Navaho Legends

Thus they spoke defiantly to one another for some time. At length Hastsézĭni said: “I shall beg no longer for my grandchild. You say you are mighty. We shall see which is the more powerful, you or I,” and Tiéholtsodi answered: “Neither shall I ask your permission to keep him. I should like to see how you will take him from me.” When Hastsézĭni heard this he took from his belt his fire-stick and fire-drill.213 He laid the stick on the ground, steadied it with both feet, and whirled the drill around, pausing four times. The first time he whirled the drill there was a little smoke; the second time there was a great smoke; the third time there was flame; the fourth time the surrounding waters all took fire. Then Tiéholtsodi cried: “Take your grandchild, but put out the flames.” “Ah,” said Hastsézĭni, “you told me you were mighty. Why do you implore me now? Why do you not put out the fire yourself? Do you mean what you say this time? Do you really want the fire quenched?” “Oh! yes,” cried Tiéholtsodi. “Take your grandchild, but put out the flames. I mean what I say.” At a sign from Black God, Water Sprinkler took the stoppers out of his jars and scattered water all around him four times, crying his usual “Tuʻwuʻwuʻwú” as he did so, and the flames died out. The water in Tóʻnenĭli’s jars consisted of all kinds of water—he-rain, she-rain, hail, snow, lake-water, spring-water, and water taken from the four quarters of the world. This is why it was so potent.67

486. When the fire was extinguished the three marched out in single file—Tóʻnenĭli in front, to divide the water, the Navaho in the middle, and Hastsézĭni in the rear. Before they had quite reached the dry land they heard a flopping sound behind them, and, looking around, they saw Tsal, the Frog. “Wait,” said he. “I have something to tell you. We can give disease to those who enter our dwelling, and there are cigarettes, sacred to us, by means of which our spell may be taken away. The cigarette of Tiéholtsodi should be painted black; that of Tielín, blue; those of the Beaver and the Otter, yellow; that of the great fish, and that sacred to me, white.” Therefore, in these days, when a Navaho is nearly drowned in the water, and has spewed the water all out, such cigarettes12 are made to take the water sickness out of him.

487. The gods took Natĭ′nĕsthani back to his log. Tóʻnenĭli opened a passage for them through the river, and took the water out of the hollow in the log. The Navaho crawled into the hollow. The gods plugged the butt again, and set the log floating. It floated on and on until it came to a fall in the San Juan River, and here it stuck again. The gods had hard labor trying to get it loose. They tugged and worked, but could not move it. At length the Dsahadoldzá, the Fringe-mouths of the water, came to help. They put the zigzag lightning which was on their bodies209 under the butt of the log,—as if the lightning were a rope,—and soon they got the log loose and sent it floating down the river.

488. At the end of the San Juan River, surrounded by mountains, there is a whirling lake or large whirlpool called Tóʻnihilin, or End of the Water. When the log entered here it whirled around the lake four times. The first time it went around it floated near the shore, but it gradually approached the centre as it went round again and again. From the centre it pointed itself toward the east and got near the shore; but it retreated again to the centre, pointed itself to the south, and at last stranded on the south shore of the lake. When it came to land four gods stood around it thus: Hastséhogan on the east, Hastséyalti on the south, one Gánaskĭdi on the west, and one on the north. They pried out one of the stoppers with their wands, and the Navaho came out on the land. They took out what remained of the food they had given him, a bow of cedar with the leaves on, and two reed arrows that they had placed in the log before they launched it. This done, they plugged the log again with a black cloud.

489. Then the gods spoke to the Navaho and said: “We have taken you where you wished to go. We have brought you to the end of the river. We have done for you all that in the beginning you asked us to do, and now we shall give you a new name. Henceforth you shall be called Áhodĭseli, He Who Floats. Go sit yonder” (pointing out a place), “and turn your back to us.” He went and sat as he was told, and soon they called to him and bade him go to a hill west of the lake. When he ascended it he looked around and saw the log moving back in the direction whence, he thought, he had come. He looked all around, but could see no one. The gods had disappeared, and he was all alone. He sat down to think. He felt sad and lonely. He was sorry he had come; yet, he thought, “This is my own deed; I insisted on coming here, and had I stayed at home I might have been killed.” Still the more he thought the sadder he felt, and he began to weep.

