cisco' " — The New Kingdom of St. Francis. After
this he "Eeturned with much more feare than vic-
tuals" and traveling over the route which he had
come by with all possible speed to the city of Com-
pestella, in Mexico, thence wrote to Mendoga a full
account of his explorations. The Viceroy imme-
diately completed the organization of agrand army.
So high ran the hopes of the day, that knights and
nobles of high degree scorned not to offer their ser-
vices as common soldiers in the enterprise ! Coro-
nado was appointed captain general with the title
of governor over all the provinces he should con-
quer. Mendopa himself accompanied the army far
on its way and dispatched it amply provisioned
with live stock and munitions. What though guided
by Fray Niga, this army lost its way, was baffied by
unnumbered hardships and delays, but ultimately
reached a river near the Province of Ci'bola, which
they named El Bio de Lino— now the Colorado
Chiquito of Arizona. On the borders of this river
they met some of the Indians of Ci'bola with whom
the tried in vain to treat. Although Uvo or three
of them seemed not unfriendly, others, farther
away, made signal-fires on the tops of mountains,
which being answered and repeated from afar soon
warned the dwellers in the Seven Cities to prepare
for war. When, therefore, Coronado and his army
presented themselves before the principal city, they
were welcoihed by a shower of sticks, stones and
flint-pointed arrows. Protected by their good mail,
dauntless as were always the Spanish cavaliers of
the olden time, these starving soldiers, although
scarcely able to stand, assaulted the stony walls,
and after a fierce conflict scaled and took them.
The inhabitants fled by the hundred to "holdes"
whither they had taken their wives and children,
their aged and most of their property; but within
the town remained great quantities of provisions,
corn and meal, on which it need not be doubted the
army feasted to satisfaction. Nothing can be more
interesting than the soldierly, yet excellent account,
which Coronado made due haste to write to the
Viceroy Mendoga, and which, gathered from sever-
al of his letters, I quote below at discretion:
" * * The Father prouinciall * » saydthe
tnieth in nothing that he reported * *' saving
only the names of the cities, and great houses of
stone : * * very excellent good houses of three
or four or flue lofts high, wherein aregood lodgings
and faire chambers, with lathers instead of staires,
and certaine cellars vnder the ground uery good and
paued, which are made for winter, they are in
maner like stooues : and the lathers which they
haue for their houses are all in a maner mouable
and portable, which are taken away and set downe
when they please, and they are made of two pieces
of wood with their steppes as ours be. The seuen
cities are seuen small townes, all made with these
kind of houses that I speake of : -and they stand all
within foure leagues together, and they are all
called the Kingdome of Cibola, and euery one of
them haue their particular name : and none of them
is called Cibola, but altogether they are called Ci-
bola. * * Inthistowne where I now remaine there
may bee some two hundred houses, all compassed
with walles, and I think that with the rest of the
houses which are not so walled they may be togeth-
er flue hundred. There is another to wne neere this,
which is one of the seuen, & it is somewhat bigger
than this, and anotlier of the same bignesse that
this is of, and the other foure are somewhat lesse.
* * The people of this to wne seeme vnto me of a
reasonable stature, and wittie, yet they seeme not
to bee such as they should bee, of that iudgement
and wit to builde these houses in such sort as they
are. * * 'They haue painted mantles. * * They
haue no cotton-wool growing, because the country is
colde, yet they wear mantels thereof, * * and true
it is that there was found in their houses certaine
yarne made of cotton-wool. They weare then- haire
on their heades like those of Mexico, and they are
all well nulured and condicioned : And they haue
Turqueses I thinke good quantitie, which with the
rest of the goods which they had, except their corne,
they had conueyed away before I came thither : for I
found no women there, nor no youth vnder flfteene
yeares olde, nor no olde folkes aboue sixtie sauing
two or three olde folkes, who stayed behinde to
gouerne all the rest of the youth and men of warre.
* * Wee found heere Guinie cockes, but fewe.
The Indians tell mee in all these seuen cities they
eate them not, but that they keepe them onely for
their feathers. I belieue them not, for they are ex-
cellent good, and greater then those of Mexico.
The season which is in this countrey, and the tem-
perature of the ayre is like that of Mexico : for
sometime it is hotte, and sometime it raineth: but
hitherto I neuer sawe it raine, but once there fell a
little showre with winde, as they are woont to fall
in Spaine.
"The snow and cold are woont to be great, fer so
say the inhabitants of the Countrey : and it is likely
so to bee, both in respect to the maner of the
Countrey, and by the fashion of their houses, and
their f urres and other things which this people
haue to defend them from cold. There is no kind
of fruite nor trees of fruite. The countrey is all
plaine, and is on no side mountainous, albeit there
are some hillie and bad passages. There are small
store of Foules : the cause whereof is the colde, and
because the momitaines are not neere. Here is no
great store of wood, because they haue wood for
their fuell suflicent foure leagues off from a wood of
small Cedars. There is most excellent grasse
within a quarter of a league hence, for our horses
as well as to f eede them in pasture, as to mowe and
make hay, whereof we stoode in great neede, be-
cause our horses came hither so weake and feeble.
"The victuals which the people of this countrey
haue, is Maize, whereof they haue great store, and
also smalle white Pease: and Venison, which by all
likelyhood they feede vpon, (though they say no)
THES IMIILILiSTOlsrEl.
225
for wee foiind many skinnes of Deere, of Hares,
and Conies. Th'ey eat the best cakes that euer I
sawe, and euery body generally eateth of them.
They haue the fili^st order and way to grinde that
wee euer sawe in any place. And one Indian wo-
man of this countrey will grinde as much as four
women of Mexico. They haue most excellent salte
in kernell, which they fetch from a certaine lake a
dayes iourney from hence. * * Here are many
sorts of beasts, as Beares, Tigers, Lions, Porkes-
picks, and certaine Sheepe as bigge as an horse,
with uery great homes and lit1^ tailes, I haue scene
their homes so great that it is a wonder to beholde
their greatnesse. Here are also wilde goates whose
heads likewise I haue seene, and the pawes of
Bearas, and the skins of wilde Bores. There is
game of Deere, Ounces,
and very great Stagges:
They travell eight dayes
iourney vnto certaine
plaines lying toward the
North Sea. In this coun-
trey there are certaine
skinnes well dressed, and
they dressethem and paint
them where they kill their
Oxen, for so they say
themselves."
Speaking further of
these people, Coronado
says:
"I commannded them
that they should paint
mee out a cloth of all the
beasts which they knowe
in their countrey: And
such badde painters as
they are, foorthwith they
painted mee two clothes,
one of their beastes, an-
other of their birdes and
fishes. * * as I haue
say e, the pictures bee
uery rudely done, because
the painter spent but one
day in drawing of the
same. I haue seene other
pictures on the walles of
the houses of this citie
withfaiTe better propor-
tion, and better made. * *
"That which these In-
dians worship as f arre as
hitherto wee can learne,
is the water: for they say
it causeth their corne to
growe and maintaineth —
their life: and that they
know none other reason
but that their ancesters
did so. * *
" ■* * I would haue sent your lordshippe with
this despatch many musters of things which are in
this countrey: but the way is so long and rough,
that it is hard for me to doe so : nevertheless I send
you twelve small mantles, such as the people of the
countrey are woont to weare, and a certaine gar-
ment.also, which seemeth unto me to bee well made :
I kept the same, because it seemed to mee to bee
excellent well wrought, because I beleeue that no
man euer sawe any needle worke in these Indies,
except it were since the Spaniards inhabited the
same. 1 send your honour one Oxe hide, certaine
Turqueses, and two earerings of the same, and fif-
teen combes of the Indians, and certaine tablets set
with Turqueses, and_two_smal l basket s made of
wicker whereof the Indians haue great store. I send
your lordshippe also two roUes which the women
of these parts are woont to weare on their heads
when they fetch water from their welles, as we vse
to io in Spaine. And one of these Indian women
with one of these roUes on her head will carrie a
pitcher of water without touching the same with
her hande vp a lather. [ send you also a muster
of the weapons wherewith these people are woont
to fight, a buckler, a mace, a bowe, and certaine ar-
rowes, among which are two with points of bones,
the like whereof, these conquerors say, haue neuer
been seene. I can say nothing to your lordshippe
touching the apparell of their women. For the In-
dians keepe them so carefully from vs, that hither-
to I haue not seene any of them, sauing onely two
A ZUNI BKEAD-MAKING SCENE.
olde women, and these had two long robes downe
to the foote open before, and girded to them, and
they are buttoned with certaine cordons of cotton.
I requested the Indians to giue me one of these
robes, which they ware, to send your honour the
same, seeing they would not shewe mee their wo-
men * * which the Indians lone more than
themselves. » » "
On a former page of The Millstoot:, I have
told the names of the ancient cities of Ci'bola, as
written by the Spanish conquerors as told me by the
Zmli Indians. Did there remain any doubt of the
identity of the words Ci'bola (pronounced at first
ShiWo-la) and Shf wona, (the Zuiii name for their
country), surely this detailed account from the pen
of Coronado would answer the question which has
been so often asked — "Where were the ' Seven Cit-
ies of Ci'bola ? '" It is far from my province to
follow the journeyings of the Captain General and
his heroic band up the Rio Grande, across to Pecos,
out over the plains of the North as far even as the
Arkansas River, or back to Mexico and tlieir homes
—many of them to reap as the reward for their
service (as did the noble Coronado) only the prison-
bar and death I But the pathway they broke was
soon followed by others — Antonio de Espejo, Gas-
per Castano de Sosa, and the Franciscan Friars,
who forgot not, in sowing the seeds of their Holy
Faith, to plant also the germs of temporal food;
and desert sandy wastes though the lands of Zuiii
be, yet were they far more productive than the
heathen hearts of the natives; for, while the latter
still cling to the worship
of the sun and water, the
former gi-ew yearly,abun-
dant harvests of the
Wheat of Castile I
When you ask the gen-
tle heathen descendants
of the ancient warriors of
Ci'bola, the question with
which this chapter opens,
they reply:
Generations ago came
the Indians of the Land
of Everlasting Summer
with long bows and cane
arrows; and the Black
Mexicans who brought
them, with thundering
sticks which spit fire, and
coats of iron. And our
ancients of K'ia'ki me —
bad-tempered ^Tteolsl —
greased their war-clubs
with the brains of the first
one they saw. Then the
curled moustach-
ers [Spaniards] growing
angry, appeared in fear-
making bands and grasped
the life-trails of our
forefathers until they be-
came like dogs alter a
drubbing ; there also came
certain gray-robed water-
daddies [Franciscan fri-
ars] who brought as pro-
vision, spray-drop seeds
[wheat], some of which
they planted in the
stream-drinking valleys
and taught us the growth
of."
After this manner only
far more copiously runs
the old and now but half belifived legend of the in-
troduction of wheat
Btilieved or not believed the Zunis have reared
and harvested the grain of which it is told, for more
than two centuries ; and as tlieir methods in this —
although an adopted branch of agriculture— are as
different from those of our own as they are like
those of the ancient Egyptians, I have thought well
of according brief notice to the subject.
I have before alluded to the farming towns of
TdM^a or Las Nutrias, Ojo del Pesaado, and Los
Ojos Calieiites. The first named of these pueblos
and springs, now, alas 1 somewhat infamously fa-
mous in newspaper controversy, is situated at the
foot of the Zuni mountains some twenty-five miles
by trail northeast of Zuni ; and in a magnificent val-
226
JJE3LM1 jyciLIjSTOlsrE.
ley of its own. Forth from the heart of the mount-
ains, through a cafion scarce twenty feet across yet
hundreds deep, burst into the light of day, a clear,
impetuous little stream ; fed ever and set forth like
the truant that it is, by the combined efforts of six
or eight small-sized springs, to feed in its turn the
crops and mingle with the sweat of men. Twisting
this way and that through a moimtain-girt plain,
and rushing at last into the narrow portal of a per-
pendicular wall of strangely eroded red-sandstone
strata, it disappears under a dense bed of rushes
and cane-grass. Wh n again looked for half a mile
below, there is nothing to remind you of it but a feeble
brook, lazily sliding along past the base of the
worn, ancient town of Tdi'-ya„ or "Place of Plant-
ing."' Up among these rushes, one may soon dis-
cover why the life of the stream has departed. No
sooner does it rush into the open gateway than it is
imprisoned by the strong arms of an Indian dam
and driven, slave to the will of its7.savage masters,
directly over its own deep-worn trails of former ages,
in viaducts made of enormous hollow logs. These
conduct it — as it now thinks to escape — through
straight ditches two miles in Jength into certain
numerous earth-walled pens, where, trying to
stretch itself for a leap, it instantly disappears and
gets stuck in the loose loam which has been laid for
it, only to be rescued by catching at the straws of
sundry green-growing wheat-stems which forthwith
adopt it as sap. You should see these earth-pens,
laid out for irrigation (I am speaking plainly now),
from the topmost house in Tdi'-ya just at the close
of an April day. • Although the sun Is setting, his
rays are reflected by the mountain-ridge close to
your left and the red rock-wall behind you; so that
there is a subdued glimmer of spectacular light over
everything. Far enough south to make them artis-
tic in tone, lie the>arth-pens. Side by side, end to
end, there they lie, ridged like wafle-irons and reg-
ular as a checkerboard. Down through the middle
of each set runs the straight ditch the water in ev-
ery bit as bright at this time of day as the sun him-
self, and far more gorgeous. A few Indians, rather
undersized in the distance, but perfectly distinct,
linger to water the wheat they have been planting.
As they slowly stride along the sides of the ditches
choppirig the clods with their sand-burnished hoes,
they seem to be flinging the sunlight out of the water.
Each of these square inclosures is ten by twelve
feet, rarely larger. Fifteen or twenty of them make
up the patch of a poor man ; those of the wealthy
who can afford feasts for many laborers being sev-
eral times larger. The soil within them is like that
of a garden, and the wheat is planted in rows, cross-
wise so that It may be easily watered and hoed in
mid-summer. The cultivated area extends a mile
and a half up and down the valley, and is nearly as
wide as it is long. Within it forty families raise
their wheat for the winter. So limited is the sup-
ply of water during the dry months, that every
householder keeps an account-stick hanging some-
where near the sky-hole. Every time he waters a
set of his "earth-bins," he has to cut a notch in this
account-stick ; and as the latter is liable to inspection
by the sub-chiefs any morning, he dares not, or
rather does not, use more than his proper allowance
of the water. As summer wanes and the wheat,
grown tall and heavy with grain under so much kind
treatment begins to ripen, the villagers, who have
mostly departed several weeks ago, return in full
force. The harvesting is accomplished by meajis of
knives, short, crude sickles. If a man be fortunate
enough to get hold of an American sickle, he forth-
with breaks off one-half of the blade and makes two
of it. The wheat is cut off near the head. Huge
blanket-bags full of the ears are transported to one
of the several threshing-floors of the village. These
are simply cleared circular spaces on argillaceou'-
soil well beaten down, sprinkled, beaten again un-
til level, and baked in the sun un'il as hard as brick.
There is usually a post in the center ; more rarely an
enarching palisade. The wheat ears are tumbled
pretty evenly over the extent of one of these floors,
and a motley throng of urchins, horses and donkeys
let in upon it. The horses go in agamst their will ;
the burros for business — part of which is eating
(but illegitimate) ; the urchins go to goad all the
other beasts I There is plenty of shouting and curs-
ing among the elders of the party, a deal of laugh-
ter and romping among the yo.inger —as is always
apt to be the case when both sexes are represented.
During temporaiy lulls in the activity of the beasts,
the women rush in, clear off the straw, gather up
the chaff and grain at tl^e bottom, and carry it in
blankets to the other clear spaces where they win-
now it in the wind, which considerately fans nearly
every afternoon in late summer or early autumn.
After being cleaned, the grain is packed in bags
and either dragged home by cattle in lumber-wagons
and lumbering carts, or else stacked on burros and
thus taken through. Burros being plentiful, the
latter is the popular method — except with them-
selves. You should see a family en voyage at the
end of harvest. Leading the van, is the sub-youth
of the household. He is djsconten+ed because his
eldest brothel- has gone to the Pescado races ; but on
the whole, takes it out quite silently — on the shanks
and other visible parts of the two grain-submerged
burros he is driving. A rod or two rearward follows
the matron — astride. A baby, eloquent with the
mystery and milk-famine of the occasion, is tightly
muffled to her back in a blanket, whence the am-
ple folds of which, its unarticulated protestations
but faintly issue. Clinging behind are the little boy
and girl, bearing, with compressed lips and heroic
half-gasps the pain of their unaccustomed sitting
place — for they are "The little man and woman of
the family" you know ! In her left hand this lady
carries an old parasol; in her right, a well-sharpened
prod of hard wood with which she nickingly touches
up a sore place on the burro's right shoulder. Her
feet are tied into the straps of the saddle — the stir-
rups being too long — and with her heavy, buckskin-
bandaged shanks— which show short and are so —
she fearlessly thumps the sides of the burro until
he groans and staggers — but patiently keeps his ac-
customed pace. Next — the old man ! His burro is
loaded with household pnraphemalia. Among these,
a cat, SBwn up skin-tight in a cotton bag, head pro-
truding, ears laid and eye-whites active, yowls and
hisses as she swings along, balancing the family
eagle on the other side. This gentleman like the
cat, is "done up" and resentful. He continually
pecks and snaps his beak at his own reflection in
the brass kettle overhead, transferring these atten-
tions to the old man when the latter approaches to
maul the burro, or varying them with nipping his
feet and progress sidewise. "Here now I" shouts
his persecutor, as he skips around — quite nimbly
for his age — toward the head of the brute, "get in
there, you oue-eyed, worm-paced breeder of ver-
min, get in, I say I" and cufflty-cuff goes the stick
down on the long flopping ears of the donkey. And
thus things go on to the end of the twenty-five
miles.
The story is told of one old fellow who, in ad-
ministering condign (?) punishment to his burro,
missed his aim and knocked, out the brains of his
favorite eagle. He then and there made a clean
sweep ot the business. In his excitement he killed
the cat, broke a couple of water-jars, and ended up
by murdering the donkey.
In big stone bins, or boxes made by setting thin
sandstone slabs into and across one end of a small
store-room and then cementing them with mud,
the wheat is placed. But a small hole through the
top of the box is left unsealed. Previously to a
feast-day, basketful after basketful of the wheat is
brought forth and washed in the river. It is then
soaked in lukewarm water, and hulled as soon as it
is partially dry on a coarse metate. When quite
dry, it is winnowed over a blanket at the doorway,
and the grains are then gi'ound over a full set of
the metates, by as many girls as can be mustered.
When the flour leaves the last stone it is quite fine.
After the girls have "eaten and scattered out" you
may see the matron of the house packing and pil-
ing the fiour in snowy mountains far above the rims
of the meal-baskets. (See illustration page 323).
When one of these is "full," that is heap up five or
six times its own hight, the woman unconcernedly
picks it off the floor, sets it on her head, and trips
away toward the place where it is to be mixed —
usually near the fire-place, so that she may work
the dough after dark. Hither she brings the bread-
bowl — a hemispherical tub it were better called —
and with water, hot and cold, sour yeast (minus the
lime) and salt, makes up the mo'-tse, or as we would
name it, "sponge." This is allowed to stand near
the fireplace until morning. While the oven is heat-
ing outside, the most buxom young woman of the
family, spreading a blanket on the floor and laying
near it a large square of white cloth and a round
well-polished bread-stone, kneels down and pre-
pares for kneading. Into the mo'-tse she first pours
a quantity of hot tallow, then quickly adding enough
fresh flour to stiffen the mass, kneads it excessively
by pushing one hand down through the center of
the dough, to the bottom of the bowl, while with
the other she pulls or stretches up a quantity from
the outer edge jamming it in turn down the center
as she draws the first hand out; and so on alternate-
ly (see illustration on page 225) until it all becomes
perfectly homogeneous and cohesive. Taking out
a little lump of this dough, she wets it, sprinkles
it with flour, kneads it on the bread-stone over and
animate but thick-skinned conveyance. The old ' over again, rolls it up into a ball, pats it out flat,
man Is the liveliest member of the party. Listen ^ turns it over upon itself, greases it well all over,
to him for a moment : | lays it on the white cloth and pricks it full o£,holes
"Tsuk-tsuk suk-suk," — (that means get along | with a grass straw. Thus is formed the ordinary
lively). "Sh a a a" (mind now). "Stop eating, will i Zuiii loaf. On grand occasions (such as belong
you ? No ? Very well, then I" Whack! "Suk i properly to the concluding chapter) these forms are
suk — what are you abont'now? O yes; y^'^. well !" | fancifully varied. You may see men and women.
Whack-bang— "there now!!' "What,jfff, '^ again? ' deer, antelopes and rabbits, bii-ds, butterflies, sun-
TTana Nil" (just wait). Whacl^jte^j jjChack— ^ flowers and perforated rosettes in effigy, quite artis-
"ahalhuml" The old man, stUfjopi^^ along,. ^ fiscally modeled— although rather inclined to fatten
breathes himself , having whacl&ban^ed -vyith all his out of detail by rising. The dough loaves are laid
muscle. Of this lull the burro takes advantage, , on flat stones or boards, and taken to the oven
which shortly reanimates the old boy. "So-lio I" he
exclaims, "You cause of cogitation I" Whack—
"You slave of faggots"— whack— "You anger of the
gods"— bang,— "Insects- long-eared turtle,— take
f?i^j/"_whackity-whack— "and that 1 1" Bang. The
last blow, hitting the gambol joint of the jack,
causes him to twist out of the trail with his hind
which has been cleared meanwhile of its fire, swept
out and scented with cedar leaves, and passed in by
means of a long-handled shovel of pine, usually
quite handsomely carved. As soon as the oven is
full, the vent-hole at the top is plugged, the door-
way closed with a, heavy stone and plastered, and
the bread lef' ';:'*1^- =_- ' - -
THES DV^dLLSTOICTEI.
227
minutes to half an hour, or under certain circum-
stances a longer time. Then the stone is taken
down and the loaves shoveled out. They are crisp,
brown, and very light having almost doubled in size
during the baking. The bread is hearty and nutri-
tious although inclined to be slightly sour if over-
leavened.
Some of the dough used for a bread making is al-
ways reserved and made up into flat cakes like those
of corn flour described in an earlier chapter as h^
pcL-tehi-we or tortillas. By the addition of milk and
shortening, a sort of unsweetened cake, very grate-
ful and rich, is made in the same way.
A most excellent fried cake called mu'.-tsi-Ti^o-we
or "contorted cakes," and the only impromptu
wheat-food known to the Zunis, is made of simple
flour, water and salt, worked into stiff dough, flat-
tened and stretched into thin round patties, and im-
mersed a minute or two in boiling suet. Brown as
pie-crust and crisp as TU-we, these twisted and
shriveled little cakes formed my favorite luxury
during that extended period tliroughout which 1 was
required to "change my flesh, that I might indeed,
become of the Blood op Zuta."
-^^n Xllims-txra«ed BdCo^-tlily tTcsii&rK&Al, ^e-voted to «lie •A.d-vaxioexxxexi't of nSillixie axid BXeoliRziioAl Xxx-tex-esYH-
PtTBMSHED BY
David H. Ranck.
} VOL. X. INDIANAPOLIS, IND., JANUARY, 1885. NO. I,
I SUBSCKIPTION PRICE
\Oiie Dollar Per Aiiiiiini,
LCopyrtghted 1884, by David H. Ranck.]
Z\IT( I BRE/l DSTU FF— ^I 1 1 .
Ha'-mii-a Kla-na K-nre; or, "The Crooner
Bands."
PRANK H. CtJSHING.
lETLY engaged one
winter's day in my
little room in Zuiii,
suddenly I heard the
toom-toom
^ and
I 9 clang
I I great
I land a
»._/f rattles
clang-
of a
drum
lot of
and
bells. Old Pa-
la -wah-ti-wa
and I were as
usual together.
"What's that ?" said I, rising and catching up my
note-book and pencil.
"Be dignified, crazy ; put down _that paper-fold
and mind your own matters ; it's nothing but a lot
of Hu'^mu-a Kia-ma-kwe."
Who are they, dancers ?" said I.
"Crooners, I said, crooners I Do you hear ?"
"What are 'crooners,' then ?"
"A parcel of young fools, grown-up boys and
girls who get together to work, make much noise
and little else. Now be dignified!"
The next remark I made, after due and patient
waiting elicited nothing more than "Shut up I"
So I despaired of further en.ightenment. All day
long sounded the distant boom-boom and away into
the night, but the old man gloating over my con-
straint kept his eye on me, and with one excuse or
another cleverly intercepted any attempt I made to
sneak away.
Many days passed, and one nippmg morning,
fairly before sunlight, the old fellow banged into
my room, threw a lot of wood on the fire with as
much fuss as p ssible, began to sing at the top of
his voice, picked up a cudgel and laid it about the
edges of my bedding until I winced with apprehen-
sion of a miss, and snarled out:
"What in the name of idiocy do you want?" for
I was wretchedly sleepy.
"You I" said he, "get up quicfc— something's com-
ing—hurry," he added, prodding me with the stick
by no means gently. "Hurry, or you'll be too late I'^
"Let it come, and let it go to the abode of
corpses for aught I care," said 1, turning over.
"Old woman," yelled the persistent chief, " 'his
sister,' come quick— bring some water— let it be cold
—younger brother is too hot^he wants a drink."
The frightened Kiau, not knowing what was up,
came breathlessly to the door, bearing a gourd
brimming over with icy water.
"Here," said she, "what's the matter ?"
"Give it me, quick "
"■A-wl-lhlui-yan shi-TdOrna-aia," sang the old
wretch.
"Ihli td"^splash came a full pint all over my
head and shoulders — "i a ahai he-ilu a-a-a" —
splash again, whereupon, unable to endure longer,
I bounced out — n«ver so much as looked at the grin-
ning old heathen, but put on my things and slammad
about in a way that tickled him almost to dis-
traction.
"fla-Tia ?io-o-a — ^never saw you more sprightly
and bright-eyed in my life, younger brother. Come
and get some breakfast — you need it; I can see
that in your disposition. No ? Have I bothered
my little brother?" said he, suddenly ■ pretending
wonderful gentleness and coming toward me with
outstretched hand. "Well, well," he added, patting
my head with that horny member in a way that
made the teeth chatter; tlien smoothing my hair
the wrong way until it seemed as though my scalp
were on fire.
''Get out!" said I, biit I couldn't help smiling, for
the old man staggered as though struck with a war-
club, laid one hand over his eye, groped toward me
with the other, shakmg the fingers as thougJi.f right-
ened, then straightening up grasped the fringe of
my coat and pulled me toward the door. Consider-
ably mollified, I followed. There was everything
arranged for breakfast; the bread^tray, salt and
pepper dishes all laid out on the fioor in fine order.
"Here, quick — bring some hot stuff — look at him
— see how rough his fur is ; he's been hibernating,
you see."
So they brought a steaming ste* red with chili,
warmed tchu tsi-kwah-na-rrme, and he bade me
"lay in provisions for the coming events."
After breakfast was over, the old man asked me
for some tobacco; then as he rolled his own cigar-
ette, invited me to do the same, and deliberately
settled himself with all the show of leisure possible.
By this time my humor was better, but I was
nettled anew at this display.
"Well," said 1, "what is it ?"
"What ?" said he, looking around blankly,
"What's coming?"
"Oh I" said he, "nothing just yet. By and by
the Hvrmu-a Kiornarkwe aie coming."
"Here ?"
"Why yes I here ; where else ?"
"What were you in such a hurry about this
morning ?"
"Oh, nothing, merely nothing," said he, "but 1
didn't know but you would like to paint up and
pet your wearing gear a little for there'll be a regular
council of fine young girls— sleek and smooth-
girls that laugh as softly as water in Springtime,"
said he, pretending to get wonderfully sentimental,
"and I knew you would cuddle, like the American
you are, until the drum made you dream of thunder,
if I didn't touch up your pulse a little, for I am
your older brother, you know."
