Jackson was not sure whether he believed this story or not.
But his manner of telling it indicated that it was very real
to him.

Now and again near Tallac one may see one of the dances of the
Washoes. Though war is past with them they still occasionally indulge
in their War Dance and its consequent Scalp Dance. There are not more
than ten or a dozen of the old warriors still living who actually
engaged in warfare in the old days, and these are too old and feeble
to dance. But as the young men sing and throw their arms and limbs
about in the growing frenzy of the arousing dance, and the tom-tom
throbs its stimulating beat through the air, these old men's eyes
flash, and their quavering voices become steady and strong in the
excitement, and they live in the conflicts of the past.

Another of the dances that is still kept up is the Puberty Dance.
Many white people have seen this, but not having any clew to its
significance, it seemed absurd and frivolous. When a girl enters the
door of young womanhood the Washoe idea is to make this an occasion
for developing wiriness, strength, and vigor. Contrary to the method
of the white race, she is made, for four consecutive days, to exert
herself to the utmost. She must walk and climb mountains, ride and
run, and when night comes on the fourth day, she and her mother, and
as many of the tribe as are available, begin to dance at sunset and
keep it up all night. The girl herself is designated by a long and
slim pole which she carries in her hand, and which towers above her
head. By her side stands her mother. The leader of the dance begins a
song, a simple, rhythmic, weird chant, the words of which are archaic
and have no significance to the Indians of to-day, but merely give
syllables to hang the tune upon. As the leader sings he slowly moves
his legs in a kind of oblique walk. The young men take his hand
and follow. The women unite, and a rude circle is made, generally,
however, open, at the place where the dance-leader stands. After once
or twice around, the leader moves first one foot, then the other,
sideways, at the same time jogging his body up and down in fairly
rapid movement, in perfect time to his song. In a few moments all are
bobbing up and down, with the onward side-shuffling movement, and the
real dance is on. This continues according to the will of the leader.
When his voice gives a sudden drawling drop that dance ends. There are
a few minutes for relaxation and breath, and then he lines out a
new song, with new syllables, and a new dance begins. This continues
practically all night, the dance-leader showing his memory power or
his composing genius by the number of new songs he introduces. I have
counted as many as thirty to forty different tunes on one occasion.

Just at sunrise the mother of the girl fetches one or two buckets of
cold water, while the maiden undresses. The water is suddenly dashed
over her "to make her vigorous and strong," and the dance comes to an
end.

This rude and rough treatment, in the early days, was made to have all
the potency and sanctity of a religious rite. The reason for it was
clear. The Washoes were surrounded by people with whom they were
often at war. Indian warfare takes no cognizance of sex or its special
disabilities. In order that their women should not be regarded as
_hors de combat_, or enfeebled, at such times and thus hamper the
movement of the tribe in case a sudden flight was needed, the shamans
or medicine men taught that strength, activity and vigor were just as
possible at that time as any other. "Those Above" commanded that it
be so. Hence all the sanctity and seriousness of a religious rite was
thrown around these dances, and though the Indians of to-day have
lost many of their old customs, this is one that is still rigorously
observed.

Another singular custom that still obtains is where, after the birth
of a first child, the _husband_ and _father_ is required to
fast and work arduously from the day of the birth until the child's
navel shrivels off. This is to make him strong and vigorous, so
that he may be able to give as much strength to his second and later
children as he did to the first.

As soon as a girl matures she is marriageable. Several and simple are
the ways in which a Washoe youth shows his preference and desire
for marriage. Equally simple are the girl's signs of acceptance or
rejection. There is no ceremony as the White Race understands that
term, though to the Indian there is everything that is necessary to
make the rite as binding as it is to his white brother and sister.

Though polygamy has always been practiced, the custom to-day limits
the wives to two, and only a few men have more than one wife. Where
plural wives are taken they are generally sisters. There is little
intermarriage among other tribes. Though it occasionally occurs it is
fiercely frowned upon and all parties are made to feel uncomfortable.

Prostitution with the whites and Chinese is not uncommon, and children
born of such relationship have just as good a standing as those born
in wedlock. The Indian sees no sense in punishing an innocent child
for what it is in no way responsible for. He frankly argues that only
a silly fool of a white man or woman would do so cruel and idiotic a
thing.

