Old Indian Legends | Page 6

wood-pile he had ready to kindle. On these stakes he meant to roast the
venison.
While he was rubbing briskly two long sticks to start a fire, the sun in
the west fell out of the sky below the edge of land. Twilight was over
all. Iktomi felt the cold night air upon his bare neck and shoulders.
"Ough!" he shivered as he wiped his knife on the grass. Tucking it in a
beaded case hanging from his belt, Iktomi stood erect, looking about.
He shivered again. "Ough! Ah! I am cold. I wish I had my blanket!"
whispered he, hovering over the pile of dry sticks and the sharp stakes
round about it. Suddenly he paused and dropped his hands at his sides.
"The old great-grandfather does not feel the cold as I do. He does not
need my old blanket as I do. I wish I had not given it to him. Oh! I
think I'll run up there and take it back!" said he, pointing his long chin
toward the large gray stone.
Iktomi, in the warm sunshine, had no need of his blanket, and it had
been very easy to part with a thing which he could not miss. But the
chilly night wind quite froze his ardent thank-offering.
Thus running up the hillside, his teeth chattering all the way, he drew
near to Inyan, the sacred symbol. Seizing one corner of the half-worn
blanket, Iktomi pulled it off with a jerk.
"Give my blanket back, old grandfather! You do not need it. I do!" This
was very wrong, yet Iktomi did it, for his wit was not wisdom. Drawing
the blanket tight over his shoulders, he descended the hill with hurrying
feet.
He was soon upon the edge of the ravine. A young moon, like a bright
bent bow, climbed up from the southwest horizon a little way into the
sky.
In this pale light Iktomi stood motionless as a ghost amid the thicket.
His woodpile was not yet kindled. His pointed stakes were still bare as
he had left them. But where was the deer--the venison he had felt warm

in his hands a moment ago? It was gone. Only the dry rib bones lay on
the ground like giant fingers from an open grave. Iktomi was troubled.
At length, stooping over the white dried bones, he took hold of one and
shook it. The bones, loose in their sockets, rattled together at his touch.
Iktomi let go his hold. He sprang back amazed. And though he wore a
blanket his teeth chattered more than ever. Then his blunted sense will
surprise you, little reader; for instead of being grieved that he had taken
back his blanket, he cried aloud, "Hin-hin-hin! If only I had eaten the
venison before going for my blanket!"
Those tears no longer moved the hand of the Generous Giver. They
were selfish tears. The Great Spirit does not heed them ever.

IKTOMI AND THE MUSKRAT

IKTOMI AND THE MUSKRAT
BESIDE a white lake, beneath a large grown willow tree, sat Iktomi on
the bare ground. The heap of smouldering ashes told of a recent open
fire. With ankles crossed together around a pot of soup, Iktomi bent
over some delicious boiled fish.
Fast he dipped his black horn spoon into the soup, for he was ravenous.
Iktomi had no regular meal times. Often when he was hungry he went
without food.
Well hid between the lake and the wild rice, he looked nowhere save
into the pot of fish. Not knowing when the next meal would be, he
meant to eat enough now to last some time.
"How, how, my friend!" said a voice out of the wild rice. Iktomi started.
He almost choked with his soup. He peered through the long reeds
from where he sat with his long horn spoon in mid-air.
"How, my friend!" said the voice again, this time close at his side.

Iktomi turned and there stood a dripping muskrat who had just come
out of the lake.
"Oh, it is my friend who startled me. I wondered if among the wild rice
some spirit voice was talking. How, how, my friend!" said Iktomi. The
muskrat stood smiling. On his lips hung a ready "Yes, my friend,"
when Iktomi would ask, "My friend, will you sit down beside me and
share my food?"
That was the custom of the plains people. Yet Iktomi sat silent. He
hummed an old dance-song and beat gently on the edge of the pot with
his buffalo-horn spoon. The muskrat began to feel awkward before
such lack of hospitality and wished himself under water.
After many heart throbs Iktomi stopped drumming with his horn ladle,
and looking upward into the muskrat's face, he said:
"My friend, let us run