Flying Plover: His stories, told him by Squat-by-the-fire

The Bear, the Moose, and the Walrus

The other children of the village were afraid of Flying Plover's grandmother, because of her bent back, and wrinkled face, and bright dark eyes. Though she had never so much as said a harsh word to any one of them, and though her medicines had saved the lives of many of them, yet they would never follow Flying Plover into the big lodge where she sat all day by the fire, steeping her fragrant herbs and thinking of all manner of wonderful things. They said that she could turn a little boy, or a little girl, into any kind of animal or bird in the world, without any more trouble than snapping her fingers. That was nonsense; but some of the men and women believed it, too. Magicians were not very rare things in that region (at least to people who believed in them) and you were just as likely as not to think that you saw one every time you went out for a walk. But Squat-by-the-fire was not a magician, and could not have turned a little boy, or a little girl, into a bird or a four-legged animal if she had snapped her fingers for fifty years. She was just an old, good, and very clever woman; and though she loved little children and was glad to be able to make medicines for them, she really was not sorry that they did not all run in and out of her lodge, with the freedom of her grandson. Flying Plover had learned her ways and wishes and never disturbed the pots by the fire or the big jars in the corner; but she knew that the other children, once they felt at home, would knock things about at a terrible rate. And she was far too old and busy to begin to teach deportment to all the children of the village. But Flying Plover never caused her any trouble, and was not in the least afraid of her.

One evening, when the raw-hide door of the lodge was fastened tight, and the fire burned cheerily and smokily on the earthen floor, and the wind moaned outside, the old medicine woman asked, "What games did you play to-day, little son of Swift Runner?"

"We played at battles," replied Flying Plover; "and they put me on the Eskimo side, and so I was taken prisoner, and fastened to a tree. I did not see much fun in that; so I made up another game, something like deer-hunting, and we played that until it got dark. But I like battles best, except when I am an Eskimo. Do the Eskimos always get beaten in the real battles?"

"Our people have not been at war with the fat blubber-eaters for a long, long time," replied the old woman. "We used to battle with them every summer; but it was a foolish thing to do, and brought a great deal of sorrow and suffering to both peoples. When my father was a young man, our warriors used to chase the Eskimo warriors as the timber wolves chase the young caribou. But the missionaries have taught us that killing and robbing are terrible sins--and I think people should have known that before. So now, when we want sealskins and fish, we do not fight and rob, but we trade instead. That is better, for it does not call for the shedding of blood, the burning of lodges, and torture and starvation, as of old. Now the blubber-eaters are a weak people; but hundreds and hundreds of seasons ago they were a great nation. But that was far beyond the reach of my father's memory. They were a mighty people though, once upon a time; and then our nation was nothing more than a few weak villages. We were afraid of the blubber-eaters then, and never went down from the mountains. The Eskimo warriors chased our warriors then, when they saw them, even as the timber wolves chase the young caribou. So it is with men and tribes and nations, little son of a chief. I have seen something of it, even with my own eyes. The Eskimo people were the great people; and next the Mountaineers were mighty in battle; and now both the fat men of the ice and the hunters of the mountains know that the white missionaries and the white traders are their masters."

"That is very strange," remarked Flying Plover. "The white men do not look like great warriors, and they are very few in number."

"It is the mind," said old Squat-by-the-fire, touching her wrinkled forehead with a gnarled finger. "'T is the light inside the skull that gives the mastery; though to listen to the story tellers, one would believe that all the power lies in the biggest club and the straightest arrow. The minds of the white men are full of knowledge, and caution, and courage. That is why they are now the great people."

"They feed their brains with fine sweet puddings. I think that is why they are able to talk to our people so big and make the little Eskimo boys go to school," said Flying Plover.

The old woman laughed; but it was not at her grandson's remark. She was thinking of the oldest story she had ever heard.