Children are invariably welcomed and made much of at birth, though it
is seldom a Washoe woman has more than four or five babies. They are
always nursed by the mother, and not often weaned until they are four
or five years old.

In the early days the labor of the sexes was clearly defined. The man
was the hunter and the warrior, the guardian of the family. The
woman was the gatherer of the seeds, the preparer of the food, the
care-taker of the children. To-day there is not much difference in the
division of labor. The breaking down of all the old customs by contact
with the whites has made men and women alike indifferent to what work
they do so that the family larder and purse are replenished thereby.

In the early days the Washoes were expert hunters of bear and deer.
They used to cross over into the mountains of California for
this purpose, and the women would accompany them. A camp would be
established just below the snow line, and while the men and youths
went out hunting the women gathered acorns. My informant, an old
Indian, was a lad of eighteen at the time of which he spoke. In effect
he said: "One day while I was out I found the tracks of a bear which
I followed to a cave. Then I went to camp. But we Indians are not
like you white men. You would have rushed in and shouted to everybody,
'I've found a bear's track!' Instead I waited until night and when all
the squaws had gone to bed I leisurely told the men who were chatting
around the camp fire. They wished to know if I knew where the cave
was, and of course I assured them I could go directly to it. The next
morning early my uncle quietly aroused me, saying, 'Let's go and get
that bear.' I was scared but had to go. When we arrived he took some
pieces of pitch-pine from his pocket, and lighting them, gave me one,
and told me to stand at the mouth of the cave ready to shoot the
bear, while he went in and drove it out. I didn't like the idea, but I
daren't confess my cowardice, for he at once went in. In a few moments
I heard terrific growlings and roarings and then the bear rushed out.
I banged away and he fell, and I was proud to tell my uncle, when he
came out, that I had killed the bear. 'No, you didn't,' said he; 'your
shots all went wild. Here's the shot that killed him,' and sure enough
it was a shot of a different size from that of my gun."

"Another time when I found a bear in a cave he said, 'You must go in
this time and drive out the bear.' I was sure I couldn't do it, but he
insisted, and thrusting the lighted sticks into my hands bade me crawl
in, keeping my eyes fixed the while, as soon as I saw them, upon those
of the bear. I was to keep my back to the wall, and when I got well
in, was to dash the light behind the bear and give a yell. I crawled
in all right and soon got to where I could just about stand up, but
when I saw the bear and he began to growl I was scared and backed out
pretty quick and said I didn't have light enough. My uncle grabbed the
sticks from me, called me a coward, rushed in, and as the bear dashed
out shot and killed it."

It is generally thought that Indians are good shots, but the testimony
of the hunters of the Tahoe region is that the Washoes are very
poor shots. One hunter tells me he has seen an Indian take as fine
a standing shot as one need desire, again and again, and miss every
time. On one occasion he was hunting deer with an Indian. The latter
had gone up a steep slope, when, suddenly, he began to fire, and kept
it up until fourteen shots were fired. Said he: "I was sure he must
have a bunch of deer and was making a big killing, and hurried up to
his side. When I got there I found he had sent all those shot after
one buck, and had succeeded only in breaking its leg. With one shot
I killed the wounded animal, went up to it and was about to cut its
throat, when he begged me not to do so, asserting that if I cut the
deer's throat that way I should never get a standing shot again, the
deer would always be able to smell me."

This is a quaint superstition. The Indians believe that though the
particular deer be slain it has the power of communicating with living
deer and informing them of the peculiar "smell" of the hunter. Hence,
as in the olden days they had no guns, only bows and arrows, and were
compelled to creep up much nearer to their prey than is needful with
a gun, anything that seemed to add to the deer's power of scenting the
hunter must studiously be avoided.

And, although the gun had rendered the old methods of hunting
unnecessary, this particular precaution still persisted and had all
the force of established custom.

My friend then continued: "Another superstition I found out as I
cleaned this deer. I cut out the paunch, the heart and the liver and
offered them to the Indian. He refused them, saying it was food fit
only for women, children and old men. If he were to eat them he would
never have luck in hunting again."

This superstition is common with many Indian tribes. It is based upon
the idea that one becomes like that which he eats. If one eats the
heart of a mountain-lion or bear he becomes daring and courageous.
But to eat the heart of the timid deer is to make oneself timorous and
cowardly.

