Stories of Enchantment 1

Stories of Enchantment 1

Stories of Enchantment

or, The Ghost Flower

 

Author: Jane Pentzer Myers

CONTENTS.

 

 

Page

I. The Ghost Flower, or the White Blackbird 11

II. The Little Yellow Moccasins 31

III. The Little Ghost who Laughed 45

IV. Titania’s Maid of Honor 71

V. Bran, the Wolf Dog 89

VI. The Corn Fairy 111

VII. At the Wayside Cross 125

VIII. In Quest of the Dark 133

IX. The King will hunt To-day 149

X. He was a Prince 161

XI. Where the River hides its Pearls 187

XII. The Mist Lady 205

 

 

 

 

ILLUSTRATIONS.

 

 

Page

The pipe changed into a strange flower 21

Little Bravo 35

“Oh, you pretty dear” 55

Mateel sank down on her knees and gazed around 75

In a great carven chair sat a lady 95

The little girl playfully clasped her knees 115

Glimpses of the Wonderful City shall be given to her 129

Soon he was in her arms 137

“I think I am going to like you” 141

“He gave me this keepsake for my mamma” 144

In their palace by the water wait the king and queen 167

She started up in alarm 195

“Open your eyes wide and look at me” 207

 

 

 

 

I.

THE GHOST FLOWER, OR THE WHITE BLACKBIRD.

 

 

There is a region of our own land, far to the westward, where great

mountains lift their serene heads into the eternal calm of the upper

air. Sunrise and sunset paint them with unearthly beauties; and night,

with its myriads of flashing stars or its splendid moon, shines down on

their white foreheads, and bids them dream on through the coming ages,

as they have done in the past.

 

Among their barren valleys one sometimes lights upon a small oasis. A

little mountain stream, fed by the melting snows of the peaks, leaps and

sings and flashes to its grave in the desert sand. Its banks are fringed

with cottonwood trees, and the short grass and underbrush flourish in

their shade.

 

Usually, some energetic American or Chinaman is ranching it there, and

claiming all the valley; but far away from the towns and the mines one

may sometimes come upon a band of Indians, living their own lives

separate and alone in their secluded valley.

 

A generation ago, a fierce war raged between the whites and the Indians;

and during its progress a train of emigrants, passing near an Indian

village, was attacked by the warriors of the tribe. All the whites were

killed, except one little child, who crept away into the sagebrush, and,

worn out with fear and fatigue, dropped asleep. There the wife of the

chief medicine man of the tribe found her; and when the little one

opened her eyes, and, putting up a piteous lip, began to sob, the woman

gathered her into her arms with tender “No, no’s” and soft guttural

cooings, that soothed and quieted the child. For the Great Spirit had

lately called her own baby “far over the terrible mountains” to the

spirit land. And this little one crept into the bereaved heart of the

Indian mother.

 

She took the child to her husband, and received permission to keep her.

And so the little girl, with her lint-white hair and blue eyes, grew up

among the other children of the valley. Soon after the massacre of the

wagon train, the tribe withdrew from the vengeance of the white soldiers

to a fertile, wooded valley, hidden in the heart of the mountains. Here

little “Snow-flower,” as she was named, lived happy with her foster

parents. Her Indian mother was very proud of her childish beauty, and

took excellent care of her. She bathed her often, in the clear water of

the little river that ran through the valley; for, contrary to the

popular belief, the Indians of the mountain are cleanly in their habits,

and bathe their persons and wash their garments frequently, if water is

plentiful. She braided her fair hair, and made for her pretty little

dresses of pink or red calico, bought at the trader’s store at the

agency, many weary miles away.

 

In the winter, she wore over her dress a warm fur coat reaching to the

ankles, with a hood at the back to draw over her head. This was made of

the skins of jack rabbits. Warm leggings and moccasins helped to keep

her warm, and she was usually very comfortable.