490. The mountains all around the lake were very precipitous, except on the west side. Here they were more sloping, and he began to think of crossing, when he heard faintly in the distance the gobbling of a turkey. He paused and listened, and soon heard the gobbling again, more distinctly and apparently nearer. In a short time he heard the sound for the third time, but louder and clearer than before. The fourth time that the gobbling was heard it seemed very loud and distinct; and a moment later he beheld, running toward him, his pet turkey, whom he had thought he would never see again. The turkey, which had followed him all the way down the San Juan River, now approached its master from the east, as if it were coming to him at once; but when it got within arm’s length of the man it retreated and went round him sunwise, approaching and retreating again at the south, the west, and the north. When it got to the east again it ran up to its master and allowed itself to be embraced. (Fig. 34 shows the way it approached its master.) “Ahaláni, sĭlín (Welcome, my pet),” said Natĭ′nĕsthani, “I am sorry for you that you have followed me, I pity you; but now that you are here, I thank you for coming.”

491. The man now began to think again of crossing the mountain in the west, but suddenly night came on. He had not noticed the light fading until it was too dark to begin the journey, and he felt obliged to seek a resting-place for the night. They went to a gulch near at hand where there were a few small cedar-trees. They spread out, for a bed, the dead leaves and the soft débris which they found under the trees and lay down, side by side, to sleep. The Navaho spread his bark blanket over himself, and the turkey spread one of its wings over its master, and he slept well that night.

492. Next morning they rose early and went out to hunt wood-rats. They went down a small winding valley till they came to a beautiful flat, through which ran a stream of water. “This would be a good place for a farm if I had but the seeds to plant,” said the Navaho aloud. When he had spoken he observed that his turkey began to act in a very peculiar manner. It ran to the western border of the flat, circled round to the north, and then ran directly from north to south, where it rejoined its master, who had in the mean time walked around the edge of the flat from east to west. This (fig. 35) shows how they went. When they met they walked together four times around the flat, gradually approaching the centre as they walked. Here, in the centre, the man sat down and the turkey gambolled around him. “My pet,” said the Navaho, “what a beautiful farm I could make here if I only had the seeds.” The turkey gobbled in reply and spread out its wings.

493. Natĭ′nĕsthani had supposed that when the gods were preparing the log for him they had done something to the turkey, but what they had done he knew not. Now that his pet was acting so strangely, it occurred to him that perhaps it could aid him. “My pet,” he said, “can you do anything to help me make a farm here?” The turkey ran a little way to the east and shook its wings, from which four grains of white corn dropped out; then it ran to the south and shook from its wings four grains of blue corn; at the west it shook out four grains of yellow corn, and at the north four grains of variegated corn. Then it ran up to its master from the east and shook its wings four times, each time shaking out four seeds. The first time it dropped pumpkin seeds; the second time, watermelon seeds; the third time, muskmelon seeds; the fourth time, beans. “Eʻyéhe, sĭlín (Thanks, my pet). I thought you had something for me,” said Natĭ′nĕsthani.

494. He went away from the flat, roasted wood-rats for a meal, and when he had eaten he made two planting sticks, one of greasewood and one of tsĭntlĭ′zi214 (Fendleria rupicola). He returned to the flat and began to make his farm. He dug four holes in the east with the stick of tsĭntlĭ′zi, and dropped into each hole a grain of white corn. He dug four holes in the south with his greasewood stick, and placed in each hole one grain of blue corn. He dug four holes in the west with the tsĭntlĭ′zi stick, and planted in each one grain of yellow corn. He made four holes in the north with the greasewood, and put in each one grain of variegated corn. With the implement of tsĭntlĭ′zi he planted the pumpkin seed between the white corn and the blue corn. With the implement of greasewood he planted watermelon seed between the blue corn and the yellow corn. With the stick of tsĭntlĭ′zi he planted muskmelon seeds between the yellow corn and the variegated corn. With the stick of greasewood he planted beans between the variegated corn and the white corn.215 He looked all around to see if he had done everything properly, and he went to the west of his farm among the foothills and camped there.