As soon after puberty as possible a boy is taken out by his father
or uncle on a hunt. Prior to that time he is not allowed to go. But
before he can eat of the product of the chase he must himself kill a
deer with large enough horns to allow him to crawl through them.

A friend of mine was out with a Washoe Indian whose boy was along
on his first hunting expedition. They hunted a deer for nearly three
days, but as soon as they found tracks the father, after studying them
awhile, said: "This a little fellow. No good. He not big enough"--thus
signifying to his son that his horns were not large enough to allow
him to crawl through, hence it was no use following the animal
further.

The Indian is quite sure that deer can smell him and know when he
is on the hunt. He becomes skillful in detecting and following their
tracks, and knows just how to circle around their hiding-place and
suddenly walk in upon them. My friend, referred to above, who is a
great hunter, was once out with a Washoe. They had had three "bad"
days, when suddenly they found a deer's track. It was fresh, but when
they came to the hole where he had lain down to rest, though the place
was quite warm, the deer had gone. The Indian at once exclaimed: "That
deer smell me. I must get rid of the Indian smell." Accordingly he
scooped out a hole in the ground, heated a number of rocks in it,
then, spreading fir boughs over them, lay down over the rocks and
took a "fir-sweat" for fully ten to fifteen minutes. As he arose he
exclaimed: "Deer no smell me to-morrow," and my friend said he did no
longer smell like an Indian, but like burnt fir wood.

Turning to the Indian, however, he said: "You're all right, but how
about me?" to which the reply instantly came: "You all right. Deer
only smell Indian. He not smell white man."

Chief among the women's work is the making of baskets. The best
Washoe basket makers are not surpassed by any weavers in the world.
At Tallac, Fallen Leaf, Glen Alpine and several other resorts
basket-makers may be found, preparing their splints, weaving or trying
to sell their baskets.

Not far from Tahoe Tavern, about a quarter a mile away in the
direction of Tahoe City, is the little curio store of A. Cohn, whose
headquarters are in Carson City, the capital of the State of Nevada.
Mr. and Mrs. Cohn hold a unique position in their particular field.
Some twenty-five years ago they purchased a beautiful basket from a
Washoe Indian woman, named _Dat-so-la-le_ in Washoe, or Luisa
Keyser in American, for she was the wife of Charley Keyser, a general
roustabout Indian, well known to the citizens of Carson. Luisa was a
large, heavy, more than buxom--literally a fat,--ungainly squaw. But
her fingers were under the perfect control of a remarkably artistic
brain. She was not merely an artist but a genius. She saw exquisite
baskets in her dreams, and had the patience, persistence and
determination to keep on weaving until she was able to reproduce them
in actuality. She also was possessed by an indomitable resolution to
be the maker of the finest baskets of the Washoe tribe. While she was
still a young woman she gained the goal of her ambition, and it was
just about this time that she offered one of her baskets to Mr. Cohn.
He saw it was an excellent basket, that the shape was perfect, the
color-harmony superior to any he had seen before, the stitch small,
fine, and even, the weave generally perfect, the design original and
worked out with artistic ability. He saw all this, yet, because it
was Indian work, and the woman was a rude, coarse mountain of flesh,
a feminine Falstaff, of a lower order of beings and without Falstaff's
geniality and wit, he passed the basket by as merely worth a dollar
or two extra, and placed it side by side with the work of other
Washoe and Paiuti squaws. A Salt Lake dealer came into the store soon
thereafter and saw this basket. "How much?" he asked. The price was
given--rather high thought Mr. Cohn--. "Twenty-five dollars!" "I'll
take it!" came the speedy response.

A month or two later Cohn received a photograph from the purchaser,
accompanied by a letter. "You know the basket, herewith photographed,
which I purchased from you. Have you any more by the same weaver, or
of as good a weave? If so, how many, and at what price? Wire reply at
my expense."