By this time the house was filling with bus-
tle. The brother-in-law — "Greasy" we called him
sometimes, when he wasn't there — was straining
away at a buffalo hide which he- had tied to an
enormous drum jar, until his temper seemed, so the
Governor said, like inflammation, and his eyes like
bubbles. Others were bringing in corn and wheat,
which old women, who now began assembling, im-
mediately set about shelling and toasting. The me-
tates were thoroughly cleaned, everything fixed up,
all the best blankets in the house imposingly dis-
played on the poles, and two or three sheep dis-
sected and thrown into seething pots scarce smaller
than the Aram. The women of our house retired
and re-appeared arrayed in their best. Presently a
young girl entered, then another, and another until
sixteen or eighteen were chattering and laughing
together as they laid aside their ulue-black shawls,
loosened their belts, shook out their dresses and
smoothed them, then sat down to an ample break-
fast.. No sooner was the meal over than in filed
about a* dozen young men elaborately dressed and
painted. Beyond saying "How are ye these many
.days?" and replying "Indeed" to our responses of
"Happy, happy," they ventured little, but rolled
cigarettes industriously, smoked and sat very up-
right, clearing their throats, opposite the bevy of
giggling girls. Soon eight of the girls, pretending to
quarrel about their places, stepped over behind the'
milling trough, knelt down and grasped the molinas
or flat mealing slaibs. The one on the right quickly
crushed a quantity of the toasted kernels which one
of the old women handed her in a tray, passed the
coarse meal to the next who reduced it still n,ore,
until, growing finer imder each successive stone, it
came out at the other end as fine as pollen. I'he
supply thus being started was kept up from first to
last. No sooner were all at work than an old grand-
mother sat down in front of the girls, began to pat
her hands and sing a song celebrating the adventures
of the corn goddesses. Then the yomig men drew
up, placed the drum in their midst, crowded around
it, and awaited a signal from their leader. This was
a rather elderly man with whom the matter was ev-
idently less of a frolic than to the rest of them. He
sat a little to one side on a well-cushioned stool. In
his hand was a plumed wand something like a shep-
herd's crook, decorated with bells ard little rattles
of deer hoofs. This wand he held vertically, lifted
it four times into the air, then brought it violently
against the floor, whereupon the drummer, another
importantfunetionary, struck four times with might
and main, a mystic figure he had been tracing in
meal on the head of the drum, and amid the thun-
der thus raised the song almost unexpectedly began,
and the eight maidens began to sway thei» bodies
in time to its admirable periods. A little later, one
of the young men, placing a bowl of sacred water
near the ladder, covered it over with an embroid-
ered priest's robe, and taking a long, beautifully
THE :M:iLLST01srE.
painted flute of cane, trimmed with a bell-stiaped
gourd ornament and feathers atthe lower end, stood
up and commenced playing it in three notes, by
blowing across the upper end, meanwhile holding
the gourd over the bowl so that the water in the res-
onous vessel responded to every breath with a
melodious ripple and ring. Sounding drum, shriek-
ing flute, clanging rattles and the wailing, weird
measures of the chant, nothing missed time by the
fraction of a second, and although the din raised
was perfectly deafening, the melody was by no
means bad, the pitch excellent, and effect really in-
spiriting. It seemed to endow the girls atthe meal
trough with ne ./ life, making them absolutely one
in every motion. Not only did they move their mo-
linas up and down in exact time, but at certain
periods in the song— shifting the stone from one
hand to the other — passed the meal from trough to
trough in perfect unison. Even the women stirred
the parching pots and those who were idle patted
the floor with their feet and nodded their heads in
accord with the drum-strokes. Finally, as if to break
into all this admirable monotony, the ghis yet
unoccupied at the mill, each grasped in either
hand an ear of corn ; all fell into line along the mid-
dle of the room, and danced up and down sway-
ing and gracefully extending their bare olive arms
from side to side, thus adding beauty to the scene,
yet diminishing in no way Its cadence.
I do not wonder t!iat the old Span-
ish explorers of more than three centu-
ries ago, one and all admired these semi-
festive gatherings, for then as now — I
gather from their old writings — the mill-
ing bees, or croonings, were of frequent
occurrence in Autumn and Winter.
Mention evidently of but a
small affair of the kind may be
found in the journal of Cast# ct/vu^-
da, one of the soldiers of Coro-
nado's army, where he says
of a neighboring province:
"The soil is so fertile that it
does not need to be
worked when they sow,
the snow falls and cov-
ers the seed, and the
maize springs under-
neath. The
harvest of one
year suffices
for seven.
When they
begin to sow,
the fields are
covered with
maize which
they had not been able to gather. * » »
"Their villages are very neat. The houses are
very well distributed and very tidy. One room is
designed for the kitchen and another to grind the
grain in ; this last is apart and contains a furnace
and three stones made fast in masonry. Three wo-
men sit down before the stones ; the first crushes
the gram, the second brazes it and the third reduces
it entirely to powder. Before entering they take off
their shoes, tie their hair, cover their heads and
shake their clothes. While they are at work a man
4-— seated at the doorway plays on the bagpipe, so that
they work keeping time; tliey sing in three
voices.
They make a great deal of flour at once ; to make
bread they mix this with warm water, and make a
dough which resembles the cakes called oblis.
They collect a great quantity of herbs, and when
they are quite dry they use them all the year in
cooking iheir food."
The ci-ooning with its dancing, singing and grind-
ing, at our house continued, as it usually does in
the well-to-do families of Zuiii, vmtil late into the
night. When the grand feast was over and the
girls, old wpmen and musicians had gone away, the
old chief came into my little room whither I had
retired, and said quite simply :
"Well, younger brother, do you know what Hu-
mu-a-Kia-na-kwe are now?"
The amount of meal turned out at one of these
croonings is prodigious. So greatly does this method
of providing ready-made bread material relieve the
women of the household that I doubt not the
wealthy who could well afford to celebrate the nec-
essary clanship feasts as often as desirable, would
resort to them more often than they do, could they
secure their meal and '^ovir from mice. There is in
Zuiii a certain kind of domesticated, rather sliort-
tailed, field mouse. While the Indians are able to
quite effectually exclude them from the corn rooms
MUSICAL DTSTBUMENTS USED AT THE "CBOONING" FEASTS.
to store the flour. What makes the matter of keep-
ing this flour still more difficult is that it has to be
by the care with which they construct the latter,
they cannot so readily deny them entrance to the
more open rooms in which it is generally necessary
packed away in bags. If the mice so much as get
into one of these for a single niglit, the contents
are ruined by the very noticeable taint tliey leave.
Many a story has this perplexity given rise to.
The most complete one of these I ever heard was
told to my little Indian nephews and nieces one
very stormy night, not long after the crooning I
above describe. Had I but known then that there
would be a Millstone for all of my Breadstuff, I
would have bent a more attentive ear to the tale.
As it was, never a note did I make and my Interest
was but indifferent; yet, so clear are most of
the details of the recital that I Tventure them
below:
If I remember aright the evening meal had been
cleared away, the knots of piiion were blazing and
sputtering in the great hearth, the women, at least
the old ones, were fitfully dozing along the wall,
and the men were just rolling their cigarette husks,
and making ready for the usualtalk, when that bur-
ly sinister-looking, dark-skinned, half-brother of
my adopted sister came In. He sat down near the
fire, warmed his hands, and was about proposing'a
grand hunt for the next day, should it snow'that
night, when his voice was drowned in a volley of
shrill yowls from the throat of the infant girl of the
family.
Having, as usual, eaten too much, she had
bivouacked on the stone floor and been suddenly
wakened by a stitch in her bloated stomach. In vain
the women started up from their semi- vertical slum-
bers to soothe the suffering little gourmand, more
vainly still the men shouted, "Shut up, there's an owl
in the chimney, hear him howl 1"
Nothing sufficed until a mouse, evidently fright-
ened by the uproar, darted
out from behind a bag of meal
in an opposite corner, and
scampered under the meal
trough.
"Isste sshi'l" exclaimed
some of the people, "a
mouse I"
"No," said Lotchi, "it was
Opon-kiakwe'Ko-na! Tes,
he who lived in a bag of
flour," repeated Lotchi, as the
child opened her close shut
eyes and merged her screams
into gasps and sobs. A bright-
eyed boy, until then absorbed
in lassoing and strangling his
sister's doll, abandoned these
customary persecutions of
that badly banged effigy and
asked :
"Who was that, uncle ?"
"Why, he lived long
ago," said Lotchi, "and
was much divorced."
"Ho-hoho, ha-ha-ftQ/"
laughed the
boy, "how
could a mouse
be divorced?"
"Shall I
tell you ?»
said Lotchi, as
he observed
that the
squalls had
entirely giv-
en away to interrupted sniffles and sighs.
"E'sol e'so!" came from a dozen pairs of lips in
one breath.
"Very well, then, replied he, "you must allsitup.
straight, for whoever bends over beforfe my story is
done will get crooked before he grows old, and
whoever goes to sleep will take a nap with the Na-
vajoes some night."*
"We'll sit straight and never blink," cried all the
youngters in the room, and the old people— all ex-
cept the women —grew grave and sat up very erect
by way of example. Then Lotchi began.
"Very long long ago there lived in the Town of
the Wmds a big young lubber, as voracious as a buz-
zard aiid as slow of apprehension as a Iiorned toad.
What a fool that youngman was, to be sure I Wliy,
he didn't know a pumpkin from a melon; certainly
*That is fan asleep on a Journey, and be killed by the ene-
my. This is a customary preamble.
THE ns^niZjLSTOiNrEi.
not in the matter of eating, for lie would cram one
quite as greedily as the other. His father and moth-
er had died when he was a mere squirmer, so that
he nearly starved imtil tooth-time, which perhaps
was what made him always so hungry afterward.
Then his uncle had been killed in war, and so there
he lived all alone with his sputtering old grand-
iriother. Now this young man was strong like
most of his like, you ki low, for all through his grow-
ing time he had been storing it up — stuffing so
much that how could he help getting strong ? He
was good enough looking too, as full feeders
on the flesh of corn seed — he rarely had any
otlier flesh — not unfrequently are, sparing the
fat. And good-natured was he, as is the custom
of ponderous thinkers who have to wait too
long for a bad word to blister, or an insult to
prick. Still he was heavy-thoughted and would
eat too much.
"WeU, by and by,
when he was finished
out in years, he wanted
to get married and so
told his grandmother.
" 'Ho, child !' croaked
the old woman, 'like the
age of a turtle will be
the length of your want-
ing, and you eat not less
when out courting than
you do at my trenchers I'
" 'Why, grandmoth-
er?'
■"Why, indeed, you
sightless lout, don't you
know tew women scent-
ing the length of your
lunch pouch would dare
to feed it.'
" 'How could there be
such a frightfully long
thing about me that wo-
men wouldn't dare try
to fill when I am so short
myself ?' mused the
young man,, as he
scratched his head and
grimied at his grand-
mother. 'How funny
she is to talk in this
way; she must be jok-
ing,' and thereupon he
began to laugh outright.
" 'What are you sitting
up there sneezmg at now
you pussy, idiotic prai-
rie-dog you?' snapped
the old woman.
" 'Why, I was thinking, ha, ha I what agood joke
you made, grandmother. How can my lunch-pouch
be so long when I am so short myself ?'
'"Ho, you bag-hearted gawky, you; if you had
-^bestirred yourself to kill deer like other young men
you would have learned ever since how a long
snake can lie in a short house! Here, now, can
you see ths ?' said she, thrusting a wound-up cord
at him, 'take that and unwind it; then you will see
how your long lunch-pouch needs but a short space. '
"The young man unwound the string, straightened
it out, found that it lay the whole length of the
room and more too, looked at his grandmother who
was stirring mush, and was mightily puzzled.
"'Look here, grandmother,' said he, getting
frightened and pointing along the length of the cord,
'is my lunch-pouch as long as that ?'
" 'Ha na' ha I' exclaimed the old woman, de.spair-
in| of her grandson's eve r knowing anything.'
" 'Is it,' he repeated, 'and is that why you say
alas ?'
" 'Ho ! you worm-thoughted relative ! can you not
see tha your gullet, like the cord, is doubled over
and wound up insiae of you ?'
" 'Oh, ye stars I' presently broke out tlie youth,
looking in all directions at once. Then he grew
very thoughtful a d the old woman went on stirring
mush. The young man slowly gathered up the cord,
began to wind it upon itself until he had made a
neat bundle of it. 'There I' said he, then he sat very
lone: looking at it, reaching for it, but suddenly
drawing back like a young bear trying to pluck cac-
tus fruit. At last he summoned courage, picked it
up and laid it alongside his fat belly.
"'Beasts and beetles,' said he, 'it is not one-half
as long. Now I know why I am always so hun-
gry,' thought he. 'Whatever shall I do ?'
ZUNI MAIDEN DANCING AT THB"CK00NING."
''What, Indeed I From that time on he forgot all
about wanting a wife, and became fairly nose-sub-
merged in grief with tliinking how he would never
be able to fill such an enormously long lunch-pouch
that it took up more space than twice the length
of his grandmother's room. So much did he brood
over this that he began to get lean, and then tolose
his appetite. When he saw that his belly grew small-
er day by day, and that he became less and less
hungry, he plucked up courage.
" 'Ha I' thought he, 'it's shortening— that's the
reason. Perhaps I shall be able to fill it after all if
I can only learn how to hunt.'
"All this made a great change in him, so much
that his grandmother was a little better natured.
Now you must not think she cared nothing for him.
It was her way to scold him, to talk him straighi,
but after all she liked him, so when he asked her for
a bow she did not say :
" 'Why haven't you learned how to make one
long ago, you hoof -fingered, all-mouthed awkward-
ness,' b"at replied, ratlier softly:
" 'Now let me see, child. Your uncle's old bow
used to hang up the ladder in the rear summer room
—it was n good one — but maybe the sinew on the
back of it has all turned to worms— run and see."
"So the young man going up, found it there and
it was all right, only needed greasing a little. The
hair on the quiver and the feathers on the arrows
inside of it had turned to worms, but ths young
man was not vain — didn't mind the quiver, took
some old shells which he found in a plume-box, and
paid a man who knew how to plume the arrows
with eagle feathers. When everything . was
ready lie bade his grandmother:
" 'I go !' and set out for the southern mesa.
Now, as I have said heretofore, this young
man was good-natured if he was greedy, be-
cause he was slow of ap-
prehension, and did not
mind how much any-
body called him names.
So as he went along and
met a ragged-skinned
old coyote who barked
and yelped at him, he
neither shot at it nor cid
he say, 'Hu'h, how yon
smell, you corn-eating
sage-louse,' or anything
of the kind, but he
jogged along wondering
what a f i;llow ought to
do when out hunting,
for he had never learned
any thing,as he wouldn't
take the trouble him.4TT.T.ST01:snE3.
was a side-canon, and there, behind a sage-brush,
flat on his belly, lay the old coyote laughing as he
heard him coming. Te Beloved! how the great
deer bounded into the air, turned and fled up the
side ravine, as the coyote, swift as the little end of
a snapped twig, sprang up in his pathway. 'Sing,
sing !' cried he to the frightened youth as he sped
away to head off the frightened deer a second time.
Loud, clear, and strong, not one word misplacing,
the youth then sang the song of ofEering,and the deer,
well pleased to rest a little, slackened his speed.
" 'Ha I' though he, 'I should die contented could
I know that he would make payment— but who
knows ?'t
I ''No sooner, therefore, had the youth nearedhim
than alarmed by this doubt, he again crashed forth,
'■ anon pausing, with head lifted high, as the notes of
the song for the last time came wailing up the
canon. Before he had time to bound forward again,
I the coyote sprang into sight. With a loud snort the
deer turned, only to be met by the approaching
' youth, toward whom he lowere 1 his antlers. Noise-
I lessly the coyote stole up behind, and with a short
[ shrill bark bit the haunch of the frightened stag.
The youth too quickly let fly an arrow, which, sent
with the full strength of the long tightened bow,
shivered into splinters on the antlers of the deer.
Wild with excitement and fright the young man
fitted a fresh arrow to the string, sprang back to
dodge the charge of the maddened buck, which with
lowered horns and glaring eyes came tearing down
and stopped short to turn again upon his pursuer-
I Scarce knowing what he did, the young man drew
his arrow to the tip and let fly. So close was he
that the missile, unstayed by the wink of an eye,
was buried to the very feathers in the breast of the
monstrous stag. With a leap, a plunge, and sidewise
inotion,Uke a thick tree in the breath of a wind-storm,
the animal tottered and fell. Dazed like a baby at the
sound of thunder, the young man stood there scarce
seeing what he had done. Wildly the wounded
stag plunged in an effort to rise. The coyote rushed
forward to lell the youth, 'Shoot him again 1' This
suddenly reminded him that he had not embraced
the fallen deer. Never stopping to think that the stag
was still struggling, he sprang forward, but finding
that he could not get near enough, grasped the fore-
legs of the prey and k«pt his hold until covered with
blood, and until the deer, growing weak, suffered
him to place his face close to its own. 'Ah, my
father,' he exclaimed; whereupon the struggles
ceased, the deer relaxed, and the young man
breathed deeply from his nostrils, repeating the
prayer of thanks. Ere he finished the stag shiv-
ered and died !
L LL
+It Is an ancient belief of the Zunls that the life of a deer
or other "game being" is restored, or even elevated tea
I higher plane of existence, by means of the incantations and
rites of an initiated hunter. Thus they account for the
fact that the deer and antelope, although surpassing all
I other terrestrial creatures in vigilance and swiftness of foot,
I often allow themselves to be surprised and overtaken.
j Thus too, they explain the sometimes marvelous success,
I yet varying fortunes, of experienced hunters; the difBcuI-
tles usually experienced by the young and untaught
"Awkwards" or "Bunglers," yet the occasional good luck
even of these, in the chase. They think that but for the
j ceremonial presently also to be described, deer would
gradually be annihilated So also, if hunters neglected the
sacrifice of prayer-meal and plumed sticks, the unpaid souls
I of the game animals they had slain would warn their mortal
I companions to beware of them. It is interesting to note
: that these beliefs are but strengthened In the mind of the
1 native Zunl by the fact that white men, armed with rifles
I are, as a rule, less successful in the hunt than themselves,
with their simple bows and arrows, or inferior flre-arms;
and that the deer and antelope speedily disappear from the
vicinity of American settlements.
It was natural that, fresh from an Bastern city, when my
I Indian life began, I should, from lack of experience, invari-
ably come home from a hunt empty-handed. Yet this was by
no meansthe explanation applied by my adopted Zunl kins-
folk. When, by virtue of the experiences constantly gained
I from the incidents of my wild life and the teaching of my
I painstaking Indian masters, I became a more proficient
sportsman, they exclaimed triumphantly, "When did you
I ever bring home a rabbit or even a woodrat, until after
you bad sacrificed plumes, said shi-wi prayers, scattered
I sacred meal [favor], and renewed your existence and re-
! lation ships by breathing the r > ^-wind of dying game anl-
,' mala?"
" 'Ha, my cliild,' joyfully called the coyote, who,
almost beside himself, had watched the slaying of
the stag; 'thou art no Bungler, but a lucky hunter 1
This day thy winning is great, for thou hast entered
a new trail of life, and the Beings of game are thy
friends forever. A mighty hunter thou wilt be, for
even while crazy and wild thou hast yet remembered
the way of well-doing, and hast well done it. Take
thy broad flint from its sheath and rip down the
belly of the deer, take hair from his forehead, wax
from his ear, sacred favor from thy meal-pouch, and
a turquoise from thy necklace. Moisten these with
a clot of blood from the sack of the deer's hearti
and make a ball of them. Then bury them where
the deer has lain, or where he fell, and lo I his like
will walk, ere long, the valleys again !' No sooner
had the youth done these things than he continued :
" 'Now pray thy father, (thy child, the slain deer),
that in his walks abroad he shall remember thy
name — which tell him — shall commend thee to the
creatures of game, in order that thou Shalt unfail-
ingly enjoy their favor. Plant with prayer and
yearning the plumed sticks of investure, and scat-
ter abroad thy favor of prayer-meal. Thou receiv-
est flesh wherewith to add unto thy own flesh. For
this thou Shalt always confer in return that which
giveth new life to the hearts of slain creatures.
Hereafter thou shalt hunt alone, carry with thee the
fetich of a Prey-god, one of them cannot always be
with 3' on as I am to-day. Thus by our forms, made
stony in the days of creation, shalt thou be minded
to invest us with treasure, offer us favor, and plant
for us prayer-sticks and heart-plumes. See ! Thou
wilt then possess the good will of both the Prey-
beings and their prey, and trebly gifted as a hunter
wilt thou be.'
"Then the coyote addressed him familiarly again
and taught him how to skin and dress the deer, how
to wrap it in its own hide for carrying. When the
young man tried to lift it he found it heavy, and
was about to leave a part behind, but the coyote,
searching about a moment, found a sprig of dried
red-top. This he brought and told the youth to
breathe on it and say, 'Dried top, through thy in-
stinct of lightness thou fliest on the wind more
swiftly than a. bird or butterfly. Oh, lighten my
burden I' then to lay it within the carcass. When,
after doing this, he tried again to lift the bundle,
wonderful to tell, it flew up so quickly that the
youth almost fell backward, and the coyote laughed
until he all but lost his turn-skin.
"Scarce troubled more with his burden than with
his old coat of buckskin, the youth easily kept pace
with the coyote as the latter led the way straight
toward his den below the cliffs. Once there, he
bade the young man enter, calling his wife to take
in the bundle.
''After he had changed his form, according to his
custom, and they had feasted and smoked, the youth
turned to his teacher and said, '0 father ! for much
am I this day beholden to you, and it were right
that I offer you our slain animal, my thanks, and my
poor favor of prayer.'
" 'No, my child, only a small portion will I take.
Cany home the deer and its skin to your grandmoth-
er. A maiden, daughter of the Priest-chief of Pi'-
na-wa will behold you from her house-top, and say,
"Thou comest !" This she would not do were you
and gratitude. He rose up and bade farewell to the
little old woman and her children, then turned to-
ward the Coyote-man, who stretching his hands
forth, laid them on the shoulders of the young man
and blessed him, breathed upon him, accepted his
humble thanks and return of blessing, and bade
him ' Be happy I' The youth then lifted his bun-
dle to his shoulders, and bidding them all 'Sit hap-
py,' silently stepped through the doorway, which,
as he passed it, rumbled, closed, and left him alone
in the sunset shadows of the cliff, with only the en-
trance of a coyote hole at his feet.
"Later, as darkness was filling all hollow places,
and the river alone remained bright, he neared the
town of Pi'-na- wa. He was climbing the hill where
slood the highest houses, (the great horns of his
deer almost dragging on the ground,) when, looking
up, he saw clear showing against the Northern sky,
the form of a fair maiden standing near the ladder
on the Chief Priest's house-top. Remembering
what the Coyote-man had said, he bent his eyes
bashfully to the ground and quickened his pace,
but ere he could pass, the girl said in a soft voice:
" 'Comest thou ?' And he answered simply,
'Yea, maiden,' and walked on. He did not know
that as he approached his old grandmother's home
the maiden still watched him, or that from under
the shadow of her house yet another vv ho had in
vain night after night in brave attire awaited her
greeting, also watched, and sputtered between his
chattering teeth, 'So ho I it is you, is it ? and that's
where you live ! Aha, I'll remember 1' No, he
neither saw nor heard these things, for he was think-
ing 'How my old grandmother will be surprised and
how glad she'll be.' So musing, he climbed the
ladder, drew the sprig of grass-top out from his
bundle, which dropped with a big bounce and thud
on the roof, making the rafters groan and bark, and
the old woman, who was stirring mush below, tingle
to the nose-tip with fright and exclaim, 'Aikh!
What, hurt?'
"'Say, there, grandmother, are you in?' called
the young man, poking his head through the ladder-
hole.
" 'Ho, more rabbits, hey ? (That's what he is
making so much fuss about, is it ?) Lout,' she
cried, as she hobbled toward the ladder, 'why do you
come around makingmore noise than a deer-stalker
with your sage-brush game? Here, hand them
down.' The old woman did not see plainly, f orJier
eyes were dim and the light dimmer. There-
fore she still thought, as she stretched her hands up
for the bundle, that it was only a bunch of rabbits;
and when the youth let go, down fell the deer, and
down went the old woman, like a little ant under a
big berry. Tfl teach you,' she groaned, reaching
for the pudding-stick — as soon as she could crawl
out and get breath — 'to come tumbling down on me
that way, you loose-footed bear-cub.' And laymg
hold of the poker, she began to maul the carcass on
both sides and all over.
" 'Hold, grandmother,' shouted the youth from_
the ladder-top, 'you'll spoil the meat.'
" 'Spoil the meat, will I ? It would be a good
thing if I did spoil a little of your meat. Feels
funny to fall on an old woman, doesn't it ? said she,
thumping the bundle harder than ever, when,
chancing to lift her head to get breath, she espied
the youth coming down the ladder. ' Hey, is that
dropping her
empty-handed. She, you will marry; yet in the
days to come 1 fear you will suffer much ; but why I you ? then what's this ?' said she,
should I tell you more than that all ill be well at (poker and pointing at the bundle,
last. Go now with this one warning: jealous of " 'It's a deer carcass, grandmother.'
your many future favors, a sorcerer will assume my " '/Jeer/' quoth she. 'Moon-mother and Ugly-
disguise and try to destroy you. Beware of the wiz- monster! What ftar;e I been doing? Adeerinthe
ard coyote, like me, yet unlike me. What though house and drubbed mstead of talked to 1 Be quick,
you slay himi his brothers will seek your life; be- my beloved grandson, and get. an ear of corn, while
3, therefore, also, of the Brother-wizards.' 1^11*1™™'=!^! '?«'P.- ^ay the
The youth bent low hl« head in reverent thought
deer out
on the floor with his head to the east. Who .
THE IMULHiSTOnSTE].
23
would think it ? Well — well/' In lier excitement
she picked up a bowl of ashes and would have scat-
tered them all over the carcass (thinking them pray-
"r^meal) had not a little spark burnt her fingers.
I even after she had laid the corn-ear close by
t. e-breast of the deer, and found the vessel of sa-
cred flour, she was so crazy with delight and pride,
and remembrance of days when her son (the youth's
uncle) had been a great hunter, that she said her
prayer over twice before she thought to end it.
" 'My child,' quoth she— smiles all over her face
and water in h«r eyes — 'let me breathe from your
precious hands.' Then she punched blazes out of
the pine-knots, and gazed proudly at the youth, as
he stood where the fire warmed him and the light
fell upon him. 'Ah, how manly he looks, with the
blood all over his face and garments, and the sweat-
stains on Ills eyebrows. Thanks, this day, beloved
grandson, that thou hast entered upon a new trail
of life. Thou shalt live on fat deer-stew and have
new clothing, and be spoken of at
every house-fire in Pi'-na-wa.' Then
she toasted tender morsels of rib-
meat over the hot coals, and placing
a bowl of mush and basket of Jii-we
before him, bade him be satis^ed.
"The young man still remembered
that he had been advised to secrecy
in regard to his wonderful teacher,
so when he had finished his repast
and the old woman had cleared away
the dishes and remnants, he said
little more to her than to tell her
how and where he had slain the
deer, not once referring to tlie Co-
yote-man, but relating that a curious
stranger taught him how to cut up
the deer and to sacrifice the plumes.
" 'He told me also,' said he, 'that
1 ought to have a wi-Tna [idol] of a
Prey-being.'
