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7. THE COMING OF SPRING.[19]

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In the ancient times when this world was new an old man wandered over the land in search of a suitable camping spot. He was a fierce old man and had long white flowing hair. The ground grew hard like flint where his footsteps fell, and when he breathed the leaves and grasses dropped and dried up red, and fell. When he splashed through the rivers the water stopped running and stood solid.

On and on the old man journeyed until at last on the shores of a great lake by a high mountain he halted. He gathered the trees that had been uprooted by hurricanes and made a framework for a dwelling. He built the walls of ice and plastered the crevices with branches and snow. Then, to guard his lodge against the intruder, he placed uprooted stumps about on every side. Not even bad animals cared to enter this house. Everything living passed by it at a distance. It was like a magician’s house.

The old man had but one friend. It was North Wind, and it was he alone who might enter the door of the stronghold and sit by the fire. Very wonderful was this fire and it gave flames and light but no heat! But even North Wind found little time to enter and smoke with the old man, for he took greater pleasure in piling high the snow and driving hail, like flints, against the shivering deer or hungry storm bound hunter. He liked to kill them. There came times, however, when North Wind needed new tricks and so he sought the advice of the old man,—how he might pile up the snow banks higher, how he might cause famine or make great snow-slides to bury Indian villages.

One very dismal night both North Wind and the old man sat smoking, half awake and half dreaming. North Wind could think of nothing new and the old man could give no more advice. So, sitting before the fire, both fell asleep. Towards morning each sprang to his feet with a cry. Not their usual cries, either, were their startled yells, for instead of a shrill “agēē! agēē! agēē!” the North Wind only gasped hoarsely and the old man’s jaw opened with a smack and his tongue, thick and swollen rolled out on his chin. Then spoke the North Wind:

“What warm thing has bewitched me? The drifts are sinking, the rivers breaking, the ice is steaming, the snow is smoking!”

The old man was silent, too sleepy to speak. He only thought, “My house is strong, very strong.” Still the North Wind called loudly:

“See, the rivers are swelling full, the drifts are getting smaller.”

Then he rushed from the lodge, and he flew to the mountain top where snow made him brave again. So he was happy and sang a war song as he danced on snow crust.

At the lodge of the old man a stranger struck the doorpost. The old man did not move, but dozing, thought, “oh some prank of North Wind.” The knocking continued and the old man grew more sleepy. The door rattled on its fastenings but the old man’s head did not raise to listen but dropped on his chest and his pipe fell down to his feet.

The logs of the lodge frame shook,—one fell from the roof. The old man jumped to his feet with a war yell.

“Who is it that dares come to my house in this way? Only my friend North Wind enters here. Go away, no loafers here!”

In answer the door fell down and a stranger stood in the opening. He entered and hung the door upright again. His face was smiling and as he stirred the fire, it grew warmer inside. The old man looked at the stranger but did not answer his pleasant words, but his heart was very angry. Finally when he could no longer keep silent he burst forth:

“You are a stranger to me and have entered my lodge, breaking down my door. Why have you broken down my door? Why have your eyes a fire? Why does light shine from your skin? Why do you go about without skins when the wind is sharp? Why do you stir up my fire when you are young and need no warmth? Why do you not fall on my wolf skins and sleep? Did not North Wind blow the sun far away? Go away now before he returns, and blows you against the mountains. I do not know you. You do not belong in my lodge!”

The young stranger laughed and said, “Oh why not let me stay a little longer and smoke my pipe?”

“Then listen to me,” yelled the old man in anger. “I am mighty! All snows and ice and frosts are my making. I tell the North Wind to cut the skins of men to let the blood through to make war paint on the drifts. I tell him to freeze things that are food. Birds and animals run away from the North Wind. I pile the drifts on the rocks on the mountains and when it gets very high the North Wind knocks it off to crush the villages beneath.”

Listlessly the stranger viewed the raving old man, and only smiled and said, “I like to be sociable, let me stay a little longer and we will smoke together.”

So, shaking with fear, the old man took the pipe and drew a breath of smoke and then the warrior sang.

“Continue to smoke for me, I am young and warm, I am not afraid of boasting, I am young and strong. Better wrap up, you are old. I am here. I am here, keep on smoking. I am Dedio‘s‘nwineq´don, the Spring. Look at your hair, it is falling out, look at the drifts, they are melting. My hair is long and glossy, see—the grasses are sprouting! I want to smoke with you. I like smoking. See—the ground is smoking! My friend Dăgā´ĕn‘´dă, the South Wind, is coming. I guess your friend is dead. You had better wrap up and go away. There is a place. You cannot own all things always. See—the sun is shining. Look out now!”

As the young warrior sang the old man shrank very small and shriveled up smaller until his voice only whispered, “I don’t know you!”

And so the young warrior sang, “I am the Spring, I am the chief now. The South Wind is coming. Don’t be late. You can go yet while I sing.”

A rushing wind made the lodge tremble, the door fell in and an eagle swooped down and carried Hă’´t‘howā´ne‘ away toward the north.

The lodge fire was out and where it had burned a plant was growing and where the provisions were buried in a hole a tree was starting to have buds.

The sun was shining and it was warm. The swollen rivers carried away the ice. So the winter went away and in the morning it was spring time.

Seneca myths and folk tales

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