Then Mr. Cohn awoke, and he's been awake ever since. He wired his
list of Dat-so-la-le's baskets, but he has had no reply, and that was
twenty-five years ago. He then made arrangements with Dat-so-la-le
and her husband. He provides them house, food, clothing and a certain
amount of cash yearly, and he takes all the work Luisa makes. Every
basket as soon as begun is noted as carefully as every breeding of a
thoroughbred horse or dog. Also the date the basket is finished. It
is then numbered and photographed and either offered for sale at a
certain price, which is never changed, or is put in the safety-deposit
vault of the bank, to await the time when such aboriginal masterpieces
will be eagerly sought after by the growingly intelligent and
appreciative of our citizens, for their museums or collections, as
specimens of work of a people--the first American families--who will
then, possibly, have passed away. The photographs, here reproduced,
are of some of Dat-so-la-le's finest work.

[Illustration: Susie, the Washoe indian basket maker, and narrator
of indian legends]

[Illustration: Jackson, the Washoe indian, telling traditions of
his people about Lake Tahoe and Fallen Leaf Lake]

[Illustration: Lake Tahoe near Tahoe Tavern, looking south]




CHAPTER IV

INDIAN LEGENDS OF THE TAHOE REGION


As all students of the Indian are well aware these aboriginal and
out-of-door dwellers in the forests, canyons, mountains, valleys, and
on lake and seashores are great observers of Nature, and her many
and varied phenomena. He who deems the Indian dull, stolid and
unimpressionable, simply because in the presence of the White Race he
is reserved and taciturn, little knows the observing and reflecting
power hidden behind so self-restrained a demeanor. Wherever natural
objects, therefore, are of a peculiar, striking, unusual, unique,
or superior character, it is reasonable to assume that the Indians,
living within sight of them, should possess myths, legends, folk-lore,
creation-stories or the like in connection with their creation,
preservation, or present-day existence. This is found exemplified
in the legends of Havasupais, Hopis, Navajos and Wallapais as to
the origin of the Grand Canyon of Arizona, of the Yohamities, Monos,
Chuc-Chances, and others, of the distinctive features of the Yosemite
Valley, the Hetch-Hetchy, etc.

While the present-day, half-educated, half-civilized Washoes are by no
means representatives of the highest elements of natural enlightenment
among the Indian race, they do possess legends about Tahoe, the
following being the most interesting.

All these stories, except the last, were gathered by Mrs. W.W.
Price of Fallen Leaf Lodge, from Indians with whom she has been very
familiar for several years, named Jackson and his wife Susan. There
has been no attempt to dress them up in literary fashion. They are
given as near to the Indians' mode of telling as possible. They are
wonderfully different from certain stories recently published in
current magazines, professing to be Legends of Lake Tahoe. These
latter are pure fiction, and to those familiar with Indian thought,
reveal their origin in the imaginative brain of white writers who have
but faint conceptions of Indian mentality. Mrs. Price is a graduate
of Stanford University, and took great pains to preserve the Indians'
exact mode of expression. As she herself writes:

Long before the white man saw and wondered over the beauty of
Tahoe, theorizing over its origin and concocting curious tales
about its "unfathomable" depths, the Indians knew and loved
it. And as among all other peoples, legends have grown up to
account for every phenomenon of Nature, so among the Washoe
Indians stories about Tahoe have been handed down from
generation to generation.

I do not vouch for these legends. The modern Indian too often
tells what he thinks you want to know,--if only you will cross
his hand with silver. But there are touches here and there
that make me feel that for the most part they are remnants of
very old legends.


THE ORIGIN OF TAHOE, FALLEN LEAF, AND OTHER LAKES

Long, long ago, before the white man came to Nevada, there
lived in the meadow over beyond Glenbrook a good Indian. But
though he was good, he was much annoyed by the Evil Spirit,
who constantly interfered with all that he tried to do.
Finally, he determined that he must move away and get over
into the valleys of California. But when he tried to escape,
the Evil One was always there ready to trip him in some way or
other.

In his trouble the Good Spirit came to his aid, giving him a
leafy branch which had certain magic qualities. He was
to start on his journey. If he saw the Evil One coming he was
to drop a bit of the branch and water would immediately
spring up. The Evil One could not cross water, and thus, being
delayed by going around, would give the Indian time to escape.

The Indian made his way well along to where Tallac Hotel
now is, when, looking back, he saw the Evil One off in the
distance approaching with such strides that his heart was
filled with great fear. In his terror he tried to pluck a leaf
but it snapped off and he dropped almost his whole branch.
To his delight and relief the waters began to rise and soon
"Tahoe"--_Big Water_--lay between him and his enemy.