" 'Why, of course 1' exclaimed the
old woman, only too glad to find that
the youth intended to try again ; and
lighting some splinters at the fire,
she disappeared through the door-
way of an inner room. Presently
she came out again with a little
long pouch, black with blood stains,
oldandwom. 'Here,' said she, wip-
ing a tear from her eye with the cor-
ner of her mantle, 'is a coyote w^
■ma which your uncle always wore ^, ";— imroamnTirj
over his heart, and which he cov-i^'^'.5vV?''ix,„'i'-»'^
ered with treasure beads and tur- '' "
quoise. Ah, what a precious father
it was to him I May it be the same to
his nephew, my grandchild.' The
youth eagerly took the pouch, drew
the little figure from its depths, and breathing over
it long "and deeply, clasped it in his hands and
prayed; then replaced it and hung the pouch over
his neck.
"The old grandmother, surprised with his knowl-
edge, turned away, took the halves of the huge deer
carcass, and hung them from loom-loops on the
rafters. She spread the skin out on the floor-
wondering at its bigness— sprinkled it with ashes,
salt and water, and rolled it up; Then she told the
young man how he should soak it in the river next
day, denude it of hair by means of a big bone scraper
[that had belonged to his uncle] and dress it. Be-
fore she began to cut up the deer, she drew the
sinew cords from Its back, scraped them flat, and
hung them on a ladder-round to dry, telling the
youth how he should sew the skin with them into
fine garments after it was dressed and whitened.
GraduaUy, whUe still with the chatter of age she.
talked on, he grew sleepy, and stretching himself
out by the hearth, fell asleep. Until late into the
night, however, the old woman continued to hack
the jomts and cut the meat into thin strips and
hang it on cords to dry, singing meanwhile the songs
she had known when the boy's uncle had been
a great hnnter.
"Long before sunrise next morning while the
grandmother still slept, the young man stealthily
arose, and slinging his quiver and bow across his
shoulder, silently climbed the ladder and started
off for the southern mesas. It was still early
morning, and many deer had come to feed on bare
places among the pinon-groves of the western
slopes when he climbed the cliffs. Thence he saw,
away down those slopes, three or four great-horned
bucks stalk forth into an open place. Crouching
down, he stole along from tree to tree until he was
near the animals. Then taking out his coyote w6-
ma, he pointed it toward the deer, breathed on it,
THE TOTJTH AND THE COTOTB.
and promised it food if it would but that day aid him
in his chase. Moving on a little further, he began
in a low tone, a chant to tlie deer, scattering prayer-
meal toward the place where he had last seen them.
To his surprise, a huge buck presently strode out of
the copsewood only a little way in advance of him.
For a moment he knew not what to do; then cast-
ing the rest of the sacred flour which he had in his
hand toward the seemingly unterrified stag,
he drew his bow, fitted an arrow, and let fly
toward the deer's shoulder. Almost instantly it
dropped, and the youth ran up to breathe its life-
wind. Without a struggle the stag gave up his
breath as the youth breathed it. Almost pityingly
the young man embraced him and said the prayers
that he had been taught. Then he opened the body
and drawing out his w^-ma laid it in the bloody
cavern of the deer's heart, formed, as he had been
taught, the Seed of Deer, and buried it. As he
arose, took his we^ma out, placed it on the trunk of
a fallen tree, and scattered prayer-meal over the
carcass, he saw, standing not far away, another deer
gazing steadily and motionlessly at him. Drawing
a fresh arrow he began his hunting chant, and the
deer, slowly turning, walked toward an open place,
when the youth let go his arrow at its side. Like
the first, this deer dropped where the arrow struck
him and the young man also did to him as lie liad
done to the other. Thereafter, wherever lie turned
he saw deer, old and young. He began to strike
them down, finally, without pausing more than to
breathe their wind of life. When the sun began to
grow warmer, the remaining deer fied off to the
valleys, and the youth, laying aside his bow and ar-
rows, performed over each of the many he had laid
low, the rites he had over the first two. Selecting
a pair of the largest, he hastily skinned and halved
them. Suspending the others from trees, he dis-
emboweled them, casting the entrails and blood to
the ground, for his best friends, the
coyotes. Then he cut the haunches
from one of the deer he had skinned
and threw them across the bundle
he had made of the other. He tried
to lighten his load with the sprigs of
red-top which laybanked against the
lower branches of trees, and lo I he
had no sooner said the prayer taught
him by the Coyote, than he lifted
the burden with ease notwithstand-
ing its bulk. So, throwing it over
his shoulders, away he sped home-
ward. When he descended the cliff,
he turned eastward toward the den
of the Coyote. Seeing no sign of life,
no track near it, he laid the
haunches down near by, and scat-
tering meal upon them, prayed his
father accept them; then turned
once more toward Pi'-na-wa.
"It was yet but the time when the
sunlight begins to slant, that he
approached the town. The people
who were passing in and out stopped
to look at him, as, feigning fatigue,
he slowly climbed the village path.
It was not often that men came thus
early in the day with game, and then
they were more apt to have ante-
lope, young deer and does, than
great bucks. Over the side of the
grandmother's house, too, huug the
great pelt he had brought home last
night, and this the people had
been looking at and speaking of, for
when the old woman had wakened
that morning and found her grand-
son gone, she had herself taken the
skin to the river to soak it, and had a little while be-
fore brought it home and hung it up to drain.
Among those who saw theyouth coming in again
was the daugliter of the Priest-chief, and again as
he passed her house she asked 'Comest thou ?' to
which he replied, not as before, but said, 'Yea,
maiden, I do. Be thou happy !' She smiled, then
turning hastily to tell her sister to 'Look out of the
light-holes I'
"Who was more pleased than his grandmother,
when she heard his footsteps on the ladder-rounds
outside, and the children shouting 'Is'-tn-shi! Hofhl
hishna'-thla-^a! (Look, look I tu?iat a big deer!)
She jumped up from the meal-trough, brushed the
flour off her dress, smoothed her hair, wiped her
face with her mantle, and hustled over to the ladder
just in time to hear the grandson shout:
" 'Shi-^, grandmother, are you in ? Pull me
down.'
24
THE 3yrTT.T,.STOI>rB.
" 'Hold on a minute, grandson — carefully— care-
fully. It is daylight now, child, and I can see that
it is no sage-game ; and I will not drub your meat-
pack— slowly — slowly,' said she, straining every
joint to lower the bundle gently down the ladder-
poles.
" 'Ah, my beloved grandson, my man-child; sit
thee down by the fireside,' said she as, the young
man descended. Thanks, thou prop of my weak-
ening will. Thanks, that thou hast grasped firmly
this day a new trail in life,' continued the old wo-
man, all of a shiver with pride, as she dragged the
deer to the middle of the room and laid it out.
When she had sacrificed to it, she set a steaming
venisoii-stew before the boy, salt-sauce and fresh
hi-we; and hungry with his morning fast and jour-
ney, he ate as he had not for many a day. Tetwhen
he had finished, the old woman begged him to eat
more — so changed do people grow with changing
things I
" 'Grandmother,' said the youth, when he had fin-
ished, 'go summon the Warrior-priest — or- no, I
will go.'
" 'What, child 1' said she, dropping the roli of hi-
we she was munching, 'hast seen an enemy ?'
" 'No, no, grandmother ; no, no I I have overtak-
eri a trail with many branches and turnings I' [Met
with good and varied luck].
"Saying no more, he went up to the roof, took the
skin that was hanging there, and carried it down to
the river again. While he wf s there, the daughter
of the Chief Priest, having seen him go toward the
river with the skin, took her best jar, threw her
best head-mantle on, and followed him down to the
steps where the women dipped water. Below, not
far away, was the young man washing the hide,
and wondering how to dress it. He did not see the
maiden until, after watchuig him a short time, she
exclaimed:
" 'Art thou here ?'
" 'Hey ?' said the young man, starting up, 'Oh I —
yes, here. Happy, yes, thank you.'
" 'What are you doing?'
" 'I don't know; trying to fix this skin.'
" 'Do you know how ?'
" 'May be ; my grandmother told me.'
" 'Tes ; but it is washed enough. Don't you see
how white the inside is ? Now you should dress it.
Run up and get the forked log that stands near your
house — it has stood there long enough, every one
knows ! — then I will come after another jar of wa-
ter — our people are grinding to-day — and — maybe
I can show you or — help you, may be, to dress the
skin. What a fine one it is. What a lucky young
man you are.'
" 'Do you think so 'i" asked he.
" 'Why yes. My brothers would be crazy if they
killed a deer as big as the one that wore that skin,'
replied the girl, filling her water jar and putting it
on her head.
" 'Wait, mai den, wait,' said the young man, as she
turned to go. 'Is your father at home ?'
" 'Yes, he sits at home.'
" 'Will you tell him to send the two War Priests
to me toward sunset ?'
" 'The two War Priests I What's the matter ?'
" 'Oh, nothing much. I struck a lucky trail to-
day, and had to leave some meat on the mesa.'
" 'Some meat! Did you kill more than one deer ?'
" 'Tes, some.'
" 'Some! Did you kill more than one more ?'
" 'Why yes, several,' said the youth.
" 'Several! Why you must be mistaken I How
could one man kill so many deer ? You are sure,
then, are you ?
" 'Why yes.'
" 'TTa it7 mtii-i-tr flifl ^rr,ii Vill 9
" 'I don't know.'
" 'You don't know!' exclaimed the girl, looking,
at him with her eyes and mouth wide open'. 'Are
you a man or a Heingf
" 'I don't know,' said the youth, wonderingwhat
she meant.
" 'Well here,' said the maiden, suddenly wild to
tell her father and sisters, 'take the skin home and
give it to your grandmother. I shall come down
here to-morrow in the warmth of the dky, for
water.' With tliis she hurried home, and the youth,
dragging the skin along, slowly followed.
"When he went in, the old grandmother, who had
been moved to sweep up by his last remarks, asked
him why he looked so ?'
" 'Why, you see,' said he, 'a girl that was getting
water down there doesn't know what I am because
I killed several deer to-day.'
" 'You killed several deer I' exclaimed the grand-
mother. 'Goodness, are you yourself or your un-
cle ? Why didn't you tell me that before ?'
" 'I don't know.'
" 'Ah, I see,' said she. 'Thou art Na'-sa-^a.t
My son, thy uncle was. Thanks this day. If thou
but remember thy duties, all will be well.'
"Thus reminded, the young man thought of his
plumes and sent his grandmother to find them.
When she came back with them, he spread a blanket
on the floor and began to assort them in order that
he might, on going forth again, sacrifice to the deer
he had slain.
"While yet he was thus engaged, some one called,
'Are ye in ?' When they had replied 'Yea, enter
thou,' to the surprise of the old grandmother the
Priest-chief of the tribe came down the ladder. He
was an aged and grave man, cl.id in rich cotton
robes, with abundant necklaces of sacred white
shell and turquoise, and as he strode slowly into
the center of the room, said, 'My children, be ye
happy this day !'
"Then sitting on the stool-block that was prof-
fered him, he prepared a medicine cigarette, and
blew the smoke of it over the youth and to the Six
regions, offering, after the manner of rriest-fathers
to-day, a prayer.
"Then he said, looking kindly upon the youth,
'Thou hast summoned my Mouth-pieces and Chiefs,
the Warrior-priests. Be it thanks this day, my son,
that thou art Na'-sa-^a and favored of the Beloved,
[gods] therefore it is meet that myself should sit to
listen; hence have 1 come. Speak thou.' j
" 'I thank you, my father, for the light of thy
favor.' I
" 'Speak thou, my son, what wouldst thou speak.'
" 'This day,' replied the youth, 'I have found the
trail of favor. Upon the western slopes of the Mid-
dle Mesas are hanging the deer it has been my good
fortune to see with my arrows. One I brought
hither; part of another I gave to my fathers, the
Prey-beings. I would that those who care to should
go forth and gather these deer, which let them take
to tliemselves — except a share to thee— that they
may be satisfied of ne .ded food.'
" 'Wisely thou sayest, and I thank thee. Thou
speakest from new knowledge; whereby I know
thee to be 'favored of tlie gods and taught of them —
therefore precious. Thou harmest not any creature
which drnketh of flowing water, be it little or great ;
thence it is thou art also well to bethink thee of thy
sacrifices. More I will teach thee as day follows
day. Happiness is quickened within me that thou
thus make my children, the people of Pi'-na-wa,
presentation of much. As thou wiliest, mostly
shall it be done, and that this may speedily be, I go.
Sit ye happy!' he continued, rising; and, breathing
on and from the youth's outstretched hand, he
turned and went out by the ladder-way.
"Not long after, the Warrior priests, climbing to
the house-tops, told both the young and aged men
of the town, in words of great praise to the youth,
of the abundant presentation of flesh which awaited
them on the slopes of the Middle Mesas, and long
before sunset, a, great band of runners, bearing bur-
den belts, knives, bows, arrows and fire-sticks, set
gleefully forth for the Southern Mesas. They were
led by the Chief Warrior-priests, and against their
return sweet-bread-meal was prepared by the wo-
men— for thus the Priest-chief had directed. Far
more did the runners marvel when they found that
the deer on the mesa exceeded by many those they
had thought to find ; and all night their fires blazed
as they skinned and cut up the carcasses, and rev-
eled in feasts of toasted rib-meat.
"All night, too, the baking-fires gleamed on the
house-tops of Pi'-ua-war— and those on the roof of
the Priest-chief were watched by the maiden, his'
daughter.
[to be contintjed.J
♦UteraUy, of the deer blood, or spirit of the deer kind or
kin, born of deer. Said of n wonderfully successful or su-
r,ofng»iirn,1 hnnfftr _
.A.X& Xll-nM-t3r«»«ed BXox&'tl&ly «roxB.x-^cfcl, ^^e^vo^ed "to -tl&e .^^d-v-«»XEoexsiesi« of BSllllxifi; ckxid Sdleolmxiloctl Xz:i«ex-est».
PUBUSHED BY
David H. Raiick,
} VOL. X.
INDIANAPOLIS, IND., MARCH, 1885. NO. III.
f STTBaCEIPTION PRICE
\ One Dollar Per Annum.
['Gopyrighted 1884, by David H. Ranok.]
ZUTjI BRE/IDSTUFF— XV.
Ho-nr He 'Was Divorced.
FRANK H. CUBHINO.
(_OonUnued/rom February number.)
< i TT LMOST with the dawn of the next mom-
AJl mg the runners, returning with their bur-
-* *■ dens, were seen in the distance. In days
when the herds ol our ancients were only wild deer
and their kin, flesh-food was more precious than
now. So it happened that the story of the youth's
success, told over night, kept the hearths glowing
until daylight, and on the house-tops at sunrise the
people watched the coming of the deer-bearers
as thirsty travelers watch the flymg rain-clouds.
"Down in his grandmother's house the young
man had early bestirred himself, and was busy still
with his plumes and prayer-wands, when a messen-
ger appeared at the sky-hole and summoned him
to the house-top. On throwing his old blanket
across his shoulders and ascending the ladder, he
was motioned toward a large crowd across the
plaza. Not knowing what would be required of
him, he was at first undecided imtil, discovering in
the midst of the gathering council the Priest-chief
of the town, he descended and went over to him.
Near the wall of the houses along the northern side
of the court, the people had placed four stool-
blocks and covered them with blankets and robes.
They greeted the young man as he approached, and
the Priest-chief, laying hands on his shoulders, bade
him be seated on one of the middle seats the other
of which he chose for himself. Two of the junior
warrior-priests of the tribe then came near and sat
down, one on either side of the youth and Priest,
while the crowd fell back and ranged themselves
against the walls. Ere long every one cried 'Lis-
ten ! listen I' Up from the valleyjhe song of the
approaching runners began to sound. The War-
rior-priests immediately arose and went forth to
meet and instruct their seniors and the rest of the
coming band, while the council silently awaited
their return. They had not long to wait. Louder
and louder the song grew until the runners filed
into the plaza, and along the open space down its
center, deposited one after another their burdens.
When all were placed, the Priest-chief arose and
scattered sacred meal in the direction of the bun-
dles, while the Warrior-priests, after following his
example, told the people how the young hunter had
directed that the flesh and pelts should belong to
those who went after them— only that a share be
given the fathers of the tribe — but that they had de-
termined in council to reserve a part of the flesh for
the youth's grandmother as well as for the fathers,
while the greater share should be divided amongst
the people themselves. The skms, they said, should
be dressed by those who had brought the deer in
and half of them when thus prepared be equally
distributed among those who had dressed them,
while the remaining half should be given to him
who had slain the deer. On hearing this the youth
raised his hand as if to apeak, but the Priest-chief,
knowing that he would only insist that all the skins
be given away, smiled and bade him be content.
Everybody, except one man, taking up the words of
the Priest-chief, cried outft.i-td/hi-itd/ [hear! hear!]
and amidst their cries the division of the meat be-
gan. The one who had not joined them arose with
a frown on his countenance, sullenly threw his blan-
ket over his shoulders and strode away. It was he
who had watched the youth that night when the
maiden had also watched him ! But the people did
not notice his absence, for already the Warrior-
priests had finished the division and now began to
distribute the meat, and loud was the shouting and
long the laughing as each received his little. When
nothing save the skins remained — except the shares
of the Fathers and the youth's old grandmother—
the runners came forward and breathed on the hand
of the youth, thanking him for his day of favor and
the people followed treatmg him as a father of the
tribe.
"It was still early when the council dispersed and
the youth returned to his grandmother's home. The
old woman was there before him, but she had seen
the council and great was her pride that so sudden-
ly old with dignity had her young grandson become.
She placed Ti^-pa-lo-ft'ia, sweet gruel and deer stew
before him, and chattered through all the meal to
the young fellow about the fine new clothes he
would have when the skins, all dressed were brought
to him, and how he could trade some of them for
cotton yarn — which she would weave and embroid-
er into garments like those of the Priest-chief him-
self — and others he might exchange for turquoises
and shell necklaces. The youth, according to his
custom, said little. When the meal was over he
gathered his plumes together and laid them aside.
Then taking the old bone scraper his grandmother
had found for him, and the forked log the girl had
told him to get the day before, he carried them and
the skin he had yesterday washed, down to the riv-
erside. Again he began to wash the skin, then he
spread it out on the sand to drain. While he
was wondering how he should use the forked
log and scraper, the daughter of the Priest-chief ap-
peared at the watering-place- for she had seen the
youth go down to the river. She stood there a mo-
ment watching him smilingly. He was at first un-
aware of her presence, but at last starting up, be-
held her.
" 'Ha! thou comest,' said he, 'I grow glad to see
thee.'
" 'And glad am I that you are here, and to know
that you have remembered the "watering-place and
the warmth of the day," ' sai(| the maiden. 'Now
come, let me show-^ou how to dress the skin,' she
continued, as she placed her jar on the ground and
went near to him. 'Why have you put the scrap-
ing log upside down ? You should lean it against
yonder wall, the forks downward like the legs, the
trunk upward like the body of anian. Then cover
the trunk with the skin, as a man covers his head
and shoulders with a blanket, don't you see ? But
leave the hair side outward, and tuck the edges of
the skin well between the log-end and the wall;
that will hold the skin while you shave it down-
ward against the log with the scraping-bone, thus.
There !' said she, as at once aiding and directing
him. she saw that all was done as she had advised.
'That's it ! — see how the hair comes off and how
white the hide is underneath. Look ! that's where
my brave hunter shot the deer !' As she said this,
she turned her tace toward his, and he, not knowing
why, felt mightily pleased to hear her talk that
way, but went on scraping harder than ever.
"A few moments the girl stood by, then said
again :
" 'My hunter never had a sister, did he ?' Still
the youth plied the scraper. 'Did he ?' repeated
the girl.
" 'No,' replied the youth, beginning to think of
what his old friend, the Coyote-being, had said
about this girl, and to wonder how it would all come
about, and to somehow wish it might. The girl did
not let him wonder long.
" 'Tou see,' said she, 'I have sisters, and broth-
ers too ; now my brothers taught me how they
dressed buckskins. It was in this way that I learned,
so my sisters taught me many things which I see
you do not know. I will tell you about them if you
will come over to our house some evening.'
" 'What I into your house, where your father and
all your brothers sit in all theii, fine cotton things ?
Alas, no; it would cover my poorly-clad front with
shame I' said the youth, looking down at his wrin-
kled and worn old clothes.
" 'Oh, pshaw 1' said she, 'my father said you were
a brave, strong and precious lad, when he came
home to-day. There, would you feel ashamed after
that r 1
" 'I don't know,' said the youth, and seeing he
was still undecided the girl hastened to say :
" 'Well, I must go now, but some night when you
think that you would like to see me, suppose you
come over to our house and stand under the ladder
a little while. If I do not come out soon, cough and
hem once or twice, and by and by if you should
hear me, hem again. Then, you see, I shall know
it is you and not the beast of a fellow that hangs
around the corner every night and thinks because
he likes me, I must needs like him. Now, are you
coming? When are you coming? To-morrow
night?'
" 'I don't know — maybe — yes, if I am a good
hunter I shall come— day ofter to-morrow.'
" 'Why, you are a good hunter.'
42
THiE i,o:xjXjSto:n"e.
" 'I dou't know,' persisted the youth, and the girl
pretending to get angry — perhaps she was — with a
fling started for hor water-jar.
" 'Wait, stay ! you act like my grandmother when
she is angry witli me, only not quite like her — not
quite so much, so. Are you angry with me ?' said
' the youth.
" '" I don't know," ' quoted the girl, and filling
her jar as quickly as possible, she turned up the
path without even so much as looking at the awk-
ward youth — but she was smiling to herself — and
he stood gazing after her; then taking up his deer-
skin and scraper he slowly went home to gather
counsel from his grandmother. He found the old
woman sitting by a big mound of meat, and at
her side — wonder to behold — two or three other
old women — clan-sisters — helping her to jerk the
venison. As he entered at the ladder they all
looked up and asked very particulary after his
happiness. The youth said little more than to
return their greetings, for he did not like to speak
to his grandmother concerning his perplexities in
the presence of these other old women; so he went
to work in a corner, on his prayer-plumes again.
Near sunset, when the evening meal was over,
the old clan-sisters, who were wonderfully friend-
ly to the young man, and called him nephew,
asked him if their sons and grandsons should not
make him some new coats and leggings of tke
skins they were dressing for him. Nothing could
have pleased him more, for he thought to him-
self, 'Now as soon as they finish these new things,
I will go around and see the maide i, for to-day
she acted like my grandmother when she is cross,
and that shows she too is angry.' So he thanked
the old women over and over, and brought them
the two skins of the deer he had first killed.
" 'Tell your young men,' said he, 'to dress these
and make my new things of them, for they are
the first I ever had; then tell them to keep the
others for themselves, and that I will give them
more day after to-morrow when Xgo hunting again,
that is if I meet good fortune.'
"'The old women were as pleased with this as
the youth himself, and hastened home to tell of
his promises.
"When they had gone he turned to his grand-
mother and asked her if she ever had any sisters.
" Sisters ? Why yes, child ! Why ?
" 'Did they ever teach you anything ?'
•' 'Very likely; but what makes you ask such a
question as that ?'
" 'Why, you see,' said he, 'down by the river to-
day that girl who didn't know whether I was a
man or a Being, Jsecause I had killed so many
deer I didn't know how many I had killed, asked
me if I ever had any sisters, and when I told her
no, she said her sisters had taught her great many
things which she would teach me if 1 would come
around some evening. When she asked me if I
were coming and I told her I didn't know — may-
be — (I was ashamed of my clothes, you see) she
got angry; what do people's sisters teach them ?'
" 'Humph !' said the old woman, 'other people's
sisters teach them more than their own I should
think nowadays, to judge by this one at least. Oh,
good daylight I my poor boy of a grandson, she is
the Priest-chief's daughter, and she may be making
fun of you, for you are poor. Yet her father likes
us 1 Maybe she was not making fun, after all I Wait,
my grandson, until your new things are done. —
Tou're a good hunter, and she may hot have been
making fun after all!'
"Poor boy ! he knew no more about it now than he
had before, but still he concluded that if he stood
under the ladder iit all, it should not be until after
the new things were done. So he returned, after
the dishes were cleared away, to his plume-work
in order that on the morrow it might be flinshed-
"Now, it happened that the sullen youth who had
gone away from the council that morning, went to
watch under the windows of the Priest-chief's
daughter this very evening; but not so much to
wait for the maiden herself as to learn whether
the young hunter, encouraged by the Priest's good
will, came there al?o. Without knowing what had
been said by the girl at the riverside that day, he
happened — after the manner of young men in moon-
light generally— to cough. The girl, half hoping
that 'her hunter' might come around, had been
watchuig and heard him. She therefore hemmed
very gently. The young man below, thinking it
might mean him, (why not? he had never heard
her hem that way before) replied by coughing
again.
" 'I told him to "hem," ' thought the maiden, as
she peered around a chimney-stack. 'Oh, it's you,
is it,' thought she, 'you cactus-burr— you mud-hor-
net that always sticks to one wall — well, I'll treat
you as I used to your like, when I was a little girl,'*
she added under her breath, as she caught up a
large bowl of very dirty water, which had stood
there since the last cleaning-up time, and stealthily
stepping over as near to the edge of the roof as she
dared, quickly measured the distance, and doused
the whole vessel-full down on the head and shoul-
ders of the unwelcome suitor.
" '■AigkhV shrieked the young man as he dodged
up close under the wall and skulked along until he
fancied himself well out of sight. 'So"1io! you did
expect him did you 1 Well j-ust let me find when
he's gomg out hunting again, and you'll wait for
him and "hem" for him a long time Vm. thinking !
"The next day this same youth went around
amongst the people who were dressing deer-skins
by the riverside, inquiring when they thought the
young hunter likely to go forth again. At last
he came to where four or five men — the sons and
grandson of the old clan-sisters— were working by
themselves, and when he asked them, they told
him that the hunter had promised their old mothers
more hides and venison when he went out, which
would be the day following, they thought.
" 'So you think he will go to-morrow do you ?'
said the youth, 'well I must stay at home this time,
so as to join the runners and get a share of the fine
buckskins — what lucky fellows you are,' he added
as he turned away, pretending to envy them.
"Late that night some of the people were startled
by hearing a strange wail, like the far-away howl
of a hoarse coyote. But it was no coyote that
made the sound. There were a few in Pi'-na-wa
who knew well what it meant, and you might have
seen tliem one by one sneak out of their houses and
follow its echoes off into the valley and over toward
some foot-hills— where there is to this day a certain
black hole under the red sand-rocks. In those days
the hole was the doorway to the Council of Sorcer-
ers and it was their chief wizard calling his foolish
and bad children together, that the people of Pi'-
na-wa heard that night ! And when they were all
gathered in council they closed the doorway — by
their magic knowledge and power — with a great
block of stone, and the fires burned brightly inside,
but no sparks went out— nothing but black smoke
which could not be seen in the black night. Then
the chief wizard spoke.
" 'My children, it is not for nothing that we thus
gather in council. One of our number whose heart
♦In the Zunl country there Is a kind of burrowing hornet
(or carpenter tjee) which drills into adobe or mud walls and
there deposits its honey. On any fine day in late summer
one may see little groups of girls hunting the holes of these
hornets along the garden walls. Whenever they ilnd a
number of them they provide themselves with gourds of
water which they dash against the adobe or spirt into the
holes through straws. The hornets, disabled by the drench-
ing, soon crawl forth and are easily liUled or driven away,
after which the girls, with little wooden or bone picks, dig
out the honey,
had been^maimed and is therefore sick with anger,
would speak..'
" 'That he would, truly,* cried a xou&g man, and
as he stepped forth into the light— belioid, i£ was,
the one who had watched the young hunter, that
night the maiden had watched him; who had yes-
terday left the council with a ruffled blanket and a
wrinkled face; had last night been called a mud-
hornet and like one, doused.