495. He felt uneasy during the night, fearing that there might be some one else to claim the land, and he determined to examine the surrounding country to see if he had any neighbors. Next day he walked in a circle, sunwise, around the valley, and this he did for four consecutive days, taking a wider circle each day; but he met no people and saw no signs of human life, and he said: “It is a good place for a farm. No one claims the land before me.” Each morning, before he went on his journey, he visited his farm. On the fourth morning he saw that the corn had grown half a finger-length above the ground.

496. On the fourth night, after his long day’s walk around the valley, when darkness fell, he sat by his fire facing the east, and was surprised to see a faint gleam half way up the side of the mountains in the east. “Strange,” he said, “I have travelled all over that ground and have seen neither man nor house nor track nor the remains of fire.” Then he spoke to the turkey, saying: “Stay at home to-morrow, my pet; I must go and find out who builds that fire.”

497. Next day, leaving his turkey at home, he went off to search the mountain-side, where he had seen the gleam; but he searched well and saw no signs of human life. When he came home he told all his adventures to his turkey and said: “It must have been a great glow-worm that I beheld.” He got home pretty early in the day and went out to trap wood-rats, accompanied by his turkey. In the evening when he returned to his camp, he looked again, after dark, toward the eastern mountain, and saw the gleam as he had seen it the night before. He set a forked stick in the ground, got down on his hands and knees, and looked at the fire through the fork. (See par. 382.)

498. On the following morning he placed himself in the same position he was in the night before,—putting his hands and knees in the tracks then made,—and looked again over the forked stick. He found his sight directed to a spot which he had already explored well. Notwithstanding this he went there again, leaving his turkey behind, and searched wider and farther and with greater care than on previous occasions; but he still saw no traces of human life. When he returned to camp he told his turkey all that had happened to him. That night he saw the light again, and once more he sighted over the forked stick with care.

499. When morning came, he found that he had marked the same spot he had marked before; and though he had little hope he set out for the third time to find who made the distant fire. He returned after a time, only to tell his disappointment to his turkey. As usual he spent the rest of the day, accompanied by the turkey, setting traps for wood-rats and other small animals. After dark, when he saw the distant flame again, he set a second forked stick in the ground and laid between the two forks a long, straight stick, which he aimed at the fire as he would aim an arrow. When this was done he went to sleep.

500. Next morning he noted with great care the particular spot to which the straight stick pointed, and set out to find the fire. Before he left he said to his turkey: “I go once more to seek the distant fire; but it is the last time I shall seek it. If I find it not to-day, I shall never try again. Stay here till I return.” While he spoke the turkey turned its back on him, and showed its master that it was angry. It acted like a pouting child. He went to the place on the eastern mountain to which the stick pointed, and here he found, what he had not observed before, a shelf in the rocks, which seemed to run back some distance. He climbed to the shelf and discovered there two nice huts. He thought that wealthy people must dwell in them. He felt ashamed of his ragged bark blanket, of his garment of wood-rat skins, of his worn grass sandals; of his poor bow and arrows; so he took these off, laid them in the fork of a juniper-tree, and, retaining only his breech-cloth of wood-rat skins, his belt, tobacco pouch, and pipe, he approached one of the houses.

501. He pushed aside the curtain and saw, sitting inside, a young woman making a fine buckskin shirt which she was garnishing beautifully with fringes and shells. Ashamed of his appearance, he hung his head and advanced, looking at her under his eyebrows. “Where are the men?” he said, and he sat on the ground. The young woman replied: “My father and mother are in the other hut.” Just as the Navaho had made up his mind to go to the other house the father entered. Doubtless the Navaho had been observed while disrobing, for the old man, as he came in, brought the poor rags with him. “Why do you not take in my son-in-law’s goods?” said the old man to his daughter, as he laid the ragged bundle in a conspicuous place on top of a pile of fine fabrics. Poor Natĭ′nĕsthani hung his head again in shame and blushed, while the woman looked sideways and smiled. “Why don’t you spread a skin for my son-in-law to sit on?” said the old man to his daughter. She only smiled and looked sideways again. The old man took a finely dressed Rocky Mountain sheep-skin and a deer-skin,—skins finer than the Navaho had ever seen before,—spread them on the ground beside the woman, and said to the stranger: “Why do you not sit on the skins?” Natĭ′nĕsthani made a motion as if to rise and take the offered seat, but he sank back again in shame. Invited a second time, he arose and sat down beside the young woman on the skins.