Free-heartedly he hurried on his way up the canyon, but when
he reached the spot where the head of Fallen Leaf Lake lies,
he turned to reassure himself. Away off the Evil One was
advancing. A new terror filled his soul. In his hand there
remained of his magic branch only one little twig with a
single leaf on it.

Plucking the leaf, he threw it down and watched it fall
waveringly through the air. As it touched earth the
waters again began to rise and "Doolagoga"--_Fallen
Leaf_--sprang into being and on its surface floated the
little leaf, as many leaves now float in the fall of the year.

Turning, he sped up the ravine, dropping bits of his twig as
fear directed him, and in his path, Lily, Grass, and Heather
lakes came up to guard his way.

At last he was over the crest of the mountain and found
himself safe in the long-wished-for Valley of California.


THE LEGEND OF THE TWO BROTHERS

Once long ago in Paiuti-land, Nevada, there lived two
brothers. The older was a hunter and brought home much game.
His wife, whose name was Duck, used to cook this for him, but
she was very stingy to the younger brother, and often times he
was hungry. When he begged her for food, she scolded him and
drove him out of the _campoodie_, saying, "Got none for
you."

One day when the older brother was off hunting Duck was
cleaning some fish. She had been very cross to Little
Brother, refusing to give him any food, and he was terribly
hungry. Presently he came creeping up behind her and when he
saw all the fish he became very angry. He took up a big club
and before Duck could turn around he hit her on the head and
killed her. Paying no attention to her dead body he cooked and
ate all the fish he wanted and then lay down in the sunshine
on a big rock and went fast asleep.

By and by his Hunter Brother came home. Of course when he
found his wife dead, he was filled with great anger at his
young brother, though his anger was lessened when he thought
of his wife's cruelty. He shook him very roughly and said, "I
no like you any more! I go away. Leave you alone!" But Little
Brother begged, "Don't be angry! Don't be angry! Let's go far
away! I help you all the time! Don't be angry!"

Gradually he persuaded the Hunter Brother to forgive him and
they started off together toward the "Big Water"--_Lake
Tahoe_. On the way the Hunter Brother taught the Little
Brother how to shoot with a bow and arrow. By the time they
reached the spot now known as Lakeside both their belts were
filled with squirrels that they had shot.

At dusk they built a good fire and when there were plenty of
glowing coals, Hunter Brother dug a long hole, and filling it
with embers, laid the squirrels in a row on the coals covering
them all up with earth.

He was tired and lay down by the fire to rest till the
squirrels should be cooked. With his head resting on his arms,
the warmth of the fire soothing him, he soon fell fast, fast
asleep.

Little Brother sat by the fire and as the night grew darker,
he grew hungrier and hungrier. He tried to waken his brother,
but the latter seemed almost like one dead and he could
not rouse him. At last he made up his mind he would eat by
himself. Going to the improvised oven, he began to dig up
the squirrels, counting them as they came to light. One was
missing. Little Brother was troubled.

"How that? My brother had so many, I had so many!"--counting
on his fingers--"One gone!" And he forgot how hungry he was as
he dug for the missing squirrel.

All at once he came upon a bigger hole adjoining the cooking
hole. While he stood wondering what to do, out popped a great
big spider.

"I'll catch you!" cried the spider.

"No, you won't!" said the boy, and up he jumped and away he
ran, followed by the spider. They raced over stock and stone,
dodging about trees and stumbling over fallen logs for a long
time. At last Little Brother could run no more. The spider
grabbed him and carried him back to his hole, where he killed
him.

It was almost daybreak when Hunter Brother awoke. He called
his brother to bring more wood, for the fire was almost out.
Getting no answer he went to look at the cooking squirrels.

Greatly surprised to see them lying there all uncovered,
he, too, counted them. Discovering one gone, he thought his
brother must have eaten it and was about to eat one himself
when he saw the old spider stick his head out of the hole.
Each made a spring, but the Hunter Brother was the quicker and
killed the wicked spider with his knife.

Carefully he now went into the spider's hole. There, stretched
out on the ground, lay Little Brother _dead_! Taking
him up in his arms, he carried him outside. Now this Hunter
Brother was a _medicine-man_ of great power, so he lay
down with Little Brother and breathed into his mouth and in a
few minutes he came back to life and was all right.[1]

The Hunter Brother was very happy to have his Little Brother
alive again. He built up the fire and while they sat eating
their long-delayed meal Little Brother told all that had
happened to him.