" 'Yea I would speak indeed,' he repeated, 'I
would tell ye how long I have waited for the scorn-
ful daughter of the Priest-chief, who ignores me,
and prefers a poor prey-whelp it seems to one of
our number. And this same cub can go forth and
slay enough deer to feed a tribe, whUe I — though
gifted with the power of wizard-craft — come often
empty-handed from the hunt — for the deer flee from
me as from the smoke of a camp-fire, or the tread
of a mountain lion. And this same prey-whelp has
so far pleased the fancy of the Priest-chief's
daughter that she watched for him last night, and
when she found me Instead standing beneath the
windows of her mother's house, she drenched me,
do ye hear, drenclied me with co?d and foul water;
therefore my heart is maimed and sick indeed with
anger, and to cure it I seek counsel. -What say ye ?
Let the whelp be killed as he goes forth to hunt to-
morrow.'
"'Yea!' cried another — taking up the speakers
words — 'and how better may we do it than under
the disguise of coyotes, for do coyotes not followthe
trails of the hunter ?'
" 'Eha ! ye have spoken well,' — said the chief <
councilor — 'and who will undertake this excellent
work of cuttuig off by the roots, a cause of envy
and sore hearts among my children ?'
" 'I!' shouted the second speaker, who, like the
first, had longed many a month to see the light of
favor in the eyes of the Priest-chief's daughter. 'I,
and if I succeed, then shall ye give me aid to win
the proud daughter of the Priest-chief.'
" 'No, no,' yfelled the youth who had caUed the
council, 'let it be me, me! did I not summon ye to
ask advice? not aid!' and forthwith the pair fell to
quarreling and the covmcil laughed and howled in
glee until the Chief wizard shouted :
" 'Hold ye beasts — do rattlesnake fight together f
Who carries venom bewares of venom. Let the
asker of advice, take it, and the other side bide his
time. Son,' said he, turning to the youth who had
summoned them, 'go to-morrow, go as a coyote,
and err not! And if you err not, call us and meet
us here by midnight, thus shall we know the work ^
is done.'
"All that day the young hvmter had been paint-
ing and pluming prayer-sticks, had finished them,
that he might start off early the next morning for the
chase. His old grandmother — busy as usual, long
after he slept — ^had prepared a little limcheon of
ash-cakes and dried-meat powder which she laid by
his plumes and weapons. With the morning star
he arose, and long before daylight he was half-way
to the southern mes s. He was none to early for
the watchful wizard who had hung about as morn-
ing neared. No sooner had the yoimg hunter
started than he hastened to an old hut outside the
town and there laying a coyote skin over his should-
ers, plunged through a magic circle of yucca fiber
and instantly became to all appearances, a coyote.
Forth he scampered on the trail of the hunter,
whom he followed to the top of the mesas. There
the young hunter turnmg aside to sacrifice some of
his plumes, was startled by seeing the ugly coyote
sneaking along in his trail, and as he paused, steal
behind some bushes.
"'Ahal' thought he, 'my good father told me a
wizard "like him, yet unlike him," would seek to
kUl me ; this must be the one.' He made bis sacn-
THE JV^^ILLSTOnSTE.
43
floes, said his prayers and turned quickening liis
steps until he had gone a long distance, when, turn-
ing into an arroya, he saw lying flat in the trail,
another coyote. He would have stopped had not
this coyote jumped up and trotted on before him
down to a branch in the trail, where he paused,
looked back and sat down. Then the youth saw
all of a sudden a red plume in the fur of the coyote,
and he kngW it was his old friend. As he started
forward and was about to speak, but the old coyote
quickly raised his paw as a warning to silence and
said in a low tone, 'run on my child, run on ; in
the valley below is a herd of deer. Not until you
have slain a large number will the wizard coyote
approach you, for he will wish to destroy you and
assume your appearance, in order to win your
maiden, and go to your liome and tell "how many
deer he has killed." When you liave slain the last
deer that remains near you in the valley, cut him
up and throw his blood and entrails off to one side.
As you draw forth your wi-^mn, the wizard-coyote
will run forward, you at the same time straighten
up. Seei'jg you do this he will stop and pretend
to lap the blood. Have your bow and arrows ready
and while he pauses, shoot him. Kuti on, my son,
err not,' said the coyote as he turned and fled away ;
and the young hunter again trotted off down the
arroya. The sun had risen when he came out into
the valley, and wherever he turned were deer. As
it happened the first day of his hunting, so it hap-
pened this — ^he was Tia'-sa-na, and the deer feared
him not. Many a one fell at the points of his ar-
rows which were almost spent when the last few
remaining of the herd ran off as the others had
done four days before. As he cast to the ground
the last of the deer, sure enough, there was the
ugly coyote edging nearer through some cedars.
The young hunter pretended not to know it; but
keeping his bow strung and an arrow witliin easy
reach, he drew his knife and cut open the last deer
he had slain. He cast the blood and entrails toward
the cedars, then took his wd-ma out and was drop-
ping it into the heart-pouch when the coyote rushed
forth. The hunter straightened up, at the same
time stepping nearer to his bow and arrows. The
coyote stopped and began to lap the blood when
the hunter made a spring, caught up his bow and
an arrow so quickly that the coyote had no time to
turn, drew the arrow and speed it directly into his
ribs.
" 'Ai-uo-o,' moaned the wretched wizard, for the
skin fell from his body, and behold, there was no
coyote, but a man writhing and clenching an arrow.
" 'Ho ! Sus-k'i,' [coyote] exclaimed the young
hunter, ' "things do unto some as they would do
them to others I" I've heard my grandmother say
so 1' and heeding nothing of the moaning and plead-
ing>f the miserable wizard, he lifted his foot and
pressed the arrow up to the feathers in the wretch's
body, pinning him to the ground, then mauled
him over the head with his bow until he ceased
even to gasp.
" 'Elah Kiva!' [thanks] simply exclaimed the
young man as he wiped the back of his bow off
with a wisps of grass and throwing aside his coat,
went to work opeaii.g the carcasses of the deer and
hanging them up. It was late before he had done
and nearly sunset when he climbed the path that
led into Pi'-na-wa, bearing a big deer on his shoul-
ders. The grandmother would have welcomed him
with a steaming meal, but he turned saying4;hat he
must first seek the Priest-chief; so taking a haunch
of venison, he crossed the plaza, climed the tall
ladder of the father's house and sliouted 'She-e'
down the sky-hole. ^
" 'Enter and sit,' was the response.
"He went down the inner ladder and was greeted
by all w'th smiles and good words.
" 'Ha 1' said the Priest-chief, 'I am content that
at last I need not look out of my house to see thee
—sit; what wouldst thou say ? But hold ! first eat,'
said he, and looking up he saw that his daughter
had already brought a tray of hi-we and was plac-
ing a blanket for the young hunter.
" 'Yea eat,' said the maiden glancing at him ana
smiling.
"In vain the youth looked down at his shabby
garments and blood-stained hands. 'Ha ha !' laughed
the maiden, as she quickly brought a gourd of
water and bidding him hold out his hands while he
bashfully washed them. 'Now sit and eat,' said
she and the youth was fain to obey. The maiden
sat down opposite to him and ate with him until
he said 'thanks,' then carried the bread-tray away
while the hunter told tlie Priest-chief he had again
in the valley beyond the southern mesa, met with
good fortune and would that the people go forth to
bring in the slain deer. 'Tell them not to be
THE WEEPING MOUSE.
startled,' said he, 'for a dead coyote lies among
thb deer — one who was a fool, having this day
ceased to be foolish.'
" 'Fear and blood I' exclaimed the Priest-chief,
'Is it thus, so soon ?' while the women stared as
though the young hunter were still in danger. 'It
is well my son, thanks this day,' resumed the old
man, and the youth bidding them 'I go,' returned
to his grandmother's house.
"When the evening meal was over, the old gi-and-
mother, beaming with full thoughts, brought a
bundle forth from the inner room and laid it in the
fire-light. 'Thine 1' said she unto the youth as she
sat down near the heartli to see liim undo it. He
untied the woven belt with which it was fastened,
and there, was a long-fringed suit of buckskin soft
and white, beautiful painted buskins, blue and red,
a head-band of dyed fiber and an embroidered
cotton mantle fringed and tufted. 'See,' said the
old woman— drawing a package from under a fold
of her dress— 'It is a necklace. It was your uncle's,
and is as good as the best; you can wear it now
without shame.' The old grandmother had traded
for the fine cotton robe when the clan-sisters had
brought the buckskin suit in that afternoon.
"Soon the warrior-priests again summoned the
runners and in the gathermg twilight a great band
of them set out for the southern mesas. When
thej found the place where the deer were hanging
they saw by the light of their fire-slivers, the dead
wizard. He was stark and bloated and his eyes not
closed but 'counting the stars.' They lieaped stones
and sticks over him, and some say that you can see
the stones there to this day. There were two or
three of the runners who had heard that same wiz-
ard speak, the night before, and who were planning
vengeance on the young hunter while they ate the
rib-meat of the deer he had slain ; but the rest did
not know of this.
"Late the next morning when the runners came
in and the tribe was called to council for the dis-
tribution, few at first recognized the hunter as, in
his new and rich attire he walked across the plaza
and sat down near the Priest-chief. When the
festivities were over, the youth might have been
seen in his old clothes again, sitting near the hearth
making plume-sticks, but as evening came he once
more put on his new things, and later, when the
moon had somewhat risen, said to his old grand-
mother:
" 'Ho-ta, Thanks that thou hast so soon taken away
my shame; I will go forth and learn if the daughter
of the Priest-chief looked upon me as a joke.'
"He went across to the tall ladder and was about
to lean against it, when the maiden, who had been
watching from aboye, softly Tiemmed. The hunter
looked up and also hemmecl, but very faintly, for
he began to fear some one inside might Lear him.
What was his surprise when a hoarser voice around
the corner hemmed as he had— only louder. The
maiden also heard it. She grew frightened and
beckoned to the youth. When he at last yielded to
her summon, and climbed the ladder she clutched
his arm and exclaimed:
" 'Come, come in, Oh, my hunter, "mine to be,"
they watch you and I fear for you.'
" 'Ah,' said he, 'now I know; you area gentle
maiden and good. I cannot stay this night, but
may I bring you a hunter's bundle to-morrow night?
Would you take it from me ?'
" 'Tea, my hunter, but come, they watch.'
" 'Ah 1' said lie 'now I go, and am content. May
you happily await the morning.'
"With this he tore himself away, and hastily de-
scending, returned toward tlie home of his old
grandmother. The maiden watched him until she
saw him enter the shadows of the opposite liouses.
Then she slowly went down to her old father who
was sitting by the fireside.
" 'Child,' said he, 'what aileth thee ?'
" 'Oh, my father, they watch my hunter.'
" 'Ha 1' said the old man, 'your hunter ! Now I
see 1 1 thought so yesterday when you sat down and
ate with him; but fear not child, it is well.'
"When the youth entered liis grandmother's house
She was surprised that he returned so soon.
" 'Why come you so soon, child?' said she. 'Did
the maiden indeed look at you in jest ? I thought
so, the shameless '
" 'But hold, grandmother; she feared for me and
wished me to go in ; but why should I without my
bundle ?'
" 'Ah, I see,' said the old woman. 'I thought so;
that is, I who would not take a bundle from
your uncle's nephew? Go, my grandson, they
brought most of the buckskins to-day, and many a
girl would be glad to get one of them with my
grandson.'
"They were sitting together next day near noon,
when a girl's voice called down the sky-hole.
" 'Ha !' queried the old woman, 'who can it be ?
Enter, thou I' she cried a little louder.
" 'Lift me in,' replied the voice.
" 'Ha!' said the old woman, -1 wonder what it is;
more buckskins ?' and thus muttering she went over
44
THE IMIILLSTOl^E.
to the ladder. There was the Priest's daughter with
a basket of flour tied in a cotton mantle. The
maiden, urged again by the old grandmother, en-
tered. She asked them timidly 'How they had
awaited the morning ?' then going over near to
where the youth stood, she said in a low voice:
" 'My hunter, "mine to be,'' I have brought flour
of my own grinding — would you eat of it ?'
" 'Yea maiden, "mine to be," I thank thee.'
" '1 thank thee also, my child,' said the old woman
going nearer to the maiden and scanning her with
squinting eyes. 'Thou art good looking and pretty,
and I thank thee that thou wilt live in my poor
house, for I am growing old and would be lonely
without ray grandson.'
" 'So said my father,' replied the maiden. And
when they had eaten together she returned to her
home.
" 'Ah, she is a gentle being, my man-child,' re-
marked the old woman, 'and will be thy mother to
to me again, and to thee thy grandmother when my
trail is cut off.'
"That night the youth, taking a bundle of his
finest deer-skins, went over to the home of the
Priest-chief. After he had eaten a little with them,
the old man asked 'what he might be thinking of ?'
" 'Thy daughter I think of,' replied the hunter,
the old grandmother had told him what to say at
last.
" 'Be it well,' replied the old man, 'what think-
est thou, daughter?'
"The maiden was sitting near. She looked at
her father, then dropped her eyes to the floor and
replied, 'as my father thinks, so think I.' The
young hunter went over and sat down by her side,
and the old man called them 'his children.'
"A day or two after, the maiden went to live
with the young hunter and his grandmother. They
jwere happy, and as dawn succeeded dawn the
youth made his sacrifices and hunted, never failing
to meet with favor. Their house became filled
with all a Shi-iui might need or wish, and friends
gathered each night around their fire-place to
smoke ; but alas ! the foolish among men had not
ceased to envy them, and the wizards were busy in
their councils under the red rocks.
"They often attempted to destroy the good young
hunter — ^what though they sometimes ate of the
game he had slain. Yet by his vigilance and
warnings of his old friend, the coyote-being, he
eluded them for a long time. At la,st, however,
as he was returning one day from the hunt, he
saw a mouse — a large, strange-looking mouse — in
one of the farthest cornfields of the Zuni val-
ley. The mouse was near some bushes on the
edge of an old corn-patch, and the youth did not
notice that a thread of yucca-fiber was stretched
high over tiis pathway from one side to another of
these bushes and down either side. He walked
slowly on until he was almost under the yucca
thread. Suddenly the mouse darted to his side
and sprang high into the air toward his heart.
The young hunter dodged to escape, but in so domg
stumbled, and staggered under the evil cords of
yucca. Shu-a' ! he vanished like smoke in the wind
— his garments, his bow, arrows and burden fell
in a heap by the pathside, and nothing but a
mouse like the one the poor youth had seen, ran
away into the bushes and hid under some stones.
But in his stead stood an ugly young fellow who
grinned and capered, rubbed his bare thighs and
exclaimed :
" 'Ha ha 1 my fine hunter, ho ho 1 — you didn't
get off so easily this time. A fine meal you'll
make for a hawk or a coyote! We'll see if the
proud maiden will scorn me now!' Thereupon
he took the youth's clothing and dressed himself
in it, then picking up the weapons, walked back
under the yucca line, (it was a great magic circle,
you see) and —one would have supposed the young
hunter stood there again, so nearly like him this
young fellow looked! But it was he who had
quarreled in the first council of the wizards, and
the young hunter was a mouse hiding under the
rocks. Off strode the disguised wizard toward
Pi'-na-wa and as he passed out of sight the poor
mouse crawled deeper under the rocks thinking,
" 'Alas ! Thus am I overtaken. Ah my beauti-
ful wife, my poor old grandmother! How can I
warn them, how return to them ? My weapons are
in the hands of the enemy, my mouth shut up;
my legs shortened ; my hands in the sand, my life-
wind, wasting ! Hawks and eagles will watch me
by daylight, coyotes and owls and wild-cats at
night-time. Alas, ah me!' For a time, thus the
poor mouse mourned, but growing cold he peeped
forth, and finally ran from his hiding place to
another, from that to another, and so on until he
at last found a ruined farm-hut where, under the
grass that had drifted into it, he crouched for
warmth. As the sun was setting, he went forth
to seek food, for he was growing hungry — but
what could he eat ? he was a mouse only in form.
As he sought and sought finding nothing, he
gi-ew weaker, and at last, to rest himself, crawled
into a bunch of broken corn-stalks — to hide from
the wind — and sat down — for he was a mouse only
in form. There, as it grew darker and darker,
as he thought of the deer he had slain on the
mountain, of the food and warmth in Pi'-na-wa,
of his beloved wife and old grandmother, he
mourned and squeaked — ^he could not call out —
and at last fell to elying, and down his furry
cheeks, the tears ran, one after another — for he
was a mouse only in form !
[to be COSrCLUDED.]
•Ak.x& XHiM^-tarafc^^yl 'moB^-tl^ly «To-iurxi.«kly J^vv^^ed *t» -tbe -A.d-v-ChX&o^xueu't of HdCllltxis c^xid USeoliAxiloAl Xait«x-e««a.
FTTBIiISHXD BY 1 \tr\t >/
David H. Ranck. / VUL. A.
INDIANAPOLIS, IND., APRIL, 1885.
NO l\/ J StrBSOBlPTION PBIOK
'''-'■ ' »• (One Dollar Per Anniini<
LCopTTighted 1884, by David H. Ranck.]
ZUI^I BREADSTUFF— XVI.
Hoir He T-wioe Retomed.
FBAI7K H. C0SHINO.
I Coriclwtfed.]
r%l l-'-f i i S=#| Si III
OR a little while
only, did the
Mouse-charmed
young hunter.or
Were - mouse,
(as we shall call
him hencefor-
ward) thus be-
moan his fate
unnoticed. It
chanced very
soon that some
field-mice went
scampering by.
A trim little
dun-skin hap-
pening to lag
behind, over-
heard him; for
although his heartjwas human, his lament being
voicedithroughj;;a^mouse's muzzle, was made in
mouse language.
" 'Ssh'tcUuV whistled the little mouse-woman to
her mate, maiden sister and cross old uncle, 'who
can that be talking ?' Up 'they all sat on their
haunches to^listen.
" 'Yo-aV [what a pity] exclaimed the mouse-maid-
; en. 'It seems to be'some one who can never go
back t/Qas — his;nest-hole, I suppose he means, be-
caxabj^Taa'i^as been "shifted;" he says he has
been a "man" — whatever that is — ^but is now a
"mouse." '
" ' "A man 1" ' queried the mouse-woman's mate.
'How can that^be possible ? They are frightfully
big^creatures, so big that our old people call them
"High-walkers." '
" 'Huhl' put in the old uncle. 'He certainly is a
fool, whatever else he may be, or he would keep
more quiet where Hooters and^ig^outh8j[owl3
and night-hawks] fly around as they do here ; and it
is my opinion that he's waoy [crazy].'
" 'Oh dear !' cried the mouse-maiden, washing her
face with her dry paws. 'Let us go right to him and
coax him in somewhere '
" 'Ah tut I' growled the old uncle. 'Now where's
the use of wasting feed-time on a wretch who
sees through the backs of his eyeballs and
hears only what's inside his own skin I Fine
time you would have convincing such a '
" 'Well, well,' interposed the mouse-
woman's mate, for the old uncle was a
great talker, and wheezed — ^having been once
struck over the nose with a boomerang-
'what harm would there be in going to look
"at the fellow?'
" 'Who's objecting ?' began the old uncle,
but the younger mice did not wait to hear
him finish. Away they scampered to find the
poor stranger; while the old fellow, still
grumbling to himself about 'young people
caring more to satisfy their curiosity than their
stomachs — ^not so he I' nevertheless followed along
after them.
"The first the poor Were-mouse knew of all this
was, he heard what seemed like a sort of creaky,
clucking noise ; and yet, as it came nearer it sounded
wonderfully familiar, as though some one were
talking, in fact. Turning to listen he saw, several
steps away, two sparkling specks, then more— like
sparks on the sheltered side of a log in the camp-
fire on a rainy night. At first he thought they were
glimmer-worms. Then, as they kept coming near-
er and appeared to shine straight at him, he thought,
'It may be the light of a Soul-being come to de-
liver me ; ha I That was what spoke I'
"Now it was very dark. The wind blew clouds
past the moon and eversrthing looked black a little
way off, but near by he could see as well as you or
I can in the light of a small camp-fire — and about as
far. This made him wonder— for his heart was still
human — but you see he had mouse-eyes I So, pres-
I ently, he saw that the specks were bright eyes, for he
discerned plainly the faces, little pink hands, shoul-
ders, buff backs and long tails of three field-mice.
The one in front came quickly forward, but stopped.
The Were-mouse was so much bigger than himself
that he stood there quite awhile wagging his whisk-
ers and staring as if trying to decide whether to
speak or run. Presently he ventured:
" 'Friend,' said he, lifting his paw as a sign of
greeting, 'we heard you and came to speak to you;
but you must come with us or get under some shad-
ows at (Jnce. This is a bad place, and it is a wonder
you have not been snapped up by a Hooter long ago.'
" 'Ah friend, what can I do, where shall I go ?
I am a man, not a mouse, as you see me,' said the
Were-mouse, wondering that the little creature
could talk to him. 'Maybe he is a man like myself,
changed to a mouse,' thought he. 'Ah, no w I see 1_
You are like me, a man in mouse form. Oh tell me
how we can get back to Pi-na '
" 'Crazy, I say. Crazy,' wheezed the broken-nosed
old mouse, coming up just then. 'What did I tell
ye ? When a mouse turns round inside himself he
thinks '
"Shut up !' exclaimed the mouse-mate, patting the
sand and twitching his bristles, 'let me talk to him,
will you ?'
" 'Mu'h-hVrtu'',' sounded the hoot of an owl some-
where above them. Away the mice scattered, and
the poor Were-mouse, too weak and stiff with cold
to follow, crawled under a stone — and none too
soon, either.
"Now the little field-mice ran into their village,
under a lot of stalks and stones in the very bush-
grove where the pooj hunter had been changed to a
Were-mouse. And pretty soon all the mice who had
been running about the field seeking fresh spring
roots, ran in too. So of course (feeling safe down
there) they began to . talk, and the young mouse-
mate, who had found the poor Were-mouse, told all
about what he had seen and heard. Their leader,
a wise, very big old mouse, who had seen many
hard winters, and even been caught by a wild-cat—
of which he still showed the marks — said that he
knew there were beings among the High- walkers of
creation who, having grt'at power, treated their fel-
lows badly and sometimes sported with their lives
and shapes. He had no doubt this was a case of
the kind — ^he had known such — but they invariably
died of starvation. He called a council and sent some
stout young warriors off with the mouse-woman's
mate to bring in the 'High- walker mouse,' as he
called him. The poor Were-mouse was just trying
to crawl out when the warrior-mice found him.
" 'Come with us,' said they, ' "Old-mouse" has
sent for you.' And without waiting for an answer
they pulled and pushed him along with noses ahd
paws until they had him down in the big tunnels of
the mouse village. The Old-mouse came forwarfl
smiling, and after touching noses with the Weret
mouse, asked him to 'squat with them.'
" 'I understand that the High-walkers of creation,
although devourers of cooked things, can, like our-
selves, eat pifion-nuts,' said he, ■turning to the coun-
cil. 'Some one run and get a few from our store-
rooms.'
"Away scampered five or six nimble ones who
soon returned with a pinon-nut apiece.
"By this time the Were-mouse began to get
warmer. Feeling hungry he ate some of the meats
and thanked the council. The Old-mouse, after
asking him many questions, said that his people
would help him in any way they could. Longing
to get back to Pi'-na-wa, in the hope that he might
yet warn his wife and grandmother, the poor Were-
mouse again thanked them, and said:
" 'My friends, be there any among ye, any who
have been to the abode of men, by the river side at
62
THE IMULLSTOITE.
ing well what had happened, turned toward his dis-
tant den.
"In the little old hut near Pi'-na-wa the mice were
hiding next day, when toward evening the runners
came in. When, that morning, the warrior-priests
told the Priest-chief that no one had come during
the night he said 'It is well,' but when the runners
came, late in the day, bringing no tidings of the lost
hunter, the people would not be comforted by his
wise words, and the young wife and old grandmoth-
er wept in silence by their lonely fireplace.
"Late in the night the Were-mouse Jed his com-
panions forth. Now stopping, now darting ahead,
they climbed to the vUlage and crept along close
under the walls unti^l they came to the house of the
hunter's grandmother. There was, near the ground,
a little light-hole to one of the under store-rooms,
left, as such holes are nowadays, to let in the air
and keep the place dry. The hunter bade the others
follow, and crawled in. It was deep and black,
even to his mouse-eyes, but he shut his eyes,
stretched over, and let go.
"Not much hurt by the fall, but weak from want
of food, he slowly felt his way among the old cracked
jars, paint-stones, worn-out clothing, and broken
baskets that strewed the place, and thus let the few
mice who had dared to come so far with him, up into
one of the rear rooms, where the corn and meal
were stored, and little bags of /le-pa-to-fei'a and
tchu'-ki'^na o-we stood along the wall. The eyes of
his companion mice grew big with astonishment as
they saw these things. 'More,' they exclaimed to one
another, as they fell to eating stray crumbs, 'than
enough to feed all the mice in Comland,' and so
they ate until they could stuff no inore. Even then
they were not satisfied, foolish things, but sought
out holes and crannies into which, true to their cus-
tom, they carried mouthload after moutbload, to
serve them 'for winter,' until what with their long
journey, they were so tired they had to snuggle up
together in a deep little recess, and go to sleep.
"Not so with the Were-mouse. As soon as he
could get strength he sought about for something to
eat. A hMve jar stood there, but it was too high.
So, also, were there longstrips of jerked deer-meat,
but it was hanging far above him. What was he
to do ? Presently he found a yeast-jar which was
uncovered. The yeast in it was fresh and not very
sour. The odor seemed bread-like and good to his
hungry nostrils. He succeeded in getting up to the
rim and hanging over until he could reach it. He
drank a little, and in stretching to get more, alas I
fell in I He was down there a long time, jumping
to get out— for it was cold. Finally he succeeded,
and crawled across to where the tchu'-M'^na o-we
bag was. He easily wiped the yeast off his legs and
tail, for it was made of coarse meal, but stiU, he
was cold and only half satisfied.
"The tchu'-M'-na o-we smelt good — as it always
does to hunters— so he climbed up to the top of the
bag. Luckily it was but loosely tied. He poked
his nose in, but while squeezing and pushing to en-
large the openmg, it suddenly gave way a little, and
into the bag he fell. It was warm and soft down
there. 'I can easily get out,' thought he. ' ihis is
a much better place than mouse houses.' So he ate
a little more of the meal. It made him feel so com-
fortable that, tired as he was, he fell asleep. Every
one knows that yeast bubbles as soon as it gets
warm, and tchu'-M'-na o-we grows as soon as you
moisten it, no matter how little. So, while the poor
Were-mouse lay there sleeping he was swelling up
bigger and bigger and bigger. When he awoke (it
was daylight) he thought to himself, 'How tight
it is in here.' There was plenty of space in the
bag to be sure, but every one knows if you eat too
much tchu'-M'-na o-we it feels tight in any place. He
tried to get out, but although he found the opening,
only his head would go through. He pushed and
wriggled, but the meal gave way under his feet and
the opening grew no larger, so by and by, he was
too weak to struggle and had to let go his en-
deavors.
'"Ah, me I' he cried, 'what avails my coming?
Here must I abide till I die I Ah, my wife, mi grand-
mother! Little do they dream that my dwelling
place is a fiour bag I'
"He was startled just then by the old grand-
mother who came in after the yeast. He heard
steps and squeaked as loud as a mouse could cry,
but she was only frightened and caught up the
jar without knowing what she had heard.
" 'Nai ya!' she exclaimed, as she reentered the
outer room, 'when I stooped to pick up this yeast
jar I heard a strange lot of noises, "Tsuk, tsu, tsu,
tsu, tsuk,' " they went; what could it mean ?'
" 'It must have been your ears ringing,' said the
two brothers of the young wife (theyhad just en-
tered), 'People's ears often ring when they stoop
over quickly.'
" 'So they do,' said the old woman, and went
on mixing the meal. When she poured in the hot
water- it smelt strange.