502. The old man placed another skin beside the Navaho, sat on it, tapped the visitor on the knee to attract his attention, and said: “I long for a smoke. Fill your pipe216 with tobacco and let me smoke it.” The Navaho answered: “I am poor. I have nothing.” Four times this request was made and this reply given. On the fourth occasion the Navaho added: “I belong to the Ninokádĭneʻ (the People up on the Earth),217 and I have nothing.” “I thought the Ninokádĭneʻ had plenty of tobacco,” said the old man. The young man now drew from his pouch, which was adorned with pictures of the sun and moon, a mixture of native wild tobacco with four other plants.218 His pipe was made of clay, collected from a place where a wood-rat had been tearing the ground. He filled the pipe with the mixture, lighted it with the sun,219 sucked it four times till it was well kindled, and handed it to the old man to smoke. When the latter had finished the pipe and laid it down he began to perspire violently and soon fell into a swoon. The young woman thought her father was dead or dying, and ran to the other lodge to tell her mother. The mother gave the young woman a quantity of goods and said: “Give these to my son-in-law and tell him they shall all be his if he restores your father to life.” When the daughter returned to the lodge where her father lay, she said to the Navaho: “Here are goods for you. Treat my father. You must surely know what will cure him.” They laid the old man out on his side, in the middle of the floor, with his head to the north and his face to the east.

The Navaho had in his pouch a medicine called kéʻtlo, or atsósi kéʻtlo,220 consisting of many different ingredients. Where he got the ingredients we know not; but the medicine men now collect them around the headwaters of the San Juan. He put some of this medicine into a pipe, lighted it with the sunbeams, puffed the smoke to the earth, to the sky, to the earth, and to the sky again; puffed it at the patient from the east, the south, the west, and the north. When this fumigation was done, the patient began to show signs of life,—his eyelids twitched, his limbs jerked, his body shook. Natĭ′nĕsthani directed the young woman to put some of the medicine, with water, to soak in an earthen bowl,—no other kind of bowl is now used in making this infusion,—and when it was soaked enough he rubbed it on the body of the patient.

503. “Sadáni, sĭtá (My son-in-law, my nephew),” said the old man, when he came to his senses once more, “fill the pipe for me again. I like your tobacco.” The Navaho refused and the old man begged again. Four times did the old man beg and thrice the young man refused him; but when the fourth request was made the young man filled the pipe, lit it as before, and handed it to the old man. The latter smoked, knocked out the ashes, laid down the pipe, began to perspire, and fell again into a deathly swoon. As on the previous occasion, the women were alarmed and offered the Navaho a large fee, in goods, if he would restore the smoker to life. The medicine being administered and the ceremonies being repeated, the old man became again conscious.

504. As soon as he recovered he said: “My son-in-law, give me another smoke. I have travelled far and smoked much tobacco; but such fine tobacco as yours I never smoked before.” As on the other occasions, the old man had to beg four times before his request was granted. A third time the pipe was filled; the old man smoked and swooned; the women gave presents to the Navaho; the atsósi kéʻtlo was administered, and the smoker came to life again.

505. But as soon as he regained his senses he pleaded for another smoke. “The smoke is bad for you,” said the Navaho. “It does you harm. Why do you like my tobacco so well?” “Ah! it makes me feel good to the ends of my toes. It smells well and tastes well.” “Since you like it so well,” said the young man, “I shall give you one more pipeful.” This time the old man smoked vigorously; he drew the smoke well into his chest and kept it there a long time before blowing it out. Everything happened now as before, but in addition to the medicine used previously, the Navaho scattered the fragrant yádidĭnil221 on the hot coals and let the patient breathe its fumes. The Navaho had now four large bundles of fine goods as pay for his services. When the old man recovered for the fourth time he praised loudly the tobacco of the Navaho. He said he had never felt so happy as when smoking it. He asked the Navaho: “How would you like to try my tobacco?” and he went to the other lodge to fetch his tobacco pouch. While he was gone the Wind People whispered into the ear of the Navaho: “His tobacco will kill you surely. It is not like your tobacco. Those who smoke it never wake again!”

