Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 2 | Page 7

and he daily cried to the Master of Life, from the high grounds, with clay spread thick upon his hair, and at every successful hunt offered, to the same Great Judge and protecting guide of man, the best part of the animals he had caught. That Great Being regarded him with more love than he regards other mortals, and showed it by many signs. The fish he speared were always fatter than those taken by other hunters; the deer that lay at the foot of the wife of Sakechak could not be lifted like other men's by a mere boy. The thunder that shattered, and the wind that prostrated, the forest-trees in other places were never known to do the like by the tall oaks that sheltered the hill Wecheganawaw. The corn of this good hunter came out of the ground two suns sooner than other men's, and the tobacco in his garden was ripe, yellow, and fit for use, while that of his neighbours was green, and food for the worm. The Caddoques, and the other Indians, might have seen enough of the rewards bestowed upon goodness, in the person of Sakechak, to have made them leave off their wickedness. But no, they kept on sinning, until the Great Being deemed them unfit longer to live upon the earth which he had created for their use.
Once upon a time, as Sakechak was about to rest his limbs for the period of darkness, he felt the stirring of the ant which lay under the skin of his left hand, and, binding over his eyes the hide of the young badger, he laid his head upon a bundle of the leaves of the black hornbeam, and slept as soon as possible[A]. His dream was strange and wonderful, and it was accomplished. He saw the Master of Life, being the first Caddoque who had ever seen him. He was a very tall and big man, shaped like an Indian in all save his hands, which were each a sharp spear of terrible proportions, and his tongue was an immense arrow. His eyes were bright as the sun, and each much larger; his hair was very long, and swept the earth, and he wore a great white hat[B]. Each of his feet was larger than the lake Caddoque. He spoke to the dreamer in his lowest whisper, which, nevertheless, was louder than the loudest thunder, and his words were these:--
[Footnote A: See this superstition in the last tale.]
[Footnote B: The Indians always give a corporeal form to the Supreme Being, and, in every instance that I have heard of, when supposing him to have a human form, imagine him with some kind of covering upon his head. Since their introduction to the white people, they have invariably supposed this covering to be a hat.]
"Sakechak!"
The hunter replied, "I hear."
"The world is getting very wicked, Sakechak."
"I know it," answered the hunter.
"I hear no longer the voices of men supplicating me for favours--soliciting my lightnings to cool the air, nor my rains to refresh the earth, nor my suns to ripen the harvest. They no longer thank me for the fat bears, and mooses, and deer, and bisons, which I send to their hunting-grounds, nor the salmon, and other juicy fish, which I bid to their waters, nor the corn which I command to grow tall and sweet for their use, nor the rich grapes which I make to bow their vines to the earth. I must sweep, and wash, and purify, the earth; I must destroy all living creatures from off the face of it."
Then Sakechak said, "What have I done, Master of Life! that I should be involved in this general destruction? Have I not offered thee the best of my spoils?--Have I ever neglected to solicit thy favour upon my labours, or to thank thee for the rich gifts thou hast showered upon me and my family--health, plenty, and cheerful hearts?"
The Master answered, "No, Sakechak, thou hast indeed been a good servant; it hath never been my purpose to destroy thee; I will except thee from the general doom: but I will thee to assist in the destruction of thy brethren. Listen!
"Go now, and cut thee a young hemlock, from the spot which my lightnings struck in the last Fever-Moon. Let it be not more than ten seasons old--straight, well-grown, a finely-proportioned trunk, with thriving branches, full of cones, and with leaves of dark green. Knock off the cones, and bring them, together with the trunk and leaves, to the bottom of the hill Wecheganawaw, when the sun of the morning is tinging the eastern clouds with his brightness. Burn them in a fire made of the dry branches of the oak, kindled with the straw of the wild rice. When the heap