"'Hvhl what smells so?' gasped the old wo-
man.
"'It must be something burning,' ex|)lained the
young men.
"The old woman was not satisfied; but when she
had set the dough to rise before the fire, she ex-
claimed:
" 'It must be something burning, after oMI'
"Never a word spoke the poor little wife. She
sat apart, looking at the floor, and sometimes softly
crying to herself, When the brothers said that the
father had sent them to say they were going out
to seek traces of the lost hunter, she brightened up
and was presently grinding meal for their journey.
The old woman hurried to bake the cakes. When
they were done the maiden came forward and said :
" 'Let us eat r
"'Muhl What is it burning ?' cried one of the
boys as they sat down.
" ^WhahP shouted the other, as he spit out a
mouthful and jumped up, 'it smells like a bundle of
last year's cornstalks ! Things must be bewitched
about here, it smells so you can taste it.'
" 'Never mind, then,' said the old woman, 'I'll
run in and get some tchu'-ki'^na o-we; you can eat a
little now and take the rest for your journey.
" Catching up a basket she hobbled into the rear
room, and over to the bag the Were-mouse was inside
of. As she untied the bag the Were-mouse (her own
grandson I) shouted, but she thought it was her ears
ringing until reaching in she felt the mouse.
" 'Aigkhl' gasped she. 'Daughter, daughter, come
in here, quick I'
" 'Why, what's the matter ?' asked the maiden,
rushing in.
" 'It's in here, whatever it is, and I actually be-
lieve it's a mouse, and not my ears at all !' said the
old woman.
" 'Of course it is,' shouted one of the brothers,
who had poked his head in at the door to see what
was the matter, 'and that was what we smelled, too.
Catch the bestinking little beast I'
" 'Here, daughter,' said the old woman, feeling
the Were-mouse through the bag, and grabbing him
by the head, 'get the cactus-tweezers, quick. I've
got him— now reach in and grab him by the neck—
I can't see well enough — there, that's it I pull him
outl'
"In vain the poor hunter-mouse squeaked 'Oh, ai,
wife, grandmother I It is I, //'
" 'Sho-mal how the wretch screeches,' said they.
" 'Sling him out,' cried the young men, and
opened the window-door for tUeir sister. She, never
dreaming what she was doing,cast her own husband
forth into the plaza. [See initial.]
"And thus the poor hunter had dwelt in a flour-
bag, and thus was divorced I*
"The mouse-charmed hunter lay a long time in
the plaza, stunned by his fall. A boy coming past,
espied him. Thinking him dead the boy picked
him up and tied him to a stick. After dragging
him about until tired, he carried him down into the
plain and stuck the stick slantingly into the ground
so that the mouse would hang from it.
" 'Ha, what a fine mark it would make I' thought
he, and ran back after his bow and arrows.
"Now the Coyote-being had been keeping watch
all the morning from the cedar bushes on the hills
outside of the town, for he knew pretty well be-
forehand what would happen. He dashed down
from his hiding-place, and quickly catching the
Were-mouse in his mouth, whisked ofE with him to
the hills. Away he sped untU at night-time he
was standing above the fire-lit sky-hole of the
Horned-Toad Council cave. Scarce waiting to ask,
down the ladder he rushed and laid the Were-mouse
hunter on the floor in front of the sleepy old toads.
The homed toads blinked'and gaped, but soon be-
gan to rash about as if they had never slept. One
laid the mouse before the altar fire, another ran
and brought a magic crystal, and blowing up the
fire, heated it to redness in the embers. Then the
master priest and his two warriors spread a sacred
m.irha (cotton blanket of ceremonial) over the
Were-mouse, caught up their medicine plumes,
dipped them in the terraced bowl of magic water
that stood near by, and sprinkled the shrouded
form. Then began their incantation and dance.
Every time the song-line was finished and the
shUUlrna (cabalistic word) was spoken, the figure
under the blanket started, growing and growing
as the song and dance went on, until the mouse-
charmed hunter was as large and as long as a man.
" 'Now quick, my brothers,' and the attendant
priests, raised the blanket, while others gathered
round the great drum which the song-master beat
as he led the last chant. The master Priest
snatched the glowing crystal from the fire. To the
soles of the mouse-feet he touched it — vuff blazed
forth a column of smoke and a man's feet burst
through the mouse feet. To the palms of the
paws he touched the crystal — puff again, a man's
hands sprang out of the mouse paws. Then as the
last shithl-na was pronounced, the master priest
pressed the crown with the flaming crystal. In-
stantly a blaze spread outward, a noise like the
bursting of many green things in a bed of embers,
was heard, and behold the mouse form was rent,
and the hunter youth slowly rose up and gazed
around him. He looked like one who had been
sleeping. The great homed toads shrank back into
the shadows, laughing and chuckling to one another.
The Coyote-being along sat there in the glare of
the fire-light. The hunter rubbed his eyes and
gazed around. This time he saw the coyote.
" 'Ah 1 beloved Father, it is you? How is it that
I chance to sit in your abiding-place?'
"The coyote smiled; then changing his form—
the fine little old man he was at once — ^he explained
to the young man all that had happened.
" 'Ah yes," sadly said the hunter. "Now I
•This point In the story depends on a play of words In the
original, which can with difficulty be rendered In English.
The Znnl word for divorce is (/ft'iom, from olt'o, to flaw
or split, and huMi, to go forth, or be turned out. But as
IB also a contraction of o we— flour or meal— the Zunls ren-
der the word in the story "Floured out," or "Turned out
from the flour."
There are no fewer than five variants of this storv some
short, some long. I fear that the two I heard— one hv t nt
Chi as described In the beginning; the other by mv adontod
brothei— have become mixed in this rendering, as I have
had to rely on a memory now more than three vearnnw
If BO, I have merely given tn one, parts of two edition, ^f
the same story, the principallpoints Pf whiohrhoweve? en^
(Irely agree. vnoyor, oq
THE :m:ixjLsto:n"e.
G3
know. Ah me! What have I not suffered in
agony of thought? And my poor wife and grand-
mother !' —
" 'They,' said the Coyote-man, 'tliose shalt thou
see this night'
"With this the master-priest of the horned toads
hobbled forward into the light.
"The hunter trembled, he knew not why, and
breathed his thanks.
" 'It is well,' said the master-priest. 'Son, fear
not ! I bring thee thy garments and hand-helpers'
— he laid them all, stainless, on the floor. 'Out of
the power of sorcery and Death hast thou been deliv-
ered forever. Yet a day .will come when thou wilt
be called to join the council of the dead.' Then he
breathed on the hunter and said to the coyote as he
turned away, 'Go ye brother, son ; go ye happily,'
and disappeared in the shadows.
"The youth put on his 'clothing and took his
weapons from the floor. The coyote assumed his
disguise, and together they went out into the night.
When they had gone far toward Pi'-na-wa the co-
yote sat down and taught the hunter his last instruc-
tions; then rising fl,nd embracing him, he said:
" 'Fsirewell, my child. Be thou happy many days
and winters, throughout which thou wilt be a fath-
er of thy people, and a keeper and teacher of the
medicines of the hunt. But an evening will come
when I or my wandering kind will howl as thou
returnest from the. chase. Then tell thy people to
make thy grave-plumes and when they are done
thou wilt take them and, living, go thy way to the
Lake of the Dead.'
"He vanished, and the youth, sad at heart,
wended his. lonely way toward Pi'-na-wa. The
morning light was peering into the old grand-
mother's house when he entered. It shone beauti-
fully upon the countenance of his beloved wife
where she lay still dreaming. A moment he gazed
down on her, trying hard to restrain his tears ; then
stooping, breathed upon her face, and she awaking,
clasped him and wept for gladness.
*'Thus it was in the days of the ancients, and
ever since then miee have made their villages in the
abode of men. Not content with eating what they
wished, they still keep laying up stores for winter,
where no wint<>r ever comes, and like the Were-
mouse, climb into food things and— spoil them.
"So, too, when a hunter, coming home late at
night, meets in his trail a coyote, howling, he be-
thinks himself of the time when he must say fare-
well to the living, and go his way to the Lake of the
Dead."
■A.XI XllxLsi-tx-A-tecllBAckzi-tlily Jo-ux-xinl^ 33e-v-c»-ted to tine .A.cl-v-Azioe>
&-t «3f nSlllizis ekxxd. nSeolxaxiIccfc] Ixi'tex-evta.
PUBLISHED BY 1 \//-»l xx
DsLVid H, Ranck. / VU1_. A.
INDIANAPOLIS, IND., MAY, 1885.
NO. V. {
SUBSOEIPTION PRICE
One Dollar Per Annui
/
This month's chapter in Mr. Cushing's series on
"Zunl BreadstufEs" has been delayed in consequence
of the serious iUness of the author. We are glad to
learn that Mr. Gushing is growing better .daily, and
that the interruption ui his work for The Mill-
STONK Is not likely to extend further. The series
Will be completed in two more chapters. We think
all who have given an intelligent reading to tliese
articles will concede that they are the most inter-
esting, best constructed and finely illustrated series
ever presented in a milling journal. Copious ex-
tracts have been made from them in many of the
leading papers and periodicals of the country, and
the entire lot has been secured by the government
for preservation among the archives of the Smith-
sonian Institution. This fact, and tlie additional
greater one, that they have furnished rich entertain-
ment for the many thousands who regularly peruse
The MrLLSTONE, testify of their value, and amply
compensates us for the large outlay necessary to
present them in the best form.
-^^^ XU-nLs-txrcfc-ted' nXoxL-elily vFoxaxmckly X>e'v-C3«ec]. -to -tlie .A.d-vcftxioemciexi.4 of milling nxid nXeoli^xilocftl Xai-tex-evtB
PUBLISHED BT 1 \lf\l \f
David H. Raiick. J VUL. A.
INDIANAPOLIS, IND., JUNE, 1885.
Mr* \/l / SITBSOEIPTION PRICE
l^\J. VI, \ One Dollar Per Annum.
LCopyrighted 1884, by David H. Kanok.]
ZUffi BREj^DSTUFF— XVII.
About Some Indian Meals.
FRANK H. CnSHINO.
have re-
viewed,
step by step, the history of
I DBTiNG PEPPERS.] Zufii BrBadstuff and in part
the story of the people who made it. We have seen by
the light of the language, myths, folk-tales and flick-
ering traditions of their descendants, how a people,
many centuries ago, were driven by the relentless
hand of savage warfare, into the forbidding desert re-
gions of the Southwest. How there, wandering from
one scant watering place to another, they gathered
the seeds of wild grasses and slirnbs, the roots and
stems of suocufent plants, the bark and nuts of
trees, and the fruit of cacti and bushes whereof to
make their meager breadstuff. How thus always
insecurely, if not insufiBciently fed, these primitive
people were spurred on by that great motor of hu-
manity—hunger, to a knowledge of irrigation and
horticulture. How in consequence of this and of the
necessity incident both to their agricultural state
and the encroachments of their ever vigilant enemies
they came to owe to the environment into which
they had been so cruelly pressed, the adoption of
their sedentary mode of lif e.,the development of their
strange architecture, curious arts and industries,
and their remarkable cultus and religion. How
finally, how all this made them— while still the very
tribes that had been their masters remained mere
nomads — the winners oi > barbaric civilization far
transcending any other that ever existed autoch-
thonously, north of the dominions of ancient
Mexico.
So, not many generations before the Spaniards
followed Columbus to conquests in the New World,
the Zuiiis found themselves p.ossessed of laughing
fields of maize and beans and melons; of well-built
towns of supremacy over, a wide territory, and of
food in almost endless store. Then wonder not
that like all other nations grown dominant over
their little worlds, they believed, themselves— so
changeful and perishable their spoken annals—
the favored inheritors of these gooii things from the
gods themselves 1 Hence their priests and^ bards
coined fictions and legends — of which we have seen
glimpses from time to time in these pages — to ac-
count for and prove this flattering belief.
Having seen, moreover, how to-day they till and
reap ; gather, garner and grind ; mix, brew and bake
their Breadstuffs ; of Meals, Mice and Makeshifts we
have closed the last chapter. Therefore, all that
remains for us, is to watch them at their breakfasts,
luncheons and dinners, their feasts of thanksgiving,
their harvest festivities and their austere fastings.
That the Zuni, in common with other peoples or'
ders his life with reference to his eating, need be
no matter of surprise ; but in addition to this, his re-
ligion has mostly to deal with the insurance of fu-
ture meals, for he concerns himself never a bit with
reference to that state of existence, the inheritance
of which he deems as certain as of the death
that leads to it, and in which bread-making and eat-
ing can play but small part.
Meals, and the manner of eating them, are not
only the gauges of a man's social standing in Zuiii,
but also the indices of his character, and the strange
tokens whereby are judged the status of little
known tribes and nations. Often have I heard
characterizations based upon' this method of divin-
ing. Of their correctness I will leave the reader to
make his own estimate from a number of examples :
"The Americans eat food with fingers and knives
of metal and talk much while eating," said an old
priest one day, and the response was, "A land of
plenty it must be where people scorn to gather
morsels with their fingers and are such good tasters
that they fear to touch food with their hands I The
crows must fare fat and the coyotes grow big of
belly in that land — would I were a crow or a
coyote!"
"Tes," resumed the old priest. "But insolent and
godless must be a people whose children affront the
•Givers of Food' by making light of it with much
chattering while partaking of it."
"Ha I" rejoined the second speaker with a tone
of skepticality. "Would then I were a godless
man I" — whereupon he reached for a tray of parched
com and discontentedly shook his head as he re-
garded the dry, hard kernels therein.
"Say you so, son ?" retorted the priest, with re-
proachful eyes and gestui-e. "What food is better
than corn, which the Americans know not of as
food ? Have you not traveled the trail of war for
days together with but a wrinkled meal-bag and a
shallow water-bottle? Yet you fainted not on the way,
shameless one, for the meal was made of the 'Seed
of Seeds 1' Maybe you covet weak hones and meat
as soft as boiled sinew, or a gullet— prone like the
throat of a baby to dry up if not often irrigated?
It were wise, my son, to be content with the Seed
of Seeds I"
So, too, a Zuni will say of the wandering Hmo-Jo-
pal: "Why have they, teeth, since they eat their
food — like dogs — with little waiting and less chew-
ing ? Unlike dogs, they have fingers, and need not
fangs for the catehing ! Why, then, have they
teethf" This to a Zuni understanding is an exceed-
ingly cogent allusion to the perpetually half -fam-
ished condition of the non-farming Hita-Ja-prei, to
their dependence from day to day on chance for
their food supply, and to their consequent habit of
eating with avidity and dispatch whatever they can
lay hands on.
When I returned to Zuni some three years ago,
I took a colored servant with me, trained in my
ways and alert to my lightest bidding. The Indians
noticed his alacrity of obedience, the more as the
relation of master and man is but ill-defined in Zuni.
This servant had a curious habit of dividing his at-
tention between the after-breakfast housework and
his morning meal. He would catch up a morsel
here and there, and as he conveyed it toward his
lips they would tremble, especially the under one,
in being protruded to engulf it. Of course the In-
dians took notice of this. They attributed it to his
fear of my coming in unawares and finding some-
thing amiss.
"See !" exclaimed one of them as I entered the
kitehen on a morning whilst No-ma-ho was thus
snatching his meal. "Seel — a rabbit is always
afraid when he eats, and twitches his whiskers. —
No-ma-ho, having no whiskers, twitches his lips I"
Of a man who eats with an absent-minded air,
opening and closing his mouth in a matter of courae,
monotonous sort of way, they will say : "He eats
his food as a fish does water !" the obvious inference
being that he has plenty of it, hence gives it no
thought.
If a man seems to relish everything placed
before him, eating good and bad with equal satis-
faction, they will remark: "When the grass dries
up and the sheep starve, happy he I fat meat and
lean, 'tis all the same I" Or, in still more pointed
allusion : "Why should he want sheep. Burro
meat costs nothing!"
Viceversa, theZunis will judgeof aperson'sway
of eating by his appearance. Instance the follow-
ing, which is said of a very fat or corpulent man :
"Bears nurse their paws; he sucks his fingers,"
meaning that he is not even content to "lick the
platter clean."
"Cherish your teeth," is the advice given to a man
with an aching molar. "It will help keep your
gaiters tight and your leggings smooth I" the sig-
nificance of which may be hightened, perhaps, by the
repetition of another saw: "Old age is wrinkled-
face and leggings alike I"
A most fertile source of nicknames, whether of
a gi'ave or ludicrous nature, is this tendency of the
Zuni mind to run on food and eating. We have al-
ready learned how the Wise men of the tribe style
their people "the flesh of the flesh," and themselves
the "Corn Priests of Earth." A little idiosyncracy
like an undue fondness for some particular kind of
98
THE l^IHiLSTOlsrE.
eatable — a peculiarity of serving or taking food,
even the ill-timed utterance of a v^ord connected
with It will be seized upon and converted into a
sobriquet so pithy as to last a lifetime.
Such an epithet is the name of an old Spartan
who, driven when a young man to hide from the
Navajos, was reduced to eating all the buckskin and
rawhide about his clothing. He has ever since
been known as "Toasted Moccasins."
There is a bird of the woodpecker species in
Zuni-land, the plumage of which is the exact color
of the "buried sweet-bread" described in a past
chapter. It chanced that a youngstei", who was so
fond ot this kind of bread that he used to gather up
the rejected crusts of it and go about nibbling them,
also resembled, in the expression of his face and
eyes, the bird that was named after his delicacy.
The combination was irresistible. He is a totter-
ing old man now, but is ever spoken of as "Singed
He'-pa-lo-k^ia."
Another man I knew, while he was officiating as
a masked mendicant, so far forgot his assumed sa-
cred character when asked what he wanted, as to
request meat, instead of mutely pointing it out.
The incident needed only to be related to brand him
as "Says-he wants-meat" for the rest of his days.
Still another was once nearly drowned in the Salinas
south of Zufii, whereby he earned the distinction of
being "Satisfied of Salt."
When General Beal (then a lieutenant in the
United States army) was exploring the great over-
land route to California, many years ago, he
camped at Zufii. Tliere was an urchin belonging
to the Coyote-clan of the tribe who either begged
or stole from the soldiers so much sugar and hard-
tack that it brought him shortly nigh unto death
The title of ^^Tl-neente Meal" (Lieutenant Beal)
which he ever after enjoyed(?) kept him constantly
reminded of this early episode.
One of my adopted sisters in Zuiii was so prudent
that she always warmed over the boiled meat —
sometimes, if economy required, twice or thrice.
Now, Zufii soup, if warmed over once, is good, even
in hot weather. After that it is customarily used
to regale the dogs; but on one occasion my "sister"
had so far over-calculated that she fed us on one
mess of her favorite concoction for two or three days
together. It made us of the family abstemious,
and we did not suffer from it; but a young wag who
clianced in at eating time on the last day, being a
guest, had to do honor to the occasion. It made him
very ill, but he got even with the old lady by coin-
ing the phrase, "Sour Stew," which has passed cur-
rent as the name of his hostess in the tliird person
singular, ever since.
Thus I might go on multiplying proverbs, epi-
grammatic sayings and cnrt ''nicknames relative to
meals indefinitely; but enough has already been
presented to illustrate the importance of Bread
stuff as a factor of estimates or standard of com
parison in Zufii, and to introduce the Tribal Hos-
pitality.
Were this latter more generally known it would
become proverbial. Among the neighboring tribes
it is so. The Navajos, for example, were, until re-
cently, the oldest and worst enemies of the Zufiis,
(and mutual hatred has by no means ceased) ; yet if
one but poke his frouzzly head inside of any port-
hole or doorway of Zuni, the instant greeting — oft-
en indeed the sole one — will be: "Enter; sit and
eat!"
In order that this national trait may be appreciated
at its true worth, I must speak of another native
characteristic so at variance with the first that a re-
turn to the latter topic will be essential presently,
to reconcile us to tlie belief that both may pertain
at the same time to a single people. The stingi-
ness of the Zufiis — to put it mildly — is quite as cel-
ebrated as their profuse hospitality. In trade it is,
like most main things of their daily life, a matter of
religion. The hostess of a sumptuous meal, where
M-we has been piled before the guests as high as
their knees, and the major part of a sheep has been
seethed into a homogeneous stew for their delecta-
tion, will glean from the floor (thriftily swept with
a view to this process beforehand) every flake and
crumb of the feast, and scrutinize critically
each bone that has been dropped, to see if per-
chance it may be cracked for the marrow ! Any
man, woman or child of the tribe is as welcome as
frogs are to water, to a place at the family trencher ;
but let an unlucky wight find his corn bin low or
his pepper-string naked, and he will have to pay
doubly and dearly in service or chattels for p"-h
corn grain or red pod 1
When I sauntered into the great eating-room of
my "Elder Brother's" house, one morning three
winters ago, I found the old man affectingly giving
welcome to a handsomely dressed Navajo chief,
from the far Nortliern country. As I listened to
the elaborately phrased flatteries which passed be-
tween the two smiling worthies, I inferred that
there must have been something extraordinary in
their past associations. The sequel proved that I
was quite right! "This," saXA Pa' -lo-wah-ti-wa.
turning to me with a strange beam in his eye, "is
my friend and brother. He is a great chief whose
wives are as the fingers of his hand. Has he not
come all the way from Canon de Clielly to renew
the breath of friendship?" At this juncture, as if
to force the sincerity of his protestations upoii my
benighted and unfeeling American mind, the old
man picked up a costly silver necklace and with
reckless liberality bestowed it upon the gringing
Navajo. By this time the guest's pack-horses were
unladen and several fat buckskin bags — shiny with
grease and wear — to say nothing of blankets, silver-
decked oriddles, saddles and weapons were neatly
stacked up in a near corner. The Navajo strode
over to the pile, jerked a fat sheep-carcass from
the rear of his saddle and threw it down on an up-
turned goat-pelt — spurning it in depreciation of his
liberality, as he beckoned one of the women to
come and take it away. Then he pulled a costly
serape and snowy buckskin from one of the bags
and ostentatiously unfolding them, dropped the
twain over the shoulders of my Elder Brother.
Mutual thanks and renewed embraces ensued!
Then came the women with the breakfast. To say
that they brought enough extra provender for ten
men would state but plain truth.
"Let us eat!" exclaimed they.
"Yes, loosen your belt and lessen your hunger,"
briskly added my brother, waving his hand toward
the steaming bowls and baskets. Four times that
day did I see this guest "loosen his belt" — literally
— to the ample good things placed before him.
Next morning all was still effusive and more pres-
ents were exchanged ; but as the forenoon waned
away and the Navajo's horses were brought up to
be given their last nip of corn, I thought a kind of
coldness settled on the faces of the two friends.
When nearly everything had been packed, the
Navajo laid an empty bag on the floor with the re-
mark that one of his wives— who was in a bad way
—had asked him to bring some of the "toothsome"
h6-u>e and "honied" hi-pa-lo-Tt'ia so abundant in
his "cherished" friend's home.
The old Governor turned to his wife. "Give him
some M-weandlu^-pa-lo-k'ia:" said he, sententious-
ly, "pick out the (Jryest— it will be lighter for him
to carry, you know I"
ICia-u, with set face and lowering spirits, hob-
bled away and presently returned with a tray of old
h4-we (well shaken up to look big) in one hand,
and a basket bowl of very dry, somewhat musty
hS-polo-k'ia in the other. She poured them into
the bag. The Navajo packed them well home and
suggestively weighed the stUl lank pouch.
"Friend," he began,
"Give him a little more !" commanded the gov-
ernor. K'ia-u darted an unhealthy glance toward
the Navajo, but went back to the storeroom, bring-
ing this time the smallest quantity that would suf-
fice to cover the bottom of the baskets. The Nav-
ajo again packed the bag, and after scanning it a
moment, held the mouth of it open — and looked up
meaningly — for more.
"Humph I" ejaculated K'ia-^, shaking her head.
"Gone; all gone."
"Alas !" exclaimed the Navajo. Then a thought
seemed to strike him. He went up to his pack,
fumbled around a good deal, and finally brought
in a fairly large buckskin. K'ia-u brightened up;
for buckskins are the pride of a woman's heart in
Zuni ! She made pretense of tallying sharply to her
brotlier's wife, then nodded her head to the Navajo,
and hurried back to the storeroom. Forthwith she
re-appeared laden with two big heaping trays. The
Navajo leaned his chin on his hand and contem-
plated them. After a long time, he said:
"A little more, friend, only a little."
"The skin is miserable and small," said KHorU.
"No ! it is thick and large," retorted the Navajo.
"What sort of 7ii-pa-lo-lt'ia do you call that?" he
added, rapping a lump of it on the stone floor.
Red sandstone were more easily milled."
"Stop up his blabbering mouth with a little more,"
chipped in the Governor, beginning to lose temper.
ICiOrU dived into the storeroom still again, and
came back, after a long absence, with an old tin
plate 1 had given her about two-thirds full!
"There,'- said she, dusting her hands, "all gone
now."
"I think that's a lie !" pleasantly remarked the
Navajo. "Fill it up, friend, and I'll be satisfied."
"Hoi Navajos are bom without shame," re-
marked K'icuai.
"The Zuni women are regular chip-munks,"
mused the Navajo in his own language, referring .
to their habit of chewing h£-pa-lthk'ia and storing
it away.
"She has given you enough," grumbled the Gov-
ernor, who understood the Navajo tongue. "Enough,
for that rag of a buckskin."
"Well, didn't I give her a sheep?" queried the
Navajo.
"And who gave a you .silver necklace ?" snapped
the Governor.
"Who gave you a fine serape and a buckskin as
big as a buffalo hide," yelled the Navajo.
"Who killed my uncle ?" hissed the Governor.
"My father!" shouted the Navajo, with a trium-
phant look. ".And you killed him/" he added with
a darker look — at the same time snatching at the
buckskin as though to reject the bargain. This was
too much for X'fei-M; she filled the plate! They
paited rather coolly, but as "friends," yet I conjec-
tured from the facial expressions of the two men
that it would be bad for one if the other chanced to
catch him napping in the moun tains some fine
lonely night.
Afterward the Governor told me one day with a
grin that the father of his "friend" had been a
silversmith. "That's why I'm one now," explained
the old man. "The punches and dies I pound out
buttons with cost me nothing but a little work, and
I got even with him for killing my uncle besides."
'then he went through the whole dialogue agam,
and gleefully affirmed with a blink of his black eye:
"Pfe understand each' other; my friend will come
rrr
rHE HV^^ILLSTOUSTE.
99
back again the next time he hungers lor corn-food
and I'll give him some buttons made on his father's
die-plate !"
I am awaro [that I shall be accused of having
romanced in telling this almost incredible anec-
dote, but those who are familiar with Indians and
their ever-changing tribal relations, will not find it
hard to believe that I erred only in greatly con-
densing the above conversation. It can be easily
understood how Zuiii and Navajos who have mur-
dered into one another's families during war times,
mj,y "forgive" one another with the return of peace.
They do it as a matter of policy, knowing full well,
the unstable quality of their inter-tribal relations.
There is one race, however — the Mexican — toward
whom the Zufi', preserving an outward calm, keeps
up an inward and undying hatred. He so heartily
unhappy captive is supplied with every delica,cy
the Zufii cuisine can produce, his horses "of don-
keys are fed and watered, and nothing which a
favored guest might anticipate is left undone.
The first English phrase I heard at Zuiii was,
"JEToiw li loo?" (How d'ye do?) and second, spoken
in instant and vain attempt to eke out more of my
language from a fast failing fund of knowledge,
was, "Gal ly walamel lonsf" (Spanish and English
for "Do you like watermelons ?") When I refused
— ^being anxious to witness a dance that was going
on — my interlocutor assented by nodding his head
and repeating emphatically "Ats good, ats good,"
which I tortured into meaning, "As you like,"
though it might have signified that the watcfrmel-
oms were good.
