Sure enough, when the time came, they could hear the fire. They were camped by the side of a big lake. By and by, all the birds and animals came running to the patch of ground that was marked out, as that was the only patch of ground that was not on fire. When the old man saw he was going to burn too, he tried to get to the ground that his son had marked out. His son would not allow him to come on because he didn’t believe that this would happen. So he and all of his family were burnt. Even the water was boiling it was so hot.

Of course, after all the fire was over, and the water was settled down again, there were only three people left in the world. The old man who was burnt only had two wives and only two children, one of whom was his son.

After the fire was over, there were lots and lots of animals on the patch of ground. The man named some of them. He put the beaver to live in the water. The rabbit wanted to be a beaver, but he wouldn’t allow it. The rabbit even jumped into the water, but the man pulled him out and drained the water off him. He said his legs were too long and even if he did eat willows like a beaver, he couldn’t go about in the water properly.

The squirrel wished to be a bear. He did all he could to be a bear. The man said he wouldn’t do, he was too noisy. He said, “If you were a bear, when people got numerous again, you will get thinned down too much. The bear must be a very canny animal and keep quiet; he has too many enemies.” The squirrel began to weep. He wept a great deal, until his eyes were white. If you take notice the next time you see a squirrel you will notice that his eyes are bright and swollen from weeping. The man made the bear then because he was nice, and quiet and canny.

Somebody else wanted to be a deer (caribou) but I don’t remember who it was, but the deer was put in too. The real deer was appointed because he was swift and could run from his enemies. After he was finished with the animals he put a mark on the people telling what they had to be called. They had to have new names after the world was burnt.

He called his mother Robin, because she was loving, that is what he meant I think; he called his sister golden winged woodpecker (“flicker,” “clape,” “high-holer”) because that meant she was beautiful. He called himself Cluih duih-kiyu, blackbird, because he meant by this he would only come every spring. Each of them flew away wherever they wanted to travel. They did not stay together but they met again. That is all of this story I ever heard. [There are, according to the narrator, other stories about Aiacciou, the elder, who was burnt.]

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Anxious to keep the sun from wandering away very far, Weese-ke-jak constructed an enormous trap to catch the sun. This accomplished the desired end, for the very next time the sun came near the earth he was caught in the trap. In vain the sun struggled to get free, for the cords by which he was held were too strong for him. The near proximity of the sun to the earth caused such a heat that everything was in danger of being burned. Therefore Weese-ke-jak concluded to make some sort of a compromise with the sun, before he would consent to give him his liberty.

After a long interview between Weese-ke-jak and the spirit of the sun, whose name was Ane-ne-ke, it was stipulated that the sun was only to come near the outer edges of the earth in the mornings and evenings, and during the day to keep farther away, just near enough to warm the earth without scorching it. On the other hand, Keewa-tin, the spirit of the north wind, was ordered by Weese-ke-jak to keep at a respectful distance from the earth when the days were long, so as not to counteract the effects of the beneficial warmth of the sun; but during the short days of the year Kee-wa-tin was permitted to blow upon the earth and bring snow and ice in its train, so that the bears, frogs, and reptiles might enjoy their winter sleep without molestation.

On these conditions, mutually agreed upon, the sun was to get his liberty.

But now another difficulty presented itself. The sun had not the power to unloose the band by which he was held, and the heat emanating from it prevented either Weese-ke-jak or any of his creations from approaching the sun to cut the band and set him free. Weese-ke-jak issued a proclamation that any one that would set the sun free would receive particular favor from him. The beaver at that time was rather an insignificant creature, having only a few small teeth in his head, and being covered with bristly hair like a hog, his tail being only a small stump about two or three inches long. He was not much thought of by the rest of the animal world, nevertheless he had a great deal of courage, for he offered his services to release the sun. At first Weese-ke-jak looked upon the beaver with misgivings, but being assured by the beaver that he would perform the task, he was permitted to try. He succeeded in gnawing through the cords that held the sun before being quite roasted alive. The cords being severed, the sun rose from the earth like a vast balloon.

When the beaver presented himself to Weese-ke-jak on his return, he was a pitiful sight, his teeth were burned away so that only two or three blackened stumps remained, his hair was burned off, leaving only his blackened skin. Weese-ke-jak, in gratitude for his deliverance from the burning rays of the sun, rewarded the beaver in a handsome manner. He clothed him with a beautiful soft coat of fur, which was the envy of all the other animals, and to compensate him for the loss of his teeth he furnished him with a new set, long and sharp, admirably fitted to cut down trees for building purposes. In order, however, that it should be kept in remembrance whence he derived these favors, his teeth were made of a brown color, as if they had been scorched by the fire. This is how the beaver came by his hatchet-like teeth and furry coat.

Weese-ke-jak, having thus settled with the sun regarding the general temperature of the earth, now proceeded to make man, and in order that man might be strong he concluded to make him of stone. Having selected a rock that suited his purpose, he spent many days in hewing out the figure he wished to make, the stone being very hard and his tools none of the best. After working a long time, however, he managed to get the figure of a man that suited his taste. Weese-ke-jak was so proud of his workmanship that, after setting his man of stone upon his feet and before putting life into him, he walked back a considerable distance to see how his man would look from a remote point of view. When he had thus reached a goodly distance from the object of his admiration, he stood gazing for a long time in silent contemplation and satisfaction with the complete job he had accomplished. But while thus employed a malicious bear happened to peep out of his hole and espied the figure. Filled with envy he rushed up to the figure, and began to rub viciously against it. The consequence was that before Weese-ke-jak could interfere the bear had knocked his man over, and the figure, falling upon the hard rock, broke in many fragments.