"There was a time, more than ten thousand summers ago, I should think, when men were such weak, dull-witted creatures that they had no mastery over anything but the smallest animals and birds," she said. "Oh, yes, that was a very long time ago, ages and ages before the white man had ever been heard of. The animals were the masters, in those days, and it is a wonder that the poor, frightened creatures that ran on two legs, and hid in caves and holes, kept alive at all. Then, the wolves were as big as black bears, and the bears stood as high as caribou, and the foxes were as big as timber wolves. When a hunter saw a fox, in those days, he was glad to climb a tree; and he was lucky if a caribou did not come along and knock the tree over with its head. Or may be an eagle would catch sight of the man, and swoop down and pick him out of the tree with its claws, as if he weighed no more than a little brook trout."

"I am glad I did not live in those days," said Flying Plover. "If all the beasts were too big to kill, and there were no white men to buy blankets from, what did people do for clothes to wear?"

"There were the hares," replied the old woman. "They were six times as large as they are now, but not much more dangerous unless they were cornered. And sometimes the bravest hunters managed to kill a beaver or a musquash. Even the mice were well worth hunting in those days, and one fat mouse made a very good dinner for a small family. Oh, it was a queer world, you may be sure!"

Old Squat-by-the-fire ceased her talk for a little while and opened a leathern bag at her belt. From it she drew a wooden pipe, a knife, and a plug of dark-brown trade tobacco. Soon the pipe was filled and lit, and the blue smoke curling about her head.

"Did they have any tobacco in those days?" asked Flying Plover.

"No--nor fire to light it with," replied his grandmother.

The little boy was greatly astonished at that, and could not think how people warmed themselves in winter, or cooked their dinner. He was just opening his mouth to ask about a dozen questions, when the old medicine-woman, noticing it, hurried on with her talk.

"The king of the frozen north was a great walrus. His tusks were as long as a canoe paddle and his head as big as this lodge. He lived in a house built of icebergs, and was not afraid of anything in the world. This country had two kings. One was a white bear, as big as a trading schooner, and the other was a bull moose as tall as the highest spruce tree in the forest. When the moose was without his horns he went far away to the westward and hid himself in a deep valley--and then the white bear was king of all this country. But every year, as soon as the moose felt that his horns were full-grown again, he left his hiding-place and chased the bear hundreds of miles out of his kingdom. So they went on, year after year, until, at last, King Walrus heard about it. Being a walrus he did not like white bears. The dislike was born in him, for, of course, he had never had any trouble with bears himself.

"'I have no doubt that the moose is the rightful ruler of that country,' he said. 'I'll just make a journey into that region and set the matter right.'

"Of course what he really meant was that he would take the country for himself. He was growing ambitious. He felt that such a mighty chief should rule the whole world. So one fine day in winter, just after King Bear had sent King Moose trotting westward to his hidden valley to grow a new pair of horns, up waddled King Walrus. The bear was five times as large as white bears are now; but old King Walrus was ten times the size of the walruses of to-day. King Bear saw at a glance that he was not big enough to fight with his unexpected visitor. Knowing that all walruses are the enemies of all bears, he did not have to think very hard to find a reason for the northern king's visit. His eyes grew red as the fire with the anger that burned in his brain; but what he said was, 'I am highly honored and unspeakably delighted at seeing you in my poor country.'

"'Hump,' grunted King Walrus,--for his manners were no better than the manners of any other walrus, and, into the bargain, he was quite short of breath from his overland journey in from the coast. King Bear saw that his only chance of keeping things pleasant was in being polite. He would give his visitor some valuable gifts, too.

"'This is an unexpected pleasure,' he continued. 'I was never so honored before in all my life. I am deeply moved by your condescension.'

"By this time King Walrus had recovered enough breath to talk with. 'You will be moved still farther before very long,' he said. Then he laughed roaringly, for he had a very coarse sense of humor and enjoyed nobody's jokes but his own. The bear was bright enough, you may be sure, and usually approved of jokes, but he did not laugh that time. He became so angry that he forgot all his caution.