T ward one another, the Zuijis — as has been al-
ble proportions. Yet at the next fire-side, though
your brow be bathed in sweat of former striving,
you must not falter, but tuck up your blanket and
fall to with as evident a grace as at the outset.
Another feature of Zuni etiquette is rather a
tax on the wlU-power and digestion. It is tlie
desirability of showing your appreciation of the
skill and fare of your liostess by consuming a
liberal and relatively equal amount of every article
she places in front of you. I used to observe that
with a native diner-out this was actually a severer
task than with me. There were sure to be some
special dishes which he preferred above others.
Now tlie chief difference between him and me was
not that 1 cared for none of the dishes— though I
confess to having eaten all more or less under pro-
test ; the fact is, I was — what with my hopeless long-
espises and abhors these inoffensive representa-
[▼es of a priesthood who persecuted the gods of
is forefathers, that any white man who resembles
ne of them even, will meet with but tardy welcome
1 the town of Zuni. The Zuiiis would as soon
hink of imbibing poison as of permittmg man,
roman or child of that detested race to witness one
f their festivals or sacred dances. If Don or
rreaser chance to heave in sight while any of the
ribal ceremonies are going on, he is met by watch-
nl sub-chiefs and amicably but firmly escorted to
uch quarter of the town as is most remote from
he scene of celebration, and then locked up. He
ttay rave and swear and call down the vengeance
if "EJ GdMemo" on the Indians lor detaining him,
lut so long as that festivity lasts, be it one day or
our, he will be held strict prisoner. Tet so
itrlngent are the customs ol hospitality that the
"SIT AND BAT."
ready hinted— still more studiously exercise these
rites. A Zuni may not be on speaking terms with
another, may even go so lar as to reluse to eat with
him, but 11 by any chance that other should happen
inside his door he will certainly have a bread-tray
placed before him and be bidden in a matter-of-
course kind of a way to eat.
Enter any house at whatever time of day or
night, and unless you be on the most familiar foot^
ing with the inmates, the invariable tray of h&-we
will be brought forth, also parched corn, or, if in
their seasons, peaches, melons or pifion-nuts, nor
having once taken to the sitting-block, or bench,
may you state your errand without first making a
fair show of eating. Should you visit several such
houses, in each the proceedmgs will be the same,
until the oft-taken morsel of politeness— though
small individually— has aggregated to uncomfortar
ing for the food of better days, and the dyspepsia
which 1 speedily acquired by battling for approval
with the miisine of Zuni— perpetually hungry, so I
liked, for instance, the stewed peaches and baked
squash, primarily because they were of excellent
quality, and secondarily because they could not be
spoiled in cooking, and tertiarily because they were
Clean. Then, too, I liked the double-done h^-ioe
and certain strips of tender fresh meat, coiled and
skewered on the end of a long rod and toasted, with
much basting, over a slow fire; yet it goes without
saying that there were certain to be many things
that I did not like. Thus it will be seen, the native
feaster and 1 were at first fairly mated. In on^
respect, however, we were diverse. In matters of
eating, his was positive mme a negative nature.
While his resolution was staunch in the direction
of quantity to the ex treme of his viscerial capacity
100
•rHE 3^ILLST03^E.
— or as he would have worded it, '-to the joint of
his jaw" — ^liis power to eschew was relatively weak.
Hence he was naturally certain on sitting down, to
move in the "line of least resistance" and eat with-
in an ace of his fill, of the thin s he esteemed most.
1 always pursued the opposite course and usually
had the satisfaction of winning with ease and toler-
able comfort, while it cost my neighbor frightful
absorptive effort, no little time and many shiftings
of position, and left him— the vielorious — protuber-
ant of eye, short of breath, and rigidly erect.
Goaded on by both their liking for American
food and their sense of duty toward a class of
hosts they held in reverent respect, five of the six
Indians I brought East in the spring of 1882,
suffered literally, miseries untold, ibr they rarely
complained save to sadly depreciate their own
abilities.
"What is it ?" exclaimed one of them after apro-
longed tussle with the courses of a Palmer House
dinner, each one of which he would persist In re-
garding as a separate meal and eat the desired
quota of each article composing it — condiments and
all ! — "what is it in American food, my son, that
fills the insides with much fighting ?"
"Would you have me eover my nation with
shame ?" indignantly asked another, as he reached
his hand for a lemon which a generous-minded man
on board a Chicago, Burlington & Quincy railroad
train offered him. "What though we be wafted
in this swift wagon as on the wings of the wind I"
continued he, taking and flourishing the lemon, "Is
it not a house with many sitters?" He was in
the dawn of his hundredth summer and had never,
during his long life, tasted a spoonful of acid, save
such a mild suggestion of it as might have lodged
in a green peach or resulted from the fermenta-
tion of a meat stew. So I protested, but in vain.
He whipped out his hunting knife and severed
the lemon. "It must be some kind of little
melon," speculated the old man, as he buried his
toothless gums in the major half of it — but the
next instant the lemon was rolling on the floor,
and he off his seat! He seized his chops with
both hands; tears oozed from his close-shut eyes,
he wriggled, groaned, hawked, bent far over the
aisle, retched, heaved — and one of his compan-
ions remarked :
"Well, he has covered his nation with shame
after all!" But the old man did not hear.
It was tills same old man who afterwards avoided
the suffering of the other five at the Palmer House
by refusing to be convinced that he need not pay
tlie penalty of eating sour things were he to touch
anything else; so he dined on tohu-lt'Pna-owe. He,
in common with the two other elders of the
party, had prudently provided a liberal supply of
this favorite lunch-material, in the belief that where
such armies of Americans dwelt as they had been
told inhabited the "Land of Sunrise" one might
find a scarcity of provisions.
One day after we had Been in Washington a long
time, Iwenttomakemy customary visit at the lodg-
ings of my Zuni companions. The old man was
stretched out on the floor groaning piteously and
writhing under the bony hands of Lnirin-ah-tsai-
lufikia — the medicine man of the party. The others
were sitting around looking dark and out of sorts.
"What's the matter ?" 1 exclaimed.
"Ah," was the answer, "Another ^some Mnd of
little melon." ' '
"How so ?" said I. "Has he been eating anything,
green apples or grapes ?"
"No," replied my informant. "He knows better,
but you told him yesterday that he was too feeble,
nnd must not climb up to the top of that 'Standing
Wliite Bock of Was-sin-tona [The Washington
Monument]. Well, last night he said you were a
mere youngster, anyway, and had no business to
forbid his praying to the Sun-father whencesoever
he pleased. This morning before we were open-
eyed, he sneaked out — may the old burro be re-
duced to the eating of cedar-bark ! — and climbed up
the inside of that 'Standmg White Kock.' A little
while ago some Me-li-Ttanorkwe in blue breeches and
yellow buttons [policemen] brought him home and
said much, but we could not understand them."
In addition to the accomplishments above di-
gressed upon, there are others more easily attained,
Though quite as essential in the line of polite duty
toward one's hostess in Zuni.
To insure her perfect contentment — that is, on in-
formal occasions — you must smack your lips over
her meat-stews, linger lovingly and by no means
noiselessly over the marrow-bones, sip with long
sounding draughts the soup and tsa-shirwe, and, if
possible, eructate vigorously. Ton are quite ex-
cusable, indeed, if you add as a sort of after-dinner
accomplishment other less decorous demonstrations.
If, for instance, while sitting about when the meal
is over — which is, by the way, perfectly comme il
faut in Zuni — you happen to be seized with a mild
fit of indigestion, which pleasantly exaggerates all
the above symptoms, you will score a decided win-
ning. Tour behavior will then be so natural and
spontaneous that the happy matron will not fail to
attribute it to the strength of her food. Even some
slight discomfort on your part will, under these cir-
cumstances, be acceptable and flattering evidence
that you have dined on more substantial food than
you are accustomed to at home, which distinction
(otherwise distinguished to be sure) I have known
to give pleasure even in other society than that of
Zuni.
Aside from these generalities of Zuiii Breadstuff
etiquette there are lesser, yet equally well defined
duties affecting the relationship of host and guest.
Tlie matron of a household is scrupulously clean
about her cookery so far as intentions go. She wijl
wash a piece of meat like a rag in cold water or the
river, before putting it on to boil, until every trace
of blood and a goodly portion of the juice is gone;
but then, she thinks nothing of laying it on the skin-
side of a turned-over bed-pelt to d^ain while she
gives the last polish to the inside of the cooking
pot with a tatter of old clothing! So, she will
flit unconsciously from the inspection or combuig of
one of her beloved children's head, or the picking of
wool, with at least but a dry brush of the hands,
directly to the toasting of tortillas or the mixing
of mush. Yet she would resent the liberty h tly
if one of her guests happened, without moving
away, to scratch his own head while eating at her
trencher. She would think it indecent for him to
sit down to her provisions without first going to the
canteen, or U-^aa-ja, taking a good mouthful of wa-
ter and washing his hands by spurting it over them ;
though he must needs use perhaps f o'r the hundredth
time the frock of his coat or the skirt of his kilt in lieu
of a towel. If she chance to drop a piece of mutton
on the most carefully swept of floors she will
trim, scrape or wash it to distraction — she would
never throw it away— yet she does not dream she
is untidy when, in cleaning a long strip of tripe she
holds one end or a section of it between her feet
that she may leave her right hand freer for the
manipulation.
Notwithstanding all these things and many more |
I forbear from relating, she is a kindly, painstak-
ing housekeeper and must be judged with all char-
ity. She keeps her clothes brushed, and sweeps
her floors at least half a dozen times a day. The
trouble wiih her is her conveniences are but lim-
ited, and her appliances are none the best. More-
over, much must be attributed to her training ;
more still to her peculiar conception of what tson-
stitutes cleanliness, for in this she gets the aspect of
the case and its actuality as hopelessly confused as
a tangled cat's-cradle.
A rather relevant illustration of this may be di-awn
from my own earliest experience of it.
I was trying hard to win my way with the elusive
affections of the Zunis, and took to doctoring.
Among my patients was a little baby in the top-
most house of Zuni. Its parents were poor — bless
their kind hearts ! — and when they saw their cher-
ished child recovering from a frightful eruptive
malady, they, were grateful ; but what could they
do ? Americans were proverbial, it being said of
them in Zuni, "Either they must eat as often as a
Mexican smokes, or lie as often as a Zuni asks them
to eat ; for they are always fuU, thank you !' "
After long deliberation it was decided that I must
be asked to dinner. I have since learned the whole
history of the occasion. An old au|it was called in ;
some suet and bits of meat we/e bartered for —
as they had no flocks of their own — and the re-
sources of the feminine dual family knowledge
were brought into requisition for the production of
tiMve, lii^a-lo-k^ia, and a small host of other com
preparations. But the great dish of the day, to form
a part of which the meat and suet had been pro-
cured, was an elaborate bean stew. "How could
the 'Little American' resist that!" was the thought
with which it was watched, stirred and seasoned —
also with whole ladles full of red pepper — for hours.
All unconscious of these schemes I sat luider one
of the port-holes in my little room writing that
afternoon. The time for my usual visit to "Summit
Terrace" had passed by when 1 observed a shadow
fall on my note-book. I looked up, there was the
mother of my patient. She dodged away but pres-
ently returned showing her blanket-mufiled head at
my window very much as I have seeii a desperado
show himself over the edge of a rock when he ex-
pected to be shot. I looked up, and just in time to
arrest a second retreat. The poor woman tried to •
smile, but the effort was congealed with doubt, as
she timidly raised her hand and beckoned me. I
immediately arose, and stepping to the open door,
looked out and smiled (I could not talk Zuni then.)
She hesitatingly came forward, then with a desper-
ate, suddenly brash determination, dextrously
shaped her hand into a spoon, conveyed it suggest-
ively to her lips and pointed up toward her house.
I imagined she wanted some sugar for the sick
child. I darted into my room, caught up a lump or
two and handed them to her. She looked at the
sugar with mingled amazement and despair ; then at
me; then pointed again toward her house — repeat
ing the spoon-scoopity gesture. This time, I thought
she meant that the child was worse and needed
medicine ! I nodded my head vehemently. Was I not
right? — an expression of joj' overspread the good
woman's countenance! Away she sped; and catch-
ing up my case of instruments and nostrums I fol-
lowed. When I arrived at the sky-hole of her
house, behold an upturned, radiant, triumphant
face I When I entered, behold a very expectant,
unbroken, over-conscious family group! New
doubts were probably disturbing them as to how
much I might deign to eat ! The room into which
I descended was the sick room. It was also the
working-room, sitting-room, dining-room, every-
thing-room of this poor family, and my little pa-
tient was — well, not wholesomely attractive — con-
sidering the occasion ! A glance assured me that
her case was in no wise as I had inferred; what
then, could have been the meaning of this sum-
mons ? I cast a look of inquiry around. My would-
be hostess evidently intei-preted it her own way;
THE J^ILLSTOISrEl.
101
for she brightly nodded and dived in behind the
fire-place paitition. All the family brightly nodded.
Presently she returned with an enormous, most
savory bowl of iean stew, and set it in the middle
of the clean swept mud-floored room. Baskets,
trays, bowls and trenchers were hastily ranged
around this steaming nucleus — salt-pots and pep-
per-jars interspersed. Then around these in turn
were placed sitting-blocks and blankets.
"Aha!" thought I, "they are about to have their
. dinner, poor things. I'll sit back here and watch
them?" Whereupon I caught up my blanket, re-
tired to a corner, and sat down. There was an in-
stant look of dismay on the countenances of all !
The women gazed at one another, then mutely
, shock then- heads as much as to say, "No use, not
even bean stew!" At that instant I observed an
extra stool-block 1 The situation dawned upon me I
For a second that room spun around to my eyes.
Then I drew a quick, short breath, swallowed at
something that would come up in my throat, grinned,
(I could not smile) and bobbed my head I Five
adult tongues were unloosed in five smilmg mouths
by that simple motion of my devoted head, each
to the single victorious phrase, "I'to na we!" (Let
us eat).
Header, that brief numinum of mme, decided
the fate of my relations with the Zuiii Indians.
Some people have had the fancy that I was
"plucky" in deciding to throw myself on the gen-
erosity of a lot of "barbarians" (simply, I suppose,
because these barbarians happened to be "Indi-
ans ') for the sake of learning their ways of life
and thinking. 1 don't imagine there was any
other than a subjective danger in it. I have been
through some tough adventures in the Southwest,
however, and, long after that evening, I lived in
some apprehension of being hung up most any fine
night as a wizard. Wa^ indeed, pulled out of my
bed at 11 p. m. on one occasion and tried on suspic-
ion of sorcery — all on account of three or four idle
tales and a can or two of linseed oil and turpen-
tine — but never while I was at Zuni, was my reso-
lution so shaken as when I tried to swallow that
something that would come up in my throat. It
must be remembered that I was fresh f rbm the
East, callow, and had as yet but limited notions as
to what my experiments implied, and as to my
capacity. But it was all over in a moment, and I
took my seat with the rest. The old man hastily
scooped up a few drops of the bean stew on a folded
bit of wafer-bread, pinched off a piece here and
there from the solids of the feast, cast them into
the fire and muttered something. Then the eating
began. Everyone dipped their fingers into the hot,
greasy, meaty, pepper-dyed soup with such perfect
unconcerned dexterity, that I essayed— Great good-
ness.!— it seemed as though my nails were scalded
off. I jerked my hand out with such instant and
unconscious vigor that my elbow struck the broomy
head of a boy by my side so hard, that he howled
_0-vo'tecl «o -the ■A.d.-VAXiceXKKexi't of BAllllzis Axsd IlfleolKftXiloAl Zxxtojrenta
PUBLISHED BY ) \ir\l SI
David H. Ranck. / VUL. A.
INDIANAPOLIS, IND., JULY, 1885.
NO. VII. {ou
SUBSCRIPTION PBICK
e Dollar Per Annum.
ICopyrighted 1884, by David H. Kanck.]
ZUlfl BREjlDSTUFF— Xl/III.
More Indian Meals.
' FBAKE H. OUSHIKa.
THE menu of a Zvmi feast, what though made
up from a single course, is as extensive and
varied a one, sometimes, as that of the most
luxurious of civilized dinners. To be sure, no fish
graces or leads on in such a meal to the more sub-
stantial meats, and the soups, though copious in
kind as in abundance, are hopelessly mixed up with
even the desserts, in the serving of it. But an ex-
amination of the il-
lustrations contem-
plated in, and
brought over from
our last chapter, wlU
not fail to speedily
display anew the am-
plitude of resource
in Zuni cookery.
Piled high on more
than one flat basket-
tray (see Fig. 4), are
the sheets and rolls of
paper-bread or he-we
— the sheets dully
symbolizing the
green earth and blue
sky in their colors;
the rolls, not less, the
six chief hues of
the rainbow. On
special occasions,
these bulky wafers
are reinforced by one
or two deep basket-
bowls of puffy,
double-lobed wheat-
en loaves like over-
grown bakers' rolls
(see Fig. 1)— but
browner and thicker-
skinned outside,
light-buff and por-
ous, coarse-grained, yet quite as spongy, within.
Then there are the tchu'-tslrkwahrwjrmvywe, or
"skinned-com-paste-loaves," neatly done up— like
druggists' packets— in wrappers of corn-husk (see
Fig. 9) ; and if not further like drugs, medicinal,
still, like them again in that they are certainly good
medicine for the disease of hunger ;— best, however,
when that disease is acutest. Partaking somewhat
of the nature of these latter— for they are well done
up and cooked by boiling— are the crescent-shaped,
soft, sweet and sticky a'-te-a-murwe, (see Fig. 3)
bright in their twisted envelopes of green corn-
leaves, yet as yellow inside of this exterior as the
squash-Wossoms with which they have been seas^
soned. Neither less yellow, less sticky nor less a
delicacy, although decidedly less sweet and more
saline, like overdone "Indian pudding" in which
salt has gained mastery over the molasses, is the
fc'o's-he-pa-to-Zc'ia in its sooty, unsteady little cook-
ing-pot -with its rim of up-turned rather singed
corn-shucks (see Fig. 8). Capping this feast in
their resistless — yea, relentless — attractiveness to
the Zuni palate, are the husk-beswathed slabs of
red h^a-lo-fc'ia (see Fig. 3) . Nor is there lack of
more solid foods ; for, could such a stuff as green
syrup with gigantic pills of "blue-mass" floating
about in it, be readily imagined, I would ask my
A ZUNI METTtT.
readers to kindly draw such a pleasing picture —
the more vividly to realize the appearance of the
big bowl of mu'-k'id-liywe, or dumpling soup, than
he will by merely examining Fig. 6. This bowl of
slimy breadstuff swelters, but does not out-steam
the equally generous trencher of stewed meat-joints
and toasted hominy (see Fig. 5) which stands beside
it in the middle of this oval array. Of all dishes most
indispensable to Zuiii dinners, this over-seethed vast-
ly rich and greasy, vermillion-colored, pepper-
scummed, diabolical oUapodrida, ranks next to the
universal h&-we. No wonder that within convenient
reach of it, tilted up over a primitive plate of sand-
stone, is a skewer of broiled meat-shreds ; or, more
often a spindle of suet and tid-bit stuffed sheep-in-
testines (see Fig. 10) browned to brittleness at the
periphery, but somewhat underdone toward the
center. This dietic bobbin, however hot and reek-
ing, must be, if one would have it relish at its best,
returned to the coals repeatedly, during its unwind-
ing course at a long dinner. On another sandstone
plate lies the blood-pudding; composed of chopped
liver, lights, suet, salt, pepper, coarse, browned
meal, brains and clotted blood, rammed into a large
intestine and baked or boiled until, what with
swelling and congealing when allowed to grow cold,!
it looks like a hugely distended Bologna sausage,]
and tastes like un-
spiced head-cheese.;
l^ess digestible,
moreover, it certain-
ly is not In the
nature of entrees are
other preparations
precisely like this
last in outward ap-
pearance (see Fig.
11.) Atypical one
of these is the same
kind of large intes-
tines stuffed with its
own half-digested
contents thoroughly
enhanced by the
liberal addition of
salt, red pepper and
parched meal; then
roasted for three
hours or more to sol-
idity and shining
brownness in front
of a raging fire of
embers. Most
unprepossessing in
its semblance, is
this nnassimilated
meal of some sheep
or roebuck; but to
the vegetable-fam-
ished Zuni — no less
than it proved to my own taste after a preliminary
training of some months in the native dietary — it
is a most grateful change, a promoter of appetite,
and an excellent digester of some of the poisons
above catalogued. A really superior sauce or con-
diment — never absent from luncheons and rarely
so from other meals— at least in the hight of the
chili season — is the pepper, onion, salt, coriander-
leaf and water paste ; served in the lava-stone trough
in which it has been freshly macerated and crushed,
(see Fig. 7.) Save that it completes the list of our
illustrations (see Fig. 12) there would be no need
to mention the ever present jar or earthen box of
salt and chili-colorado or red-pepper meal — which
120
THE l^/nLTJZJBTOlSrEl.
(having been toasted) looks and smells like snuff;
but tastes like the wrong end of a lighted cigarette
(until you get used to it) I
The dishes already described are but the re-
pastorial bulwarks of Zuui ; for in addition to them
one may frequently see corn, sweet or common,
cooked on the cob iu the various ways long ago
mentioned; either stewed beans, or beans in large
bunches — pods and all — boiled until soft, and eaten
as asparagus is eaten; fried, roasted or baked
squash; boiled pumpkin; snaky coils of dessicated
melon strips — simmered with or without dried
peaches, or the peaches stewed without the melon
strips — both sweet witliout sugaring; greens made
from water-cress or young milk-weed po ds ; small
game, served with a rich gravy of squash-seed meal,
and often tlie griiuiing, pop-eyed lieads of larger
game or domesticated animals, buried over night in
a fire-surmounted cist pf stone — and black as the
sable of a dead coal from the singeing they have
thereby been subjected to. The ears, hoofs and
tails' of deer, antelope and cattle — firat soorclied in
a blazing fire, then boiled a day oi two— also show
up at the larger Zuni dinners in the shape of thick
gelatinous soups. Finally, most curious of all the
eatables of these motly meals, are parched locust-
chrysalides, or chum'-al-li. These incipient, though
active insects, are industriously dug in great num-
bers from the sandy soil of the caiion woodlands, by
the women, who go forth to their lowly chase — like
berry-pickers — in merry shoals. They are then con-
fined in little lobe-shaped cages of wicker, brought
home toward evening, and at once both cleaned and
"fattened," by immersion over night in warmish
water — of which, if they be a lively lot, they ab-
sorb so much as to increase in individual bulk be-
fore morning to more than twice their natural size.
Then they are takon out and treated to a hot bath
in melted tallow which causes them to roll up — and
die; after which they are salted and parched as
corn is, in an earthen toasting-pot, over a hot— very
hot fire.
Such a meal as this — eaten as promiscuously as
it has been described — ^is not to be seen every day ;
but if one eliminate from it the locusts and other
taacy dishes, retaining the meat and bean-stews,
hS-we and some other varieties of breadstuff, he
will have the representative dinner, or evening meal,
of every well-to-do Zuiii household almost every
day — except during melon and green corn time —
throughout the year. The breakfasts — to follow
the order of importance — although simpler are
quite as substantial. They commonly consist
mainly of two or three kinds of corn dodgers, dry
mush or very wet mvrk'iorpa^we (flat-dumpling
soup) and meat, broiled, fried, roasted or baked.
This is the morning meal of ordinary occasions.
What change in it takes place on sacred feast-
days — when the order of things is considerably
mixed up — must be mentioned later on.
During winter, breakfast is eaten at about ten
o'clock. In summer, quite half the field work of
the day is done before it is tasted — usually an hour
later than in winter — and a luncheon intervenes be-
tween it and dinner. This lunch, taken at about
two or three o'clock, is, as I have before stated, al-
ways served with TcHdfhJrk'o-se, and as invariably
consists of boiled com or squash, fiA-we, either on-
ions or red peppers roasted in hot ashes and strips
of the toughest jerked meat in the house. The
meat must be, if perfected for the purposes which
it served at luncheon, dipped in tallow or water,
then broiled on a bed of coals until pliable.
A curious survival of ancient times when the
Zuiiis possessed no herds and had meat only as they
hunted it, is their custom of eating this jerked meat
very sparingly — more to flavor the rest of the meal
—or to deceive the insides with the tongue, than
as regular foods. Indeed, although several strips
may be lying on the little slab of sandstone beside
the sauce trough, no one except a "knownothing
Navajo" will think of taking more than one — or at
the most, in case the pieces b3 small, two of them.
Immediately on sittin? down, each person chooses
a strip and, dipping the end of it into the sauce,
chews and sucks it until the flbers become a trifle
softened and separated like tlie bristles of a limp,
irregular brush. Then it is used, sponge fashion,
for soaking or dipping up the sauce. With each
dip tlie brush portion encroaches on the handle in
consequence of additional chewing and sucking;
but although this edible handle is shortened by that
procshs to nothmg ere the meal is finished, its
bristles remain of a uniform length throughout. I
never learned of anything elsewhere in the world
that will exactly parallel in this respect, a Zuni
luncheon ; for, no sooner is a guest at one end of a
mind to try the peppers, than he carefully deposits
his meat brush on the flat instep of his moccasin
(to keep it in easy reach — yet out of the dirt!)
picks up a pepper-pod, nips off the end of it, ex-
tracts and swallows the seeds and other Insides,
then proceeds to use the empty skin as a spoon for
more sauce. But he eats bit by bit with the prog-
ress of the meal, this spoon, as he has the meat-
brush. One would imagine that this use of foods
as instrumental accessories — themselves to be con-
sumed — would end here; but no I when the boiled
squash is cracked open each partaker breaks off a
convenient little piece of the rind, swallows the
meat adhering to it, grinds down its rough edges on
the side of a sauce-trough — or on the floor, if it be
paved with sandstone— and forthwith employs this
extemporized scoop for scraping pulp out from the
remainder of the squash and conveying it to the
mouth. By this latter service— if the scoop happen
not to be a scorched, particularly hard or other-
wise unpalatable portion of the rind — it is more
than likely , after the manner of the meat-brush and
pepper-spoon, to waste away toward the end of the
meal.
I well remember with what wonder — not to say
disgust — I first witnessed these Zuni luncheons;
and I well remember with what wonder — not to say
disgust — the Zunis first witnessed my attempts at
eating them. I did not like to eat h'idthl-k'o-se
with a "meat brush," especially when five or six
Indians were eating k'ictthl-k'o-se also with "meat-
brushes," from the same trough. I at first, there-
fore, limited my attentions to the squash, boiled
com, hi-we and the tenderest strips of the jerked
meat I could pick out — avoiding the k'icLfhl-k'o-se.
This was once noticed, and my attention called to
it in a novel manner. Such strips of meat as could
be neither bitten nor worried into separate morsels
— into anything in fact, except brushes without
superabundant effort and the aid of k'i&thl-k'o-se to
soften the fibers — speedily fell to my lot. Thus
finding the k'icUM-k^o-se essential, I made a pretext
of not liking it quite so strong as the rest liked it,
and provided myself with an old soup-ladle into
which I always took pains to dip some of the sauce
as soon as it was ready — or at any rate before the
rest had begun to make and ply their meat-brushes
in it. This worked very well until it began to as-
sume—in the eyes of my Old Brother — a sort of
exclusive American look. Then he promptly
remedied the matter by walking in late one day,
and, finding me thus a little apart from the rest,
pretended not to see the ladle as he approached
to take his place, and stepped into it— mashing it,
fe'ittffit-Tc'o-se and all, out of individual existence.