Weese-ke-jak was terribly enraged at this deplorable accident by which his great work was destroyed. For a time he could neither eat nor sleep, being so much grieved at the disaster to the object of his many months of hard labor.

However, he determined to make another attempt to form a man, but concluded not to spend so much time over the work again. He set to work to make one of clay, and in a little time had one nicely made, having it in a secluded place to dry in the sun. This being done satisfactorily, he forthwith endowed the figure with life. But the Indians still lament the accident by which the man of stone was destroyed; as had Weese-ke-jak succeeded in putting life in the man of stone, human beings would have been far stronger than they are now.

In process of time Weese-ke-jak found that he had an unruly family to deal with. All the creatures of his creation began to commit depredations upon each other. Loud complaints were made against the fox because he attacked the birds and killed them, the fish complained against the otter for the same reason, while the bear set up a dismal groaning because the winter was so long that he could get no berries to eat. But the greatest complaints were made against man, because he ate everything that came his way: animals, fowl, fish, and berries were all devoured by this monster of creation. The clamor became so great that Weese-ke-jak determined to call a general council, to see whether he could not in some manner come to an agreement by which all these grievances would be remedied. Accordingly a general proclamation was made summoning all the spirits of the various living creatures before him at a certain date. When the time arrived there was a great mixed multitude assembled, which proved to be very unruly and unmanageable. The noise and confusion was something terrible, and Weese-ke-jak with all his skill could not control it. In vain he tried to get the crowd to keep still and listen to him; there was no end to the continual noise they were making. The noisiest one in the crowd was the frog, who in spite of all that could be done, kept up an incessant chattering and croaking. Weese-ke-jak finally lost his temper, and, becoming enraged at the rudeness of the frog, he seized a lot of glue-like substance and dashed it over the frog’s mouth, in the hope of stopping his croaking forever. But this was of no avail; the frog blew the sticky substance out of his mouth, but a part of it remained about the corner of his mouth, which accounts for the white streak around a frog’s mouth to the present day. Weese-ke-jak could do nothing to allay the tumult of this convention, and therefore dismissed the creatures assembled, vowing vengeance on them all.

The next exploit of Weese-ke-jak was to build an immense canoe, into which he took a pair of every kind of living creature, intending to drown all the rest. Accordingly when he had taken on board those that were to escape destruction, forthwith the whole earth sunk beneath the water, causing the death of all living creatures with the exception of those who were with Weese-ke-jak in the canoe.

Weese-ke-jak with his living freight went cruising about on the waste of waters for a long period, until at last he began to get tired of that kind of life, and determined to make a new earth. He thereupon commissioned the otter to go down into the waters and bring up some mud from the bottom, wherewith to make a new earth. But when the otter got back into his native element, he never returned. After waiting a considerable time, Weese-ke-jak sent the muskrat down for the mud. At that time the tail of the muskrat was very short and insignificant, being only a round knot. The muskrat went down as directed and gathered a goodly amount of mud, and straightway came to the surface again; but when Weese-ke-jak put forth his hand to take the mud, the muskrat made a swift turn and dived under the water. Weese-ke-jak tried to seize hold of the muskrat, but only succeeded in catching his stump of a tail, which stretched through his hand, and the muskrat succeeded in getting away. Since that time the muskrat has had a long, thin tail, which is neither useful nor ornamental. Weese-ke-jak, being thwarted twice, was highly indignant and threatened vengeance against the otter and muskrat.

The beaver was next asked to go and get some mud. Accordingly the beaver went down and brought up a quantity of mud which he tendered Weese-ke-jak, who was quite delighted with the good manners of the beaver. With the mud he straightway made a new earth, nor did he forget the beaver for his services; for instead of the stump of a tail he formerly had, he received a broad, flat tail like a trowel, with which he would be able to plaster his house. Thus the beaver, for his accommodating nature, received teeth sharp as an axe for cutting down trees wherewith to build his house, and a tail with which he could plaster it.

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This Wie-sah-ke-chack took and, blowing into the heaver’s face, he came to life again. Then Wie-sah-ke-chack made a small ball of the earth, and kept blowing on it, and it grew larger and larger, till it was so large that he thought it was large enough for them to live on, so he asked the wolf to go and see; but the wolf came back and said that it was not half large enough, so he kept blowing and the earth growing, and the second time the wolf went; but no, it was not large enough. The third time the wolf went to see, he never came back, so from that they knew that the world was big enough for all to live on. That is the beginning of the world. Many years after — I don’t know how many, but long enough for the people to increase — Wie-sah-ke-chack was walking along one day singing his song—he always carried his song on his back—when he saw a man sitting on a log, taking out his eyes and throwing them up in the air. He stood and looked with astonishment at this wonderful thing. He then shewed himself and asked what, his brother was doing.

“Oh,” said the man, “my head was aching, and this is the way I cure myself.”

“Oh, please show me, too.”

“Remember,” said the man, after shewing Wie-sah-ke-chack how to do the trick, “only do it when your head really aches; if you do it when it does not, you will lose your eyes.”

He promised faithfully, so they parted, and Wie-sah-ke-chack was all impatience to try the new remedy. At last he got a headache and then joy; he could throw his eyes up in the air. “How much better I feel now,” said he, after playing a long time with his eyes. Then he went on his journey again, but still longing to try again. At last he could not resist the temptation, and, sitting down, exclaimed: “What a headache I have; how ill I feel”—all make believe. So out came his eyes, and for several times they dropped into the sockets safely. At last they fell on the ground and were snapped up by a while fox, who had been watching him. How Wie-sah-ke-chack cried and lamented the loss of his eyes, when suddenly