506. Presently the old man returned with a pouch that had pictures of the sun and moon on it, and with a large pipe—much larger than that of the Navaho—decorated with figures of deer, antelope, elk, and Rocky Mountain sheep.222 The old man filled his pipe, lighted it, puffed the smoke to earth and sky, each twice, alternately, and handed the pipe to the Navaho. The young man said: “I allow no one to fill the pipe for me but myself. My customs differ from yours. You ask a stranger for a smoke. I ask no man for a smoke. I pick my own tobacco. Other people’s tobacco makes me ill; that is why I do not use it.” Thus he spoke, yet the stuff he had given the old man to smoke was not the same that he used himself. The latter consisted of four kinds of tobacco: glónạto, or weasel tobacco, depénạto, or sheep tobacco, dsĭ′lnạto, or mountain tobacco, and kósnạto, or cloud tobacco.223 He had different compartments in his pouch for his different mixtures. The old man invited him four times to smoke; but four times the Navaho refused, and said at last: “I have my pipe already filled with my own tobacco. I shall smoke it. My tobacco injures no one unless he is ill.” He proceeded to smoke the pure tobacco. When he had done smoking, he said: “See. It does me no harm. Try another pipeful.”

507. He now filled his pipe with the mixture of four kinds of real tobacco and handed it to the old man to smoke. When the latter had finished he said: “Your tobacco does not taste as it did before, and I do not now feel the same effect after smoking it as I did at first. Now it cools me; formerly it made me perspire. Why did I fall down when I smoked it before? Tell me, have I some disease?” The Navaho answered: “Yes. It is yasĭ′ntsogi, something bad inside of you, that makes the tobacco affect you so. There are four diseases that may cause this: they are the yellow disease, the cooked-blood disease, the water-slime disease, and the worm disease. One or more of these diseases you surely have.”224 The old man closed his eyes and nodded his head to show that he believed what was told him. Of course the Navaho did not believe what he himself had said; he only told this to the old man to conceal the fact that he had filled the pipe with poisoned tobacco.

508. While all these things were happening the Navaho had paid no heed to how the day was passing; but now he became suddenly aware that it was late in the afternoon and that the sun was about to set. “I must hasten away. It is late,” he said. “No, my son-in-law; do not leave us,” pleaded the old man. “Sleep here to-night.” He ordered his daughter to make a bed for the stranger. She spread on the floor fine robes of otter-skin and beaver-skin, beautifully ornamented. He laid down on the rugs and slept there that night.

509. Next morning the young woman rose early and went out. Soon after her departure the old man entered the lodge and said to his guest: “I and my daughter were so busy yesterday with all that you did to me, and all the cures you wrought on me, that we had no time to cook food and eat; neither had you. She has gone now to prepare food. Stay and eat with us.” Presently the young woman returned, bringing a dish of stewed venison and a basket filled with mush made of wild seeds. The basket was such a one as the Navahoes now use in their rites.5 On the atáatlo (the part where the coil terminates, the point of finish), the old man had, with the knowledge of his daughter, placed poison. She presented the basket to the stranger, with the point of finish toward him, as her father had directed her to do, saying: “When a stranger visits us we always expect him to eat from the part of the basket where it is finished.” As he took the basket the Wind People75 whispered to him: “Eat not from that part of the basket; death is there, but there is no death in the venison.” The young man turned the basket around and began to eat from the side opposite to that which was presented to him, saying: “It is my custom to eat from the edge opposite to the point of finish.” He did not eat all the mush. He tried the venison stew; but as it was made of dried meat he did not like it and ate very little of it. When he had done she took the dishes back to the other lodge. “From which side of the basket did my son-in-law eat?” asked the old man. “From the wrong side.

He told me it was his custom never to eat from the side where the basket was finished,” said the young woman. Her father was surprised. When a visitor came to him he always tried the poisoned tobacco first; if that failed he next tried the poisoned basket. “My husband says he wants to go home now,” said the young woman. “Tell him it is not the custom for a man to go home the morning after his marriage. He should always remain four days at least,” said the old man. She brought this message back to the Navaho. He remained that day and slept in the lodge at night.