"Never mind, Little Brother," remarked he as he
leered at me pleasantly and kicked the fragments
out of the way with his unoffending other foot,
"Never mind, K'ia-u can make another ladle,
and there's a whole grinding trough full of k'i&M-
k'o-se, right over there where you see all these otfwrs
of the family eating 1" After this more adroit than
delicate hint I concluded either to eschew Zuni
luncheons, or to overcome my prejudice against the
promiscuous use of the meat-brushes, and eat them
'^Como las Zufiis."
The reader has doubtless inferred from much
that has been said in the last Chapter and in this,
that the Zuiils lack less of food at their meals, than
of manners — or certainly of manners in any way
admirable. But it much depends on whether you
view the subject from an American or a Zuni stand-
point; and it more depends on whether in either
case you view it as a whole, or only in part. 1
thought the Zufiis — at least one of them — lacked
maimers, when that elder brother of mine set his
foot dovfn in the soup-ladle toward which I had just
reached for a fresh "meat-brush ' of k'idthl-k'o-se.
I did not realize at first that he was trying to teach
me one of the fundamental rules of good breeding
in the breaking of bread, at Zuni not only, but the
world over I For I had not perceived that he knew
quite as well as I did why I ate too much jerked
meat, and why I preferred my k'idfhl-k'o-se weaker
than in a two- fold way was suitable to the rest.
I have already said a little about Zuni Breadstuff
etiquette. The time had not come for exhausting
the subject when I said it, nor indeed has it yet
come ; but a few words relative to it here, will serve
to explain why old Pa'-lo^wdh-ti-wa essayed, in
the original and ingenious fashion above narrated,
to correct me, and more, perhaps.
On few points are the Zufiis more particular than
on that of humanity in eating. They concern
themselves less about the cultivation of punctuality
than we do, because their excellent appetites and
the natural alacrity with which they fall to when-
ever the women announce that things are ready,
make the exercise of this grace almost instinctive,
and therefore nearly universal. If by accident,
but one adult male member of the family be de-
layed at meal-time, the women^-merely by refrain-
ing from saying the word — will keep the rest wait-
ing as long as the slightest moisture remains in the
body of the meat stew. And although these
mistresses of the occasion will themselves go
about, scratching their heads, poking the fire
and absent-mindedly sweeping the floor over and
over to make ready, or rather to make themselves
and the rest believe they are not ready, neverthe-
less the men are expected to — and do — sit through
it all with exemplary manifestations of patience —
considering their "natural alacrity I" Seeing them,
one would think they were quite glad of the excuse
to idly lie about and talk, which this delay affords
them. Thinking thus, however, one would be mis-
taken. All this seeming indifference is the triumph
of traditional enjoinder and its acceptance; not —
like the habit of punctuality — a constitutional
tendency.
Often have I watched an old gray-head crawl
stiffly and complainingly out from his bundle
of blankets, and hobble over to the hearth-side, at
the earliest peep of daylight through the skyholes.
That he did this with the express purpose of lying
in wait for the infantile members of the family, I
verily believe. At any rate, no sooner would one
of the members in question move uneasily in his
sleep than the old man would assume the alert.
Let this movement be followed by the more evi-
dent and invariable sign of a waking child in Zuni
— the scratching of the head— and the old fellow
would Instantly open up a fire of instructions on
duty and politeness. It might be barely sunrise,
THE l^d^ELLSTOIsrE.
121
and he at the moment crouchmg over the still weak
blaze; nevertheless, scorning the illustration of
precept by example, he would immediately ex-
claim :
"Here now.Voung one, get up ! For shame that
you should be lying here, still nesting, and the day
already grown aged and warm!" No matter either,
if his own eyes were masty, his own bodily con-
sciousness of parasitical activity so acute as to
cause his constant prosecution of vengeance on its
perpetrators — all the same he would continue:
"Up, up, I say 1 Run out to the river and wash your
winkers in cold water; it will brighten your vision
and lighten the f ootf aUs of the itch-makers, whom
you only encourage to travel by lying in bed so
long!"
By this time the child would doubtless be wake-
ful enough — though still yawning and plying his
scratchers — to observe the old man's jaws wagging
to the tune of parched com or a meat-scrap, saved
— like an unfinished end of tobacco — over night.
This would naturally make him hungry; but his
first whimper would be met by :
"There now, never lie around longing for food;
never whine for it — dogs do that! Wait till the
heat of day; it will enliven your sense of the taste
of good things. Food whistles on the spit and sings
in the cooking-pot when it is ready, and only wo-
men know its music or understand its language;
lUOe children should wait for fhem to interpret !"
And after such style would he continue, utterly
unmindful of the bewilderment with which his too
mature harangue would be greeted, until the women
came around with breakfast paraphernalia and bade
him get out of the way. 1 do not exaggerate when
I say that I have repeatedly seen one of these old
men get his two-year old grandson on his knee and
talk to the little fellow about the amenities of eat-
ing time, as though he were a well-grown youth,
about to enter the solemn precincts of a sacred feast.
However unpromising all this may seem, its long
continuance has due effect. Such seasonable and
salutary effect, indeed, that the youth are generally
better behaved than their elders, and the children
look upon these oracular ancients as the latter
look upon the gods themselves. The result of this
is that admirable self-control under even the try-
ing circumstances above alluded to. The motive
which has given origin to this custom of ob-
serving entire unanimity in the eating of a meal
is obviously of a generous nature; for, where
food is served in bulk,[as it is in Zuni, each dish
being common property, only such a custom
could insure equal ehoice and fair division for all
concerned.- So, not only will a meal be unmur-
muringly waited for, but no person will begin
the eating of one — certainly not if himself a
guest, or if guests be present— until all are gath-
ered around. Then he, and every other, independ-
ently selects a bit of each food, breathes on it and
says:
12 8 7
"I-sa'I Na'^narhwe, i'-i&^iwrwe; yamA'ke-na,
yam-6mA-kwaynan, a-Via, te-Uronorwe; yam-k'id'-
ghe^ma, yawrtd'-sho-nan-ne, yamrfhZd'-shi-a-k'ia,
harrw-dml^-tchirCMva'p-tu' I"
1 2 3
"Receive 1 (Oh, souls of) my ancestry, and eat;
resuscitate by means of your wondrous knowl-
7 8 ^
edge, your hearts ; return unto us of yours the
water we need, of yours the seeds of earth, of
yours the means of attaining great age."
As the last phrase of this grace dies away, the
food is cast into the fire. Whether at home or
abroad, I have never seen a Zuni, young or old,
taste food, even though but the merest hasty morsel,
without first going through this invocation or abbre-
viated modification of it. Among the first words a
child is taught to lisp are some of the above ; and
until, with his own hand, and his own lips guided
and prompted by the mother's, he can make this of-
fering and mutter this grace, no child is ever regular-
ly weaned in Zuni. Should the mother of the child
die before this, he is nursed by some relative who
is ever after, (in the native conception) his bona
Me mother. If it be impossible to find such a nurse,
a kind of pap called O'-kH&s-lu, made from sweet
corn precisely as tehurld-narowe is made from the
ordmary kind, is given to the child through a cane
tube furnished with a nipple of soft cloth or mem-
brane. This pap does not come under the head of
other foods, but is known as the "drink-food," or
the "Milk of the Beloved." If the child live, he is
looked upon as a "Son of the Beloved." Only such
and those who have lost both parents, are the true
"orphans" of Znfii.
Of the rules regulating one's conduct at sacred
feasts I will briefly speak in our concluding chapter.
Of those appropriate to ordinary occasions, yet ap-
plicable alike in either instance, I will mention a
few of the more interesting, here.
Having placed the bowls, pots, trays and salt-jars
on the floor, not far from the hearth, the women
arrange around them stool-blocks and blankets,
then call out "E-td-na-^we!" Each person in the
room must reply, "Fa .'"or "Te'-a-tit'.'" ("It is well!'
or "Be it so I") If not, the women have to repeat
the summons not quite so mildly either, as at first.
On sitting down the men smack their lips, rub
their hands, thrust their thumbs into their belts
and give them a tug as if to loosen them, then
make the offerings. Thereupon they assume erect
positions, drawing the knees up close to the body,
so that as little space as need be, shall be occupied.
Before beginning to e at, a guest will, if polite, lay
the left hand across his stomach, about midway up ;
as a means of reminding himself not to become too
much engrossed in any one dish, and fill too far up
with it ; also, as an indication to his entertainers that
even half a meal would be sufficient to satisfy him,
let alone siuih profusion. That left hand is not
once removed from the pit of the stomach unless
to assist the right in the management of unusually
tough articles, or for breaking h6-we and marrow-
bones; never for taking up food or conveying it to
the mouth. From first to last the right hand is kept
busy, if uninterruptedly, yet deliberately so. In ex-
tending it to the bowl, the arm is crooked down ; in
withdrawing it, the elbow elevated to nearly the
level of the mouth, and the forearm brought around
as a swivel on its pivot — horizontally.
There are only two or three spoons supplied. They
are little earthen scoops with merely the i udiment of
a handle, just large enough, and crooked sufficiently
to be held between the thumb and forefinger. A man
hastily dips up two or three mouthf uls of soup with
one, then passes it on to his neighbor, and so it and
its too few companions go round and round the
circle. When I began to eat with the rest of the
family, at Zuni, they handed first to me, as they
would have first handed to any other honored
guest, the one spoon they happened to possess. Re-
minded by this of that earlier experience, hereto-
fore related, and devoutly grateful thus to be
saved the risk of scalding my untutored finger-tips
a second time, I nodded my thanks, made a few dips
and, oblivious to the look of expectation with which
my nearest left-hand neighbor eyed the empty spoon,
deposited it conveniently near for future use. The
rest did not look pleased with my want of politeness.
They evidently attributed it to ignorance, yet made
a few remarks. In those remarks I could distin-
guish the words "MeltkarM," "Wasstntnnn,!' "not
over-wise," "not ■under-shameful,"— enough more.
indeed, to show the drift of their thoughts, but not
all their eddyimgs. Sheltered, however, under a
supposed ignorance of their tongue, equal to my
actual ignorance of their etiquette, I clung desper-
ately to the spoon throughout the renainder of the
meal. They were equal to the occasion. They
no sooner gave up all hope of recovering the cov-
eted article, than they proceeded dextrously to
fashion each mouthful of hi-we they tore off, into a
sort of diminutive shovel, by pressing it down in
the hollow of the hand. These shovels, supported
underneath by two outspread fingers along either
side and the thumb pressing what ought to have been
the handle-end against the palm, they would dash
into the soup, pass with admirable celerity from the
bowl to the mouth, and swallow one after another,
contents and all. The next time I sat down, how-
ever, that spoon, starting at my left hand, went en-
tirely around before it was handed to me. Each
one who received it expecting it would be his only
and last chance at it, ate all he wanted of the soup
before passing it on ; therefore the meal was nearly
over when my time came. Meanwhile I had been
trying the shovel process I had seen so much of the
day before ; but it was such hot work, and my hi-
we shovels had such a way of collapsing just as I
was about to take them, full of soup into my
mouth, that the Indians took pity on me, and old
K'kiu made a new earthern spoon (elaborately dec-
orated in the middle with a butterfly, I remember)
for my exclusive use. Those Indians never forgot
the spoon adventure. When I was bidding good-
by to K^iau five years later, she produced from
the folds of her dress (tears coursing down her
cheeks the while, poor, good old thing !) a bright
red pottery spoon with a butterfly painted in the
center of it.
"Here!" said she. "Younger Brother, 'tis not
exactly an o'fc'iOs-lii-tttbe, but I raised you on it all
the same, from the miserable kind of little-legged
thing you were when you came here from Wassin-
tona, to what you are now/ Take it home to your
Me'-Wi people and let them see that 'we can be
good mothers too, and that, without spoons of shin-
ing white metal, either I"
When the home circle is untnvaded by any guest,
the customs I have referred to, and many others ■
equally quaint which have been passed by in haste,
are not so strictly observed as in the presence
of even a near neighbor; but such a presence,
though apparently so slight, is invariably sufficient
to put a whole family on their good behavior. In
it they would as carefully try to preserve the same
inanimity at the ending of a meal as at its begin-
ning. It would be considered shameful for any
one of them to cease eating, while any other re-
mained obviously unsatisfied ; and equally shameful
for any one not to cease eating very soon after even
one of the others — if a respected or elderly one —
had done so.
When guest or inmate, man or child, ceases eat-
ing, he clears his throat and exclaims: "E'lah-
Tiwa! S^h&rnu shUhlrnairil" (Thanks! I have been
satisfied!) The instant reply made by all the
elderlv women is, "ElA'td!" (Eat well I) to which
the first speaker finally responds: "Lathl-i-kih-
kwa; HA's-i-po-tirTi^ia." (Thanks again ; I am filled.)
And the women add, "I'tdA-^narwi!" (Have eaten
then!)
It may have been noticed that in these descrip-
tions I have used the masculine pronoun. This I
have done purposely, as the men are the recipients
of the meal, the women the gimers of it; therefore,
a totally different set of rules are followed by the
latter. They rarely, for instance, except as guests
at other houses than their own, give thanks at the
close of a meal; nor do they respond "Be it well"
122
THE ZMUXjXjSTOlsrE.
when asked to join in one. As to the hostesses,
too, they sit, usually, by themselves; that is, on
one side with the little children, while the men and
youth sit opposite. This curious arrangement
arises out of the sociologic condition of the tribe,
to which I have referred in one of the earliest chap-
ters of this series. Under such a system, the hus-
band, on marrying, leaves his own home and goes
to live with his wife as a sort of perpetual guest,
not only of her clan, but in her household. With-
in the portals of that home he has no nominal
jurisdiction, save such as is accorded to him by his
i wife. Although his hand may have tilled the fields
and gathered the harvest, neither corn nor other
provender is considered as his after it has been de-
posited at the ladder-poles or doorways of his
wife's home. It is this state of affairs which malies
the invariable preliminary to an engagement in
i Zuni, the eating of a meal by the suitor in the pres-
ence of his sweetheart's family. At such a meal
i he is thankful indeed to the old dotards, whom he
can remember as having harassed him so much ,
j with lectures on the rules and ways of eating ! He
applies them all, but all and more too, were not
half sufficient to save him should he so far loosen
the grip of his left hand on the pit of his stomach,
as to eat more than an amount sufficient, we will
say, to satisfy a medium-sized prairie dog! No,
his mother, grandmothers, aunts, sisters, if elder,
uncles on the mother's side even, have reminded
him of the importance that attaches to his eating
little, and thus showing himself a good boarder un-
til the match is made, or until he has proved the
second point toward its ratification — ^his ability to
hoe com. Now it must not be inferred that these
good people are deceived by the young man's mod-
esty in eating. Never a bit do they pretend to
judge from what he does under their conscious
scrutiny, as to his capacity under other circum-
stances. But with them it is as with a great many
civilized parents. They wish the young men to do
certain things in order to show respect to their
daughters— whether they feel it or not 1
On the distant farms, and in the far away lonely
i huts of the shepherds, wonderfully relaxed are these
many regulations. Atthe farming towns, even the
gods themselves are supposed to be more lenient
(because the men are I suppose), and the prover-
bial rule of comparative silence in the presence of
such blessings of the beloved, as foods, is set at
naught. The evening meal, after the long day's
work with the hoe and digging stick, is merry with
jokes, badinage, repartee and laughter.
But among the dark pinons of the mountains
where nestle, half under ground, the watch houses
of the herders, though no observance at meals save
the invariable offering of food to the ancients be
required, yet no sound other than the weird, wail-
ing songs of the solitary occupant, may be heard.
The stars shine out, but their light scarce m. Hows
the deep shadow in which is buried this little shel-
ter and its palisaded fold of flocks. Outside, the
coyotes howl, and at the blanketed doorway the
dogs bark back defiance, while the lambs in the
little pens around the corral, bleat, and the goats
snuff and cough the long night through. Inside, a
fire bright as a furnace— so dark its setting— burns,
and on some skins in front of it lies the shepherd
watching his pot of goat milk and meal, boil, or
turning the joints of drying meat which shall serve
for dinners at Tiome by and by. His fare, with the
exception of meal and dried hi-we, is milk and
meat. But* with this he is content until at the
end of four or eight days his exile wiU be over
and another of the household take his place. So
there, what though alone, he lies until late night,
now singing, now dropping his snatch of song to
listen if perchance some night prowler, or disturber
of his charge be near. Sometimes as he listens, a
glad smile comes over his face, and he lays fresh
wood on the fire, draws forth new skins and stirs
more meal into his pot. A trail winds by not far
away, and to his trained ear a dull thud— still dis-
tant — is sounding like the faint echo of_a dancer's
drum, wliose hand is tired. It is the tramp of a
weary horse, urged on apace by the whip, then,
whip or no, falling back to a jaded stagger and thus
drumming his irregular tattoo on the hard-beaten
trail. Hearing it, the watcher knows a rider is
coming in from some long and weary chase — fresh
venison at his saddle side, fresh anecdotes of sport
and hunter's fare. With such an anecdote I hope
to entertain my reader in the beginning of our
forthcoming and last chapter.
^'^ Xll-na-tXTA-ted. 3ICoaa.€lx.1y «9'Oi^«LX*B.nly ^^e-v^-tecl. -to i;lxe .A.d-v-axi.oeKsiexi.-t of IkEllllxss axi-cl. 3ISeoli.Azi.Aonl XxLteareMtia
I.a^iS'^K.fnck. } VOL. X. INDIANAPOLIS, IND., AUGUST, 1885. NO. VIII. {one DoUaTpfr An'
FBICE
nunt
140
THE 3i>^nnL.ILiSTOIsrE.
LCopyrighted 1884, by David H. Ranok.]
ZUl^I BRE/IDSTUFF— X.IX..
Com-Oanoes and Festivals.
FRANK H. CnSHING.
WW.
ARK few among
ourselves who can
realize how simply
the Southwestern
Indian is
able to
travel the
wilds
which sur-
round his des-
ert home. On
the war-path,
or on his far-
reaching ex-
peditions in
the quest of
m^:
[signal of the feast.]
game, his requirements are insignificant compared
with what we have learned to regard as essen-
tial to the traveler's barest needs; his appli-
ances for the preparation of meals en route,
wonderfully limited in number, but of sur-
passing ingenuity in method. So, too, are the food
materials themselves which he carries, as few as
the things with which he cooks them. A bag of
tchu'-k'iytiorowe, another of coarse meal and a sad-
dle-wallet of dried M-we, complete, if we but add
salt, red pepper and tobacco in smaller sacks to the
list, his provendery. These, together with a small
bowl and a little cooking pot, he rolls up in a blanket
and mounts, on the rear of his saddle, to the bow
of which he also slings a bottle of water-tight wick-
er-ware. Underneath that saddle as a sort of pad-
ding, are a thick cloth and half of a deerskin
dressed soft with the hair on. Over his shoulders
is strapped a quiver and bow-ease, slung to his side
a hunting knife, and about his waist is ingeniously
twirled his heavy serape — overcoat, waterproof
and bed-covering combined; for the skin and cloth
under the saddle, and the blanket in which are en-
wrapped his utensils and provisions, serve with
cedar twigs or a few haudfuls of gi-ass, for his bed.
Thus accoutred have I joined my adopted Indian
brethren on many a trip- nor suffered severely,
winter or summer, for want of ample comfort. More
as an exhibition of their manner of cookery and
food service while traveling than as a distinct nar-
rative, I will give a hasty itinerary of a part of one
of these expeditions :
It was in the early years of my life at Zuni that
Pa'-lo-wah-ti-wa, a young half-brotqer named Kish-
pa-he, and I set out one sandy morning for the far
away southern mesas. I say a "sandy morning,"
for the wind was blowing through the mountain
funnels west of Zuni such a terrific gale that not
the least particle of landscape — except such as was
flying through the air in the shape of sand — could
be seen two rods ahead of us. Earth, sky, and the
little river along which our trail ran, were equally
invisible ; for far above the tops of mesas, them-
selves a thousand feet high, sail the sand-clouds at
Zimi during the fierce winds of springtime, nor do
their trailing feet ever lift themselves from the
ground. Through this, shouting songs which
strangely blended storm-voices around us, rode the
two Indians — unconcerned as ever ; for their scrapes,
unrolled Lut not untied from their waists and ele-
vated to the heads, became huge hoods, effectually
keeping out the flinty blasts which would have al-
most skinned the face of an American.
Soon we left the river and climbed the foot-hills
to the boundary plateaus of the valley. Once upon the
latter the wind alone swept past us, singing through
the pinon trees and tall, lank winter grass ; for the
"legs of the sand-storm," so said the Indians, "were
tangled in the tree-tops and mesas." All day long,
never stopping for rest or refreshment, we kept on
our course. Growing thirsty I was advised to pick
gum from the pine slirubs we passed under, and
by chewing it allay my longing for water; for my
Zuni companions had not yet done "hardening my
meat," and steadily refused to uncork their one
basket bottle of water. Toward evening as we were
picking our way through a thick copse of ever-
greens Kish-pa-he gave a shout, and dismounting,
pointed to a little twig which, from the look of
things, must have been broken years before. Under
the tree it depended from, hidden by a lichen-cov-
ered piece of bark, was a cake of yellow pine-gum,
placed there no doubt by some former hunter and
so marked to be discoverable to others of his class.
The gum was Somewhat bitter at first, but after
awhile grew sweet in the. mouth and served ad-
mirably the purpose for which it is used by Zuni
hunters — the quenching or staying of thirst.
From the wooded, hilly mesa-tops, we descended,
just as the sun was setting, into one of those long,
low white-walled canons south of Zuni which, run-
ning westward and treeless, seem as they are passed
one by one, like great wandering rivers of light,
flowing out flame-like from the fiery sunset world.
No sooner were we well down before an exclama-
tion from Pa'lo-wah-tirwa caused me to look around.
"Supper is ready I" he cried, pointing to a little
"cotton-tail" rabbit which was just scudding into a
hole in the rocks. Forthwith Kish^n-he dis-
moimted, and cutting a slender twig, so trimmed
the branches from it as to leave one or two hooks
or barbs at the lower end. He then pushed the
twig into theliole, prodded about until he suddenly
exclaimed, "There he is 1" tlien began to twist the
twig until it would no longer turn about, when,
giving it a cautious pull, behold I out came the rab-
bit, as thoroughly fastened to the end of the rod as
though transfixed by a spear. The rabbit kicked
and screamed in vain. His loose furry coat was
too secui'ely wound about the end of the stick to ad-
mit of much movement, or escape, and he was soon
grasped by the hind legs, hit a sharp blow with the
open hand just behind the ears, and instantly his
struggles ceased. Before he was fairly dead the
Indians drew his face up to their own and breathed
from his nostrils the last faint sighs of his expir-
ing breath.
Thus they killed no fewer than three or four
rabbits, then abandoning the sport, made haste to
seek a place for camping. AJthough spring had
come the weather was by no means mild, and here
and there iu deep chasms, still lingered patches of
melting snow. To my surprise the Indians turned
from the little walled valley we had been traveling
in, and sought the leeward side of an apparently
exposed hill near at hand. Here, midway up, un-
der a wide-spreading little cedar, they pitched their
camp. Wisely, too, as I have since learned; for in
such situatidns only can one find full protection
from the wind and smoke of a camp in the wilds.
"Very close to the tree they built a fire, then, while
one went about collecting snow, the other led our
tired horses away to a little water pocket not far
down the valley we had just abandoned. When
the horses had been brought back and hobbled, the
snow collected on a blanket out of range of the heat,
one of the Indians found a fiat stone and three or
four lesser ones, while the other moved the fire
considerably outward. The fiat stone was mounted
on the others as a table on very short legs, so
propped up at one end, however, that it sloped
gently from the fire near which it was stationed.
Under the end opposite the fire our one bowl was
placed, and on the flat rock the snow was heaped
like a hug^ sugar-loaf as high as it could be packed.
Then great sticks and logs of pinon were piled on
the fire which soon shot upward and swirled about
far above the lowermo st branches of the trees by
which we were surrounded. In a few moments
the snow began to melt very rapidly, and the water
soaking its way down the sloping stone, ran a con-
stant stream into the bowl.
The Indians now began to prepare our first meal.
One of the rabbits they threw into the middle of
the blazing fire where almost instantly the hair and
parts of the skin were singed off. When the car-
cass looked more like a cinder than the body of an
animal it was hauled forth, and with a few dextrous
turns of K&h-pa-he's hand divested of its charred
skin as a nut would be of its shuck — then dressed,
spread out on a skewer, spitted and set up slanting-
ly — to take care of itself for a whUe, before a thick
bed of embers.
From the basket bottle some water was poured
into our cooking-pot and when it had begun to
boil violently, some coarse meal was briskly, stirred
in. Before this had quite become musli, while still
sticky and quite thin that is, some of it was poured
out on a stone, some dry meal thoroughly
kneaded into it, and the whole ingeniously vprapped
or plastered around the end of a long stick. This
stick, like the rabbit spit, was then set up slanting-
ly over the coals and occasionally turned until con-
siderably swollen, and browned to a nicety. Be-
hold a fine loaf of exceedingly well-done — and as I
afterward found — also exceedingly good-tasting
corn-bread I
The bowl of snow-water was removed from its
place under the stone, and into it was stirred some
tchu'-Ke^na-xmie — ^just enough to make a cream-like
fluid to serve as our beverage, and on the upturned
sides of our saddle skins, in the light and warmth
of our genial fire, our meal was at last spread out.
The rabbit carcass, delicately cooked as ever was
game at DelmonicO's, the mush in the kettle it had
been boiled in, the bread on the stick it had been
baked around, and the one good-sized bowl of tcTiu'-
/c'i-na-owe broth in our midst, we all sat down, made
our sacrifices to the gods, and ate as only hungry
travelers can eat, enjoying our food as only hunters
and husbandmen are privileged to enjoy the fruits
of their labors.
And now, after the food was disposed of, the
ashes were raked away from where our first fire
had been built — "too close to the tree" (I) The
sand underneath was dry as dust and hot, but
not enough so to scorch the thin layer of cedar
twigs with which each of our hastily scooped-out
hip-holes was speedily lined.
THE IMnXiLSTOITE.
141
Over the cedar leaves we spread the saddle-cloths
and skins, over these our wrapping-blankets and
scrapes. A few more logs were brought in and
placed near the fire, a little shelter of cedar branches
built up to keep the wind off our heads, then we
stretched out to smoke our cigarettes, listen to the
Hunter-tales of our Elder Brother, and to make
plans for the morrow's hunting.
I have already wandered so far and often from
my parent theme in this discursive series, that no
longer is there space for telling ot the wild tales we
heard that night. This summer, under the broad
oaks and in sight of the dancing waters of Shelter
Island, my old brother Pa'-lo-wah-ti-wa will be
with me again, again in some mimic camp which
we shall make will I listen to those ever-wondrous
tales, and may be, write them somewhere that my
readers may learn with what romanpes the Zunis
replace the novels of our own less active hours.
That night, though the wind whistled by and cast
sparks into the darkness arountl, until fair morning,
we slept nor once were wakened by cold or dis-
comfort; for our sand-bath beds, under their cover-
ing of fragrant, springy cedar leaves, kept warm as
long as we kept our places on them, and supplied,
with the heat of our camp-fire, the lack of more
abundant covering.
In the morning, while KSsh^pa-he went to find
our horses, old Pa'-lo-wah-U-wa remained to get
breakfast. He fell to talking of expeditions he had
accompanied in which provisions had failed, and
was telling me how an Indian, though almost des-
titute, might travel for days in the most forbidding
of countries without starving.
"If he thirst," continued Pa'l(ywah-tirwa, "let
him get up when the antelopes do and drink what
they drink — dew from the inner leaves of the yucca,
or the juices of cactus-pods, and other plants. If
he hunger, and his arrow sees crooked, or not at all,
let him catch prairie-dogs with nooses made from
his own hair, or twist out a few vermin from the
roots of juniper-trees and make 'rat brine.' "
Just as he was proceeding to tell me how this was
done, KSsh-porhe appeared leading the horses.