[Footnote 1: Susan who was telling this story offered no reason why
he had not restored Duck, his own wife, to life.]

The sun was quite above the horizon before the meal was
finished, and soon Hunter Brother was anxious to be moving on,
so they took their way along the lake shore. On their way they
talked and laughed one with another and seemed to agree very
well, until they had gone around the lake and
reached where Tahoe City now is. Here they quarreled and the
Hunter Brother left Little Brother to return and go up the Big
Mountain--_Tallac_--where he had heard there were many
squirrels. After his departure, Little Brother decided to
follow him and get him to make friends again. So he trudged
along the lake shore until he came to Emerald Bay.

There lying on the log at the edge of the lake, lay a
water-baby. It was asleep with its head resting on its arms
and its beautiful, sunshine-golden-hair was spread over it.

"Oh," said Little Brother, "I'll get that beautiful
sun-shine-hair as a present for my brother!" So he crept very
softly down on the log, thinking to kill the water-baby before
it awoke. But he was not successful in this, for the creature
opened its eyes as he laid his hand on its hair, and a furious
fight ensued. Sometimes it seemed as though Little Brother
would be killed, but finally he was able to scalp the
poor water-baby and get possession of the beautiful
sunshine-golden-hair. Every one can see where this fight
occurred. The red hill near Emerald Bay stands as a memorial
of the struggle, for its color is caused by the blood of the
slain water-baby.

Tucking his prize in his hunting shirt and hugging it close,
Little Brother now went on, murmuring to himself, "Oh,
my brother like this, my brother like this beautiful
golden-sunshine-hair!"

But suddenly, as he was climbing upward, he noticed the water
lapping at his heels, and when he turned to see whence it
came, he found that the big lake behind him was rapidly
rising, and even as he stood wondering, it arose above his
ankles.

Then he remembered what he had heard of revengeful
water-babies, but frightened though he was, he could not
bear to throw away his prize. However, he knew he must do
something, so he plucked out a few hairs from the scalp and
threw them into the ascending waves. For a minute the water
ceased to rise and he sped onward, but before long he felt the
water at his heels again, and knew that once more he must
gain a short respite by throwing out a few of the
golden-sunshine-hairs.
And ever and again he had to do this until at last he spied
his brother ahead of him. "Ah, brother," he cried, drawing the
scalp from his blouse, "see what a beautiful present I have
for you!"

But when his brother turned toward him he saw only the angry,
rising waters, and rushing forward he snatched the beautiful
sunshine-golden-hair and cast it back into the waters, crying,
"How you dare meddle with water-babies? Don't you know water
surely come up and get you?"

And poor Little Brother felt very sad; but the danger he
had been in seemed to have endeared him once more to Hunter
Brother and they stood arm-in-arm and watched the waters
recede.

But there were hollows in the land and when the waters went
back they held the water and so were formed that chain of
lakes on the other side of Tallac and Emerald Bay, the Velmas,
Kalmia, Cascade, and others.

The rest of the story is confused and full of repetitions.
The gist of it is that Little Brother was ever getting into
trouble from which Hunter Brother had to rescue him, for which
Little Brother was most grateful and would go off seeking for
a present to give to the Big Brother who was so kind to him.

Once he got a young bear cub. He thought it was a dog. He
petted it and brought it to his brother as a hunting-dog.

Finally, after Hunter Brother had made a first-class hunter
of Little Brother so that he could use his bow and arrows with
great success, they went down toward the Sacramento Valley
hunting deer. They followed a fine buck over hill and dale but
could not get a good shot at him. At last worn out by running
and suffering greatly, the Little Brother lay down and died.
When his brother found him, he did not attempt to bring him to
life again but buried him under a pile of rocks and leaves.


THE "WILD-GRUB" HOLE AT GARDNERVILLE

Once upon a time there was an old Indian who lived over in
Hope Valley with his two grand-daughters. He was a mean old
man. He made the girls work very hard all day
long. They had to gather wild grass seeds and acorns and grind
them into flour all the time. The old man caught plenty of
fish and frogs which he took off for his own eating, but he
gave the girls none.