 

Sometimes the supply of pine nuts would give out, the fish refuse to

bite, or the jack rabbits become scarce and shy. Then the only

alternative was to go to the hated agency.

 

At such times little Snow-flower was hidden in some secure place and

warned to remain quiet; for her Indian mother was haunted by the fear of

separation from the child. She knew that inquiries had been set afloat

at the agency for a little one, said to have been saved from the

massacre, and her heart told her that the child’s kindred would claim

her, sooner or later. So, for many years little Snow-flower never saw a

white person.

 

When she asked her Indian father or mother why she was so different from

the other children, they told her The Great Spirit had made her so, and

she was content.

 

“Perhaps it’s because I am the great Medicine Chief’s daughter,” she

said to her father; and he gravely nodded.

 

She was very fond of both of her foster parents; but her love for the

medicine man was mingled with awe. When she saw him dressed for some

religious dance or yearly festival, in his strange medicine dress, with

his face painted in grotesque and horrible pattern, she fled to her

mother and hid her face in her lap. She loved her mother devotedly, and

her love was returned. The woman was like all Indian mothers, very

gentle and kind to her little daughter. The little girl was never

punished, and was always spoken to in the soft, low voice peculiar to

Indian women. “Little daughter,” “Little Starlight,” “Little

Singing-bird,” were the fond names bestowed on her.

 

The years passed quietly by, until Snow-flower was ten years old, when,

one summer day, the medicine man came into the tepee looking very ill.

He threw himself down on the pallet on the floor and soon was

unconscious. He lingered so nine days, anxiously watched and cared for

by his wife and Snow-flower. On the tenth day he opened his eyes and

beckoned his wife to him.

 

“I must go far over the terrible mountains, into the heart of the

sunset, into the spirit land. You will come soon; watch for the token I

will send you.”

 

Then, closing his eyes, he was quickly gone. And the tepee was very

desolate and lonely to the wife and little Snow-flower.

 

All through the long days and the bright starlit nights the wife watched

for the token he would send her, until her knees grew weak, and her head

drooped, and she could not walk. Then little Snow-flower fed her, and

waited on her, and also watched for the token that was to be sent. One

day she crept into the hut and knelt by the Indian woman.

 

“Mother,” she whispered, “I have seen a strange sight: a flock of

blackbirds lit close to our home. I thought to snare some for your food;

but as I approached them, I saw that one of them was shaped like the

rest,—but, mother, he was pure white; and he lit on the ridgepole of our

home.”

 

Then the pale wife raised herself on her elbow, her eyes shining with

joy.

 

“It is the spirit-bird, dear little one; it is the token. Go now,

quickly, up the dark ravine; follow to its source the spring that runs

past our door. I have never allowed you to go there, for a dark spirit

lives in that dread place; but now, do not fear; the spirit-bird will

protect you. Go into the deep wood that grows around the fountain head.

You will come to a fallen log. Watch closely; and come and tell me what

you see.”

 

So little Snow-flower, shaken with fear and grief,—for she knew that her

mother must soon leave her,—followed the little rill, up the dark

ravine, to its source. The white blackbird flitted ahead, and wherever

he rested, the sunlight broke through the thick leaves overhead, so that

she walked in light all the way. Presently she came in sight of the

fallen log, and her heart stood still with fear; for, sitting on the

log, wrapped in his blanket, and smoking a long-stemmed, strange-looking

pipe, was the medicine man, her foster father. As she came toward him,

he arose and fixed on her his bright eyes; and then he spoke in a soft

voice that seemed to come from a long distance.

 

“Little pale-face daughter, take this pipe to my wife. It is a token

that you have seen me. Tell her I am lonely without her; that she must

be ready when the sun is setting to go with me, through the sunset

gates, into the spirit world. As for you, my daughter, your path lies

there,” pointing toward the east; “follow it to your own nation and your

own kindred;” and, laying his pipe on the log, he was gone in an instant.