"There's a 'nest' just outside of camp I" said he.
"Where?" exclaimed Pa' -lo-wahrti-wa, catching
up his hunting-knife and cutting a twig like the
one with which the rabbits had been captured the
evening before. "I've been telling Little Brother
how hunters make 'ratrbrine,' " said he, with a grin,
and a stirring motion of the knife he was whit-
tling with. "He is so hungry for some that his
breaih is hot ana his eyes moist with anxiety 1— look
at him!"
Thereupon both rushed to find the "nest" in
question. It was composed of sticks, stalks, and
abundant cactus spines— with which the Southwest-
ern wood-rats cleverly protect the approaches to
"^heir houses— all piled compactly about the roots
of a large juniper tree. With a prod all this was
soon demolished, and the holes in one of the roots
examined.
"They're in I" called out Kish^Orhe excitedly,
and forthwith the flexible sappling probe was in-
troduced, twirled a few times, and withdrawn, two
squirming, staring-eyed rats well twisted to its
end, and another proddmg brought out one more.
The rats were choked en route to our camp, and,
perhaps a little too soon for their own comfort,
thrown into a bed of embers, where, after roasting
a few moments, they bloated up into oblong balls,
became divested of their tails, legs, ears, winkers,
and all other irregularities, and when pulled from
the fire, looked like roasted potatoes overdone,
in a twinkling — came out
with mashed into pulp between two stones — meat,
bones, visceral contents and all, and stirred into
about a pint of salt and water. Thus concocted
was the "rat-brine;" green in color, semi-fiuid,
and meaty in taste — for they made me eat
some of it I do not regret to say— and very aro-
matic in flavor; a quality which the rats derive
from the trees in which they live and on the berries
and leaves of which they feed. Disgusting indeed
would this delicacy of the hunter be, were the
wood-rat of the Southwest anything like his various
Eastern representatives and congeners ; but he is
not. He lives on but one or two kinels of food all
his life, and the peculiar flavor of the sauce made
from him is due to the way in which — visceral
contents and all — he is worked up into "rat brine."
I would fain tell of our personal adventures on
that trip, which lasted several days longer; of many
other details of an Indian hunter's life which I then
first learned of, but I have already related in the
words of the Zunis themselves as they work up.
their own experiences in folk tales, how tliey trait;
stock and cut up the deer, and how sacrifice to his
manes.
With the end of these meals of the hunter, we
turn from the ordinary or secular breadstuffs of
the Zunis to their festivals of ceremonial and wor-
ship, and the fasts ordained by their Priests of
medicine and religion.
'l here are two very beautiful little customs not
They were "shucked
what were once 1
clowns' heads.
wholly apart from every-day life, which the Zunis
annually observe— the "presentation of bread" to
the children, and the "meal with the fathers." Per-
haps the most sacred, though least secret of their
esoteric societies, is the K&'-kA, or great dance or-
ganization—truly the church of these pagan wor-
shipers, if church they may be said to possess, for
in it are included Priests, laymen and song-leaders-
The public celebrations of this Ka'-ltd, consists of
wonderfully fantastic dances, in which gods, de-
mons and the men of ancient times are dramatical-
ly represented by costumed actors. Inside one of
the estufas, or subterranean council chambers,
which, on occasions of great moment are embellished
with fringed and plumed bows strung across their
entrance-ladders, [see initial sketch] rituals are
repeated, prayers and sacrifices offered during a
whole night preceding the public appearance of
the actors. But during the day the worship con-
sists almost whoUy of dances to the time of loud
invocation chants and wild metric music. To de-
scribe the various features of this worship would
be to give a history of the whole Zuni mythology
and delineate a hundred diverse and striking cos-
tumes and maskings. In each celebration, how-
ever, certain elements are constant. Such are the
clovms— priests annually elected from the member-
with warty, wen-eyed, pucker-mouthed pink masks
[see illustration] and mud-bedaubed equally pink
bodies.
First appear the dancers, some fifty of them,
costumed and masked with such similarity that in-
dividuals are as indistmguishable as the birds or
the animals they conventionally represent, are from
each other. Large-jawed and staring-eyed demons
of one kind or another marshal them into the open
plaza of the village under the guidance of a sedate
unmasked priest bearing sacred relics and praye r-
meal. One of the demons sounds a rattle and howls
the first clause in the song stanza; then all fall into
line, all in equal time sing the weird song, and go
through the pantomime and dance which invariably
illustrate its theme. When four verses have been
completed the actors, bathed in perspiration, retire
to their estufa to rest and pray, while the priest-
clowns appear with drum, cabalistic prayer-plumes
and the paraphernalia of guess-games. They begin
the absurdest, most ingenious and witty of buffoon-
ery and raillery, generally managing, nevertheless,
to explain during their apparently nonsensical
dialogues, the full meanings of the dance and song
— the latter being often couched in archaic or jar-
gonistic terms utterly incomprehensible to others
than the initiated among the audience which
throngs the terrace-tops. To 'merely see these
clowns, without understanding a word of their
incessant and really most humorous jabber,
is to laugh immoderately. To understand every-
thing, withal, is to sometimes wish from sheer ex-
cess of laughing, that the dancers would file in and
thus put an end to their jibes and antics. If these
clowns accompany certain most beautiful corn-
dances of late autumn, then each bears a bundle of
beautifully painted and feathered toy bows and
arrows, or hideous dolls, with all sorts of bread-
loaves and cakes depending from them. The bread
tied to the bows has usually the forms of deer, an-
telope, rabbits, turkeys or other game animals, while
that attached to the dolls— unless these be of a
certain kind— has the shape of delicately-made
cakes of all forms other than such as above de-
scribed, with sometimes the effigies of infants or
men and women interspersed. Toward evening
when all the spectators are gathered in full force,
the clowns take up their burdens of toys, and go
searching cautiously and grotesquely amid the
children as though afraid ef the person they sought.
When one of them finds the object of his search,
he stares, wiggles, cuts capers and dodges about,
approaching nearer and nearer the wondering child
and extending the toy he has selected. Finally the
half -frightened little one is induced by its mother
to reach for the treasure ; as it clutclies the proffered
gift the clown suddenly straightens up and be-
comes grave, and delivers a long loud-toned harangue.
If the toy he has just handed be a bow and arrows,
it is given to a boy; if a doll, to either a very Itttle
boy, or a girl. The bow and arrows symbolize the
hunt whereby the little man shall in later life pro-
vide the food rudely represented by the eatable
efSgies tied to it. The doll with its fanciful loaves
is emblematic of liousewif ely dexterity and, with
the addition of the little human effigies, of the
duties and cares of maternity. So, too, the lectures
delivered with the presents correspond to the func-
tional character of the toys represented.
It is with these dolls, carved in imitation of
the personnse of the sacred dance, that the Zuiii
child is first taught the simpler of the myriad
weary prayer formulse which, as a member
of the Kd'-kd, he will have to become familiar with
by and by. With them, also, the little maiden is
first initiated into the mysteries of the matron-life
she will some day presumably lead, as well as into
142
THE :Ld:iLLST6lsrE3.
the less profound rites of food consecration and
hospitality.
As the Zuni New Year approaches, the dances
increase in number and variety. The ten clowns
appear at night eight days before the grand festi-
val, for the last time in their yearly service. They
tell the people who assemble by torchlight to listen
to their final ludricrosities, that the great feast day
is at hand; that the men must make new garments
for the women, and the women renew their houses
with whitewash and cleaning for the men ; their
larders with fresh M-we, hS^Orlo-Vin and other
breadstuffs, for the strangers who are sure to flock
in from the neighboring tribes to participate in the
lavish festivities, witness the elaborate ceremonials
and barter for the products of the Zuni looms and
kitchens.
With a few not very delicate jokes (for the New
Year is of all others the marrying time in Zuni) the
clowns retire to their secret lodgings, there to re-
main until sun-rise eight days later, initiating the
ten newly-chosen priests into the mysteries of their
humor-laden vocation and severe ritualistic duties.
Thousands of sheep are driven in during the en-
suing days, hundreds of them and dozens of cattle
slaughtered, dissected and piled up in the corner of
the newly plastered rooms. Hunters come in from
the southern wilds bringing game, messengers speed
away to surrounding tribes, bearing invitations to
all who may wish to feast from ZuHi plenty or
witness Zuni dancing and beauty. Fires burn all
over the house-tops each night cooking hd-po-?o-
li'ia, and all day in the little cooking rooms the M-
i«e stones are kept hot for the busy bakings. I
have seen in one house at such times, twenty sheep
carcasses, two quartered cattle, enough h&we to
fill a wagon box, and numerous other dishes of the
kinds already so specifically described.
On the seventh evening the cry of the Sun-Priest
is heard announcing the approach of "The Gods
and the Ancients." At midnight, south of the
town near the foot-hills, watcli-fires are built to
guide these coming personations — the chiefs and
priests of the KA'-kd, whose shrill flutes pipe dole-
fully in the night wind, and the rattles of whose
masked attendants sound sharply on the frosty air.
All night long, Navajos, Moquis, Pueblos and not a
few Apaches,decked out in their flnest costumes, and
painted with ochre, vermillion, blue powder and
marrow until their faces' shine like those of Me-
diseval Madonnas, ride in from the surrounding
country and take up their quarters with welcoming
hosts on every hand.
But in the midst of all these busy preparations,
the "Meal with the Fathers" is not forgotten. I
have said before that husbands abandon their own
homes when they marry, to dwell in the houses of
their wives. Early on the morning of New Year,
however, old men may be seen tottering from place
to place, gathering up their married sons and con-
ducting them to homes of their nativity. Arrived
there, the mother welcomes them as though re-
turned from a long journey, and the first bread
broken on that day of all days in the Zuiii year, is
sacrificed in their honor on the hearth around
which she has seen these sons, mostly grown mid-
dle-aged, frolic or play at the games they now
scarce remember.
As the day wears away the Sun-Priest of the
Kd'-kd — a god pro tern, and treated ag such — the
priests of a lesser degree, bird-like, beast-like,
monster-like in apparel and disguise, come from
where the fires burned last night, in solemn pro-
cession. Amid the showers of prayer-meal with
which they are reverently received, they consecr..te
the pueblo, the ladders of new houses and the
plazas of the dances they are the leaders of. Later
on they are followed by the Sha-a-la-k'o, or giant
war-priests of the Ka'-kA. These demoniac mons-
ters tower far above the new clowns, flute players
and armed Priests of the Bow who herald and con-
duct their approach. They are ingeniously made
effigies, long-haired, bearded, great-eyed and long-
snouted, so managed by means of strings and sticks
by a person concealed under their ample, embroid-
ered skirts that tliey seem alive, and strike terror
t» the uninitiated.
On entering the new houses they come to conse-
crate, they crouch low beside the Sun-altar and
glare out with gaping, clapping beaks and rolling
eyes from the dark corner they are ensconced in,
or fitfully start up at certain signals from the sing-
ers and drummers, like gigantic "Jacks" till their
head plumes fairly brush the rafters and their re-
sounding clappers wake every sleepy child in the
assemblage with nightmares of Zuni devils and
perdition. I will not pause to tell the story of the
dances and ceremonials which are performed the
long night through by these strange masqueraders;
for I have already briefly related it in the Century
for 1882. At about midnight, when fires glare
fiercest and brightest in every sacred house in Zuni,
in each of them are stretched out like huge strings
of beads across the immaculate floors, the rows and
rows of round bowls, baskets and little black cook-
ing-pots which make up the service of a great Zuni
feast.
Yet for long stand these many vessels of tempt-
ing viands untouched; for the Sun-Priest, the
hereditary Priest of the House, the chief Priest of
the Bow, all in turn have to pronounce long-winded
rituals over them. Then the black-masked youth
personating the god of fire, sweeps in bearing his
burning brand of cedar bark, and gracefully swing-
ing it over each kind of food, brushes away, as it
were, the impure influences. The Priest of the
Bow once more pronounces an invocation, takes a
few bits of food from each dish, hands it to attend-
ant juniors, who disappear to sacrifice it, then turns
with a smile to the great crowd and calls out:
"TAttts many have the days been numbered,
^'The days of our anxious awaiting,
"That we might Eat with the Bblovbd I"
Whereupon the women echo his last clause and
the hungry crowd gathers about the bowls and
baskets. Eating is then the main business. Ex-
cept for the shouts — "Approach with saltl" — ^"Ihe
favor of more meat this way." — "The hMve is
wasted down here" — "I am satisfied, thanks." —
and the various appropriate responses, nothing is
heard but the clatter of bones on the floor and the
subdwed smacking of lips; for the feasts of cere-
monials are most decorous, and few of the rules for
showing one's approbation at ordinary dinners are
deemed in place at these, where the gods them-
selves are supposed to be the hosts and hostesses,
There is one other great festival, greater even
than this. It is the "Initiation of Children" into
the Ka'-ka. Occurring only once in four years, it is
prepared for months beforehand, follows a fast of
eight days, and lasts two days and two nights. The
supply for it is provided with liberal hand by the
parents of the little ones for whom it is instituted
Indeed, prodigality in everything seems to be the
order of the day.
I cannot pause to describe separately the many
fanciful personages which take part in this observ-
ance. There are the six-colored SorlOrmo-pl-as,
the Gods of the Dance, the Ancient "Long-horned-
Demons" of war, the light-footed Tablet-dancers,
and the Bird-beasts of the Mountains and Oceans,
represented. The novitiates having. been duly
dieied almost to starvation, are ranged in a circular
row about the main plaza, their backs covered
with robes arid blankets. To prepare them for the
passage under the fringed bow of mystic estufa,
they are soundly drubbed with long wands by
each one of the forty-eight dancers, four times,
four blows each time. Although the paddings
on their backs be thick, they howl piteously
before the several hundred blows they have to
crouch under be meted out to them ; and the more
they howl the harder descend the blows. When
this flagellation is completed, they are led into the
estufa there to be divested of most of their cover-
ings, and again most soundly flogged, though this
time a less number of times. Then, Indeed, their
cries resound and they wriggle to free themselves
from the flrm hands of their weird captors. After
this comes a grand baptism, and a breathing into
the nostrils of tiie still whimpering urchins, of the
sacred breath of the Ka'-ka. No sooner is this done
than the great effigy of the sea serpent, managed
by means of invisible cords, wriggles into their
midst through a curiained port-hole, and vomits
with unearthly groanings a quantity of green medi-
cine-water, with the drinking of which the poor
frightened little wretches are freed from the pro-
bation of the estufa.
Meanwhile, outside, the two white-bodied, gray-
headed tribute-bearers of the gods — whose faces
are grim and ghastly with their great deep eyes and
black hand-marks over the mask-mouths — appear
on the scelie. They are followed by the Sa-Ujymo-
pi-a crew and the little god of fire. From house"
top to house-top they go, throughout the pueblo,
casting down the rarest vessels — set out to await
them — and breaking up baskets and aU other food
vessels not hidden before their approach. As each
vessel strikes the grotind the Sarlar^m,o-piras rush
upon it and dance it into the ground — while the
baskets as they fall are lighted by the torch of the
fire-g' d, and soon nothing but cinders remain of
their bright colors and involved pattern-work.
When it is considered that over each bowl, basket
and water-j ar or cooking-pot a series of passes have to
be made by the tribute-collectors with their plumed
wands, a prayer said, and a low, long dixge-moan
uttered, it may be conceived that, naked as they are
in the cold winter afternoon, theirs is no enviable
task; but the end of it signalizes the cessation of
ceremonials, and the beginning of the joyous feast-
ing. In the abandoned estufa, however, all through
that boisterous night, a strange crowd of priests is
gathered. The leaders of the Ka'-lca are assembled
to listen to the great epic of creation, delivered by
a masked and beautifully appareled priest. This
epic, or ritual, is the Iliad of Zuni. It is kept and
handed down word for word by four priests, one
of whom no sooner dies than another member of
the Ka'-ka \s installed in his place. One of these
priests repeat every word of the ritual once in each
of the six estuf as, every fourth year. Each repeti-
tion requires six hours for its delivery — ^thirty-six
hours in all — during which time the solemn-toned,
rapid-speeched priest is not allowed to taste food
othei than 0'M'ti.is-J« water. Not once is his mask
raised. None save those of the iimermost circle of
the Ka'-ka are supposed to know whom they are
listening to, and the people at large so reverence
the office, that to touch this priest's garments with
the finger-tips as he is borne, along from estufa to
estufa by the ten clowns, is deemed a sacred, fa-
vor-laden grace.
Opposed to these, and the many other festivals
I might tell of, are the Fasts, not less abundant
in Zuni. The most important of these, because al-
most universally observed, is the fast following the
New Year festival. When the war-gods have been
set up in their shrines Sfo. Thunder Moikitaiu and
the Mount of the Beloved, and the great "Last
THE JV^ILLSTOISrE.
143
fire" has been kindled as ajiignal by the Priests
of the Bow, then only ceTtam kinds of vegetable
food are eaten by man, woman or child in Zuni.
All meat, all fatty matter, even vessels which have
been contaminated by the touch of flesh, are ab-
stained from. No fire is built out of doors during
ten days, nor are many other th^fe, allowable at
other times, indulged in. The last night of the
ten, however, is again full of ceremonial. Again
the cooking-fires are busy. At daylight, however,
they are all put out, and the cinders and ashes
thrown to the winds of the open valley. Two
nearly nude maskers of the dance may be seen in
the twilight swiftly wending their way to a distant,
lonely canon, where the God of Fire is supposed to
have once dwelt. There, with an ancient stick and
shaftj they kindle tinder by drilling the two sticks
together, and lighting a torch hurry it back to the
great central estuf a, where matrons, maidens and
young men anxiously await the gift of New Fire.
No sooner are the new flames kindled from this
on the hearths of the households, than great bas-
kets of food are cast into them, that the imperish-
able substance of life may be wafted upward into
the outer world as food for the spirits of the an-
cestry and those who have died during the year just
past. By no means unbeautiful is the sight of a
gentle matron standing in prayer before the fire-
place, dressed as if to
meet beloved friends, and
weeping softly to herself
as she casts loaf after
loaf unsparingly into the
flames. Then, by all save
the hereditary priests,
who must continue their
mortification of appetite
six days longer, the great
fast is broken.
Whenever a man is in-
itiated into the Priesthood
or one of the secret Medi-
cine Societies of the tribe,
severe fastings are re-
quired. Never shall I for-
get the wretched exist-
ence! led during the four
days of my probation
when it had been decided
I should become a "Priest
of the Bow." In thecoun-
cil chamber of that priesthood I was confined. All
meat, cooked food, salt, warmth and other comforts,
including the cigarette, were denied me. Every
morning, at the rising of the sun, I was conducted
to an enormous bowl of dark, greenish-yellow med-
icine-water. By the side of this bowl stood anoth-
er equally ample, but empty, and laid conveniently
near, a turkey-quill. The offices of the extra bowl
and the turkey-quill may be better implied than de-
scribed when I say that I had to drink every drop
—four gallons in all— of the tepid, nauseating
draught before me. It left me weak and very empty
each of those painful mornings, and after a pilgrim-
age to a distant shrine under the guardianship of a
matron of my clan and two stalwart warriors, my
breakfast, what though raw and stale, seemed most
tempting— until I essayed to become satisfied of it !
By the third day the habit of indigestion— artificial-
ly induced as has been described— became quite
easy and natural; and although the "rising-water,"
turkey-quill and extra bowl were just as vigorous-
ly forced on my notice by my guardians, there
really was no other than a purely chimerical reason
for their use.
There is one secret order of the tribe wherein in-
itiatory rules, thougtrsevere, are of quite an oppo-
site nature. It is an esoteric society, of which I
spoke in a foot-note of the first chapter of this series
—the Ni-we-kwe, or "Gluttons." Like the ten mud-
priests, they are the most ridiculous of clowns when
they appear in public, the most serious of sacred
personages when gathered into the secret councils.
They are the medicine-men par excellence of the
tribe, whose special province is the cure of all dis-
eases of the stomach — the elimination of poisons
from the systems of the victims of sorcery or im-
prudence. They are exempt from all fasts, though
denied for life the use of two or three kinds of deli-
cacies, such as watei'-cress, and the flesh of the birds
sacred to their order. But the penalty they have to
pay is a dear one. No foods aside from the latter
taboos, however, are unwholesome,or whatever their
condition, are considered harmful to them. Nude
to the waist, grotesquely painted about the eyes and
mouth, there is no chance for deception when, in
broad daylight, they sit down to a "demonstration"
in the middle ot the dance plaza.. I have seen one
of them gather about him his melons, green and
ripe, raw peppers, bits of stick and refuse, unmen-
tionable water, live puppies — or dead, no matter —
peaches, stones and all, in fact everything soft
enough or small enough to be forced down his gul-
let, including wood-ashes and pebbles, and, with the
i
ZUNI MENDICANTS.
greatest apparent gusto, consume them all at a sin-
gle sitting. Once after such a repast, two of these
Nd-wes pretended, though their stomachs were
bloated to distortion, to still be hungry. They fixed
their staring eyes on me, and motioned me to give
them samefhing else to eat! 1 pitied them profound-
ly, but as it is considered the hight of indecency to
reluse a N6-we anything, i ran home, caught up
some crackers, threw them iuto a paper, and in or-
der to make them relish the better, poured a pint
or two of molasses over them. I wrapped an old
woolen army jacket around this as a present to the
enterprising clowns, and hurried back. There they
were anxiously waiting— the people watching them
to see how much more they could get away with. I
cast the bundle mto the plaza. The pair immedi-
ately fell to fighting for its possession, consequent-
ly broke the paper, scattered some of the crackers
about the ground and daubed the back of the coat
thoroughly with the molasses. They gathered up
the fragments of crackers and ate them— with their
whole burden of adhesions, then fought over the
paper and ate that, finally tore pieces out of the
back of the coat with their teeth and ate ftiem,
(though it nearly choked them to do so) after which
the victor put the coat on and triumphantly wore it,
his painted skin showing like white patches through
the holes he had bitten in the hack of the coat. I
observed that erelong — one at a time — they disap-
peared. When either returned he was f au:ly lank,
and pretended to be as wof ully hungry and mani-
fested, moreover, quite as much readiness to devour
everything as before.
Whatever the "medicine" is that these N^-wes
possess, it must be superlatively good ; for I have
never yet known one to die from the effects of his
extraordinary gourmandizing, and but one to grow
sick during my long stay in the Pueblo — he only for
a little while.
I hesitate to record in this, my Jast article on
Breadstuff, the many other seemingly super-gastral
exploits of these inimitably funny doctor-clowns.
The most amusing cliapter within the scope of my
pen would be such a record; but not only would it
be too often disgusting to one unaware of its almost
heroic motive, it would be wholly disbelieved by
such of my readers as never chanced to visit me in
Zuni and personally witness the performances of
these JV^-wes. When it is considered, however, that
the N^^e never appears in public as a demon-
strator of the power of his medicine until after years
of arduous training, even then only after elaborate
preparation, it will be conceded that the above nar-
ration transcends in no
wise mere sober truth.
The NSwes may .fre-
quently be seen in seasons
of scarcity, going from
house to house in com-
pany with the Kd'-ye-
mA-shi, or Priest-clowns,
and in the service of cer-
tain strange mendicants.
These mendicants usually
travel in pairs. They
are powerful men dis-
guised as saurian mon-
sters. Their heads are
entirely encased in enor-
mous long- jawed masks
precisely resembling —
what with their teeth of
plaited corn-husk or shin-
- ing squash - seeds — the
heads of crocodiles. Out
of the foreheads of these
masks, stare eyes composed of balls of buckskin
painted white and dotted with black, so adjusted
that like the eyes of wax dolls they roll about or
seem to wink with the upward, downward or side-
wise motion of the man they disguise. The masks,
cloths fastened to them to conceal the neck and
bodies of the performers, are painted black, and a
streamer of dark colored cloth hangs down the
back and trails behind, covered with a row of eagle
plumes which stand erect like the spines in a sea-
monster's dorsal fin. All over the head and body
of these figures are little patches of snowy eagle
down — stuck on with wild honey — to represent
scales. The mendicants are dressed in the armlets,
wristlets, sashes and badges of war to proclaim
their bloodthirsty proclivities. They are armed
with bows and long arrows tipped with corn-cobs.
This latter circumstance is fortunate for the N6-wes
and Kd'-ye^mci-sM; for no sooner does one of the
latter succeed in gathering up a blanket-load of h^
we, corn or other provender, than he is unmerciful-
ly plugged by the howling monsters [see illustra-
tion] and compelled to make a deposit of his pre-
cious cargo, or else goaded on to beg for more. If
any woman to whom application is made by a Ka'-
il44
THE ZMZILLSTOIsrE.
ye-m(irsM, be hardy enough to refuse him alms, the
clown rushes bawling and whimpering back to his
monster-master who, uttering low, hoarse gutteral
bellows, very becoming to his appearance, proceeds
to shoot out a few window-lights in her house, or
sends— not very gently, either — two or three arrows
at the woman herself, or her children, until she is
fain to hand over any kind of breadstuff she may
have at hand.
But ere we complete this series on Zuni Bkead-
STUFF, let us see how, once in four years or eight,
the ovens whence it issues in such abundant variel y
are cleaned (ceremonially speaking) of the last ves-
tiges of old bakings and the "bad influences" which
are accounted as having accumulated in them.
On a certain summer evening of the fourth or, as
I the case may be, eighth year, a curious figure — a
veritable ideal chimney-sweep appears. Black as
the soot with which he is painted can make him,
is he; bristling at many points with tufts of hair
and cedar brushes. His head is round like an oven;
round too his eyes, like flue-holes, with yellow lad-
ders painted over them for brows. A bunch of stiff
hair surmounts his crown, out of which issues like
a flame a red eagle plume to symbolize fire. His
mouth is almost square like an oven-door, but with
red lips — the light gleaming out when the stone
door is closed — with a stiff thin beard shooting
forth from its under side which makes it look, de-
spite its parallelogramic proportions, like a Cyclo-
pean eye with heavy winkers — placed too low down.
On either cheek is painted in glaring yellow the
paw of a badger or some other famous burrower —
also symbolic of function. The crSature carries in
one hand a wand of yucca leaves with which to
scourge away dogs; and in the other a little broom
of hemlock. To his rump is fastened a long cord
of fiber like the tail of a kite. As he travels along
he staggers, crooks his thighs, crawls eccentrically
from side to side and plunges this way and that as
though seeking for or trying to enter ovens ; for in
everything he sees nothing but ovens — sometimes
mistakes ladders or even burros for such and sti-ives
to get into them. When at last he espies a verita-
ble oven, he leaps wildly toward it with a low
growl of satisf action,and eagerly disappears through
its dark doorway. Presently out come crumbs and
fragments of bread or bits of hA-we (left there, of
course, in anticipation of his visit) hich scarcely
strike the ground before they are grabbed up by
the ever attendant Kwye-mOrsM, or Ni-wes. Dust
and cinders follow— as though the oven had never
been cleaned 1 — nor do the exertions of the Oven-
demons cease short ofmiscliief to the masonry of
the structure, unless one of his companions with
great-to-do, snakes him forth by means of the long
rope of fiber. No sooner is he out than he turns on
his captor with his yucca weapon, and breaks away
and goes plunging along to another oven, and so
on until every dome-shaped bread receptacle in
the village has been duly visited and purified.
Thus, O, patient reader, with thanks indeed for
your long-suffering kindness in the reading of these
hasty sketches, let us leave these ovens, nor pollute
them agam with fresh bakings, or the mention of
theml
THE END.
DEMON INSPECTOli OF OVENS.
I
I I ■ - . -"q I , 1 I ■
I . E~ '
I t,
i 1-
fl'i-
J I
■1 b
A'\ ',
J I r
'i: '
I'
'ii
I ' F ,
^^ ''\'\
I
r "|i
He, I' ^■'
ii