One day he came in with a woodchuck skin and told the girls
to fill it with wild wheat flour. He did not tell them what
he wanted it for. When the skin was full he left the
_campoodie_ without a word as to where he was going. But
the bag leaked and a little stream of flour trickled out and
marked his path. He went away off to a lake where he caught
plenty of fish and frogs on which he feasted until he could
eat no more. Then he lay down by his fire and was soon fast
asleep.

Meanwhile in the _campoodie_ the two girls were talking
about the old man's meanness. "He makes us work so hard and we
never have any fish to eat. He keeps it all himself," said the
older girl.

"I wonder where he's gone now?" said the younger one, going to
the door-way and looking out. Suddenly she noticed the little
line of flour trailing off through the woods. "Ah, now I'll
find him!" And just calling to her sister that she would be
back soon, she darted off.

It was dark when she came back weeping. She threw herself on
the ground outside the _campoodie_ and poured out her
story. She had found the old man lying there fast asleep,
gorged with fish. The remnants of his feast lay all about him.
She had not dared to waken him or speak to him, but coming
home, had made up her mind to run away and not work for the
mean old man any more.

To this the sister agreed, and at daybreak they were scurrying
off through the forest.

All day they traveled and when night came they were still in
the wilds far from any Indian camp.

Worn out, they lay down under a great pine and looked up at
the stars.

"Oh," said the older girl, "see that fine Star-man up there!
I'd like to marry him!"

"Oh, no!" said the younger, "he belongs to me. I'd like to
marry him!"

They lay there telling what each would do could she only marry
the Star-man, until they fell asleep.
When they awoke in the morning, lo, they found themselves
up in the sky, and the elder girl had a baby already--a
star-baby! At first the girls were very good to the star-baby
but it cried a great deal. One day the younger girl was very
cross and put it outside of the _campoodie_. The poor
baby cried all the more until the elder sister took pity on
it, but when she had fed it and it still cried, the younger
sister became very angry and told her sister to put that
"brat" outside. The sister was tired too, so she put the poor
baby outside.

When the baby could not make them come to him, he got up and
went to find his grandfather, the Moon. He told him how mean
his mother and aunt were to him. The old Moon was very angry.
He took the star-baby by the hand and went tramping back
through the sky to find the cruel mother and her sister.

Now, the girls had been getting rather tired of their
sky-_campoodie_ and they longed for their home on the
earth. They used to go to a hole in the sky and look down on
the earth, wishing they were there again. Indeed, at the time
the star-baby went off to find his grandfather, the Moon, they
were at the hole in the sky, amusing themselves by looking
through and indulging in vain regrets that they were no longer
there.

"Oh, sister," suddenly said the elder, "there goes our old
grandfather! Poor old man! I wish we were with him! See, he's
carrying big bags of wild wheat-flour and acorns!"

Just then the old Moon came tramping up, and the whole sky
trembled. The people on earth said it was thundering. He
grabbed the two girls by their hair and shaking them till they
were almost dead, he hurled them down through the hole.

Down, down, they went, straight down to where their old
grandfather was walking along, little suspecting what was
coming. They both hit him and, coming as they did with such
force, they made a deep hole in the earth in which they were
almost buried.

That hole is over by Gardnerville. In that hole Indians can
always find plenty of wild-grub--wild-wheat, wild potato, wild
acorn--plenty there. Snow very deep. No
difference. Always plenty wild grub there. I see that hole. I
believe that story!


THE ORIGIN OF THE DIFFERENT INDIAN TRIBES

Long, long ago, away over in Paiuti-land there were some young
boys and girls playing. They played all sorts of games, but
they liked hand-ball best. And as they played, they sang songs
of gladness.

There was one old woman, their grandmother, who would not play
with them. She had a little baby, her youngest grandchild,
whom she was trying to quiet, but the little one cried and
cried continuously.

By-and-by the old woman heard a noise outside. She was
frightened and called to the young folks. "Some one's coming!
You better stop! Better hide! Maybe Evil One, devil, coming!"

But the young folks paid no attention to her warning. They
kept on playing harder than ever. The old woman covered the
baby with a big basket and hid her own face in her shawl.

Then the Evil One came in. All the young folks turned to see
who was coming in and as soon as they looked upon his face
they fell dead. Only the old woman and the baby were left; for
the Evil One did not see them.