510. Next morning the young woman rose early again and went to the other lodge. Soon after she was gone the old man entered and said to Natĭ′nĕsthani: “You would do well not to leave till you have eaten. My daughter is preparing food for you.” In a little while, after he left, the young woman entered, bringing, as before, a dish of stewed venison and a basketful of mush, which she handed to the Navaho without making any remark. But Wind whispered: “There is poison all around the edge of the basket this time; there is none in the venison.” The Navaho ate some of the stew, and when he took the basket of mush he ate only from the middle, saying: “When I eat just as the sun is about to come up, it is my custom to eat only from the middle of the basket.” The sun was about to rise as he spoke. When she went back to the other lodge with the remains of the meal, her father asked: “How did he eat this morning?” She replied: “He ate the stew; but the mush he ate only from the middle of the basket.” “Ahăhăhá!” said the old man, “it never took me so long, before.” The Navaho remained in the lodge all that day and all night.

511. The next (third) morning things happened as before: the woman rose early, and while she was gone the old man came into the lodge, saying: “The women are cooking food for you. Don’t go out till you have eaten.” The reason they gave their visitor only one meal a day was that he might be so ravenous with hunger when it came that he would not notice the poison and would eat plenty of it. When the food was brought in, the Wind People whispered to the Navaho: “Poison is mixed all through the mush, take none of it.” He ate heartily of the stew, and when he was done he said to the young woman: “I may eat no mush to-day. The sun is already risen, and I have sworn that the sun shall never see me eat mush.” When she went back to the other lodge her father asked: “How did my son-in-law eat this morning?” “He ate only of the stew,” she said. “He would not touch the mush.” “Ahăhăhá,” said the old man in a suspicious tone; but he said no more. Again the Navaho stayed all day and all night.

512. On the fourth morning when the daughter went to prepare food and the old man entered the lodge, he said: “Go out somewhere to-day. Why do you not take a walk abroad every day? Is it on your wife’s account that you stay at home so much, my son-in-law?” When the young woman brought in the usual venison stew and basket of mush, Wind whispered: “All the food is poisoned this morning.” When she handed the food to the young man he said: “I do not eat at all to-day. It is my custom to eat no food one day in every four. This is the day that I must fast.” When she took the untasted food back to the other lodge, her father inquired: “What did my son-in-law eat this morning?” and she answered: “He ate nothing.” The old man was lying when he spoke; he rose when she answered him and carefully examined the food she had brought back. “Truly, nothing has been touched,” he said. “This must be a strange man who eats nothing. My daughter, do you tell him anything he should not know?” “Truly, I tell him nothing,” she replied.

513. When the young woman came back again from her father’s lodge, the Navaho said to her: “I have a hut and a farm and a pet not far from here; I must go home to-day and see them.” “It is well,” she said. “You may go.” He began to dress for the journey by putting on his old sandals. She brought him a pair of fine new moccasins, beautifully embroidered, and urged him to put them on; but he refused them, saying: “I may put them on some other time. I shall wear my old sandals to-day.”

514. When Natĭ′nĕsthani got back to his farm he found the tracks of his turkey all around, but the turkey itself he could not see. It was evident from the tracks that it had visited the farm and gone back to the hut again. The Navaho made four circuits around the hut—each circuit wider than the preceding—to see whither the tracks led. On the fourth circuit he found they led to the base of a mountain which stood north of the hut. “I shall find my pet somewhere around the mountain,” thought the Navaho. The tracks had the appearance of being four days old, and from this he concluded that the turkey had left the same day he had. It took him four days, travelling sunwise and going spirally up the mountain, to reach the summit, where he found many turkey tracks, but still no turkey. He fancied his pet might have descended the mountain again, so he went below and examined the ground carefully, but found no descending tracks. He returned to the summit and, looking more closely than at first, discovered where the bird had flown away from a point on the eastern edge of the summit and gone apparently toward the east.

515. The Navaho sat down, sad and lonely, and wept. “Dear pet,” he said, “would that I had taken you with me that day when I set out on my journey. Had I done so I should not have lost you. Dear pet, you were the black cloud; you were the black mist; you were the beautiful he-rain;225 you were the beautiful she-rain;137 you were the beautiful lightning; you were the beautiful rainbow; you were the beautiful white corn; you were the beautiful blue corn; you were the beautiful yellow corn; you were the beautiful corn of all colors; you were the beautiful bean. Though lost to me, you shall be of use to men, upon the earth, in the days to come—they shall use your feathers and your beard in their rites.” The Navaho never saw his pet again; it had flown to the east, and from it we think the tame turkeys of the white men are descended. But all the useful and beautiful things he saw in his pet are still to be seen in the turkey. It has the colors of all the different kinds of corn in its feathers. The black of the black mist and the black cloud are there. The flash of the lightning and the gleam of the rainbow are seen on its plumes when it walks in the sun. The rain is in its beard; the bean it carries on its forehead.

516. He dried his tears, descended the mountain, and sought his old hut, which was only a poor shelter of brush, and then he went to visit his farm. He found his corn with ears already formed and all the other plants well advanced toward maturity.226 He pulled one ear from a stalk of each one of the four different kinds of corn, and, wrapping the ears in his mantle of wood-rat skins, went off to see his wife. She saw him coming, met him at the door, and relieved him of his weapons and bundle. “What is this?” she said, pointing to the bundle after she had laid it down. He opened it. She started back in amazement. She had never seen corn before. He laid the ears down side by side in a row with their points to the east, and said: “This is what we call natán, corn. This (pointing to the first ear—the most northerly of the row) is white corn; this (pointing to the next) is blue corn; this (pointing to the third) is yellow corn, and this (pointing to the fourth) is corn of all colors.”227 “And what do your people do with it?” she asked. “We eat it,” he replied. “How do you prepare it to eat?” she inquired. He said: “We have four ways when it is green like this. We put it, husk and all, in hot coals to roast. We take off the husk and roast it in hot ashes. We boil it whole in hot water. We cut off the grains and mix it with water to make mush.”

517. She wrapped the four ears in a bundle and carried them to the other lodge to show them to her parents. Both were astonished and alarmed. The old man rose and shaded his eyes with his open hand to look at them. They asked her questions about the corn, such as she had asked her husband, and she answered them as he had answered her. She cooked the four ears of corn, each one in a different way, according to the methods her husband described. They increased in cooking so that they made food enough to furnish a hearty meal for all. The old people, who were greatly pleased, said the mush smelled like fawn-cheese.228 “Where does my son-in-law get this fine stuff? Ask him. I wish to know, it is so delicious. Does he not want some himself?” said the old man to his daughter. She brought a large dish of the corn to her husband in the other lodge, and they ate it together. The Navaho had no fear of poison this time, for the food did not belong to the old man.

518. At night when they were alone together she asked him where he got the corn. “I found it,” he said. “Did you dig it out of the ground?” she asked. “No. I picked it up,” was his answer. Not believing him, she continued to question him until at last he told her: “These things I plant and they grow where I plant them. Do you wish to see my field?” “Yes, if my father will let me,” the woman replied.

519. Next morning she told her father what she had found out on the previous night and asked his advice. He said he would like to have her go with Natĭ′nĕsthani to see what the farm looked like and to find out what kind of leaves the plant had that such food grew on. When she came back from her father’s lodge she brought with her pemmican made of venison and a basket of mush. The Wind People whispered to him that he need not fear the food to-day, so he ate heartily of it. When the breakfast was over, the Navaho said: “Dress yourself for the journey, and as soon as you are ready I shall take you to my farm.” She dressed herself for travel and went to the lodge of her parents, where she said: “I go with my husband now.” “It is well,” they said; “go with him.”

520. The Navaho and his wife set out together. When they came to a little hill from which they could first see the field, they beheld the sun shining on it; yet the rain was falling on it at the same time, and above it was a dark cloud spanned by a rainbow. When they reached the field they walked four times around it sunwise, and as they went he described things in the field to his wife. “This is my white corn, this is my blue corn, this is my yellow corn, and this is my corn of all colors. These we call squashes, these we call melons, and these we call beans,” he said, pointing to the various plants. The bluebirds and the yellowbirds were singing in the corn after the rain, and all was beautiful. She was pleased and astonished and she asked many questions,—how the seeds were planted, how the food was prepared and eaten,—and he answered all her questions. “These on the ground are melons; they are not ripe yet. When they are ripe we eat them raw,” he explained. When they had circled four times around the field they went in among the plants. Then he showed her the pollen and explained its sacred uses.11 He told her how the corn matured; how his people husked it and stored it for winter use, how they shelled, ground, and prepared it, and how they preserved some to sow in the spring. “Now, let us pluck an ear of each kind of corn and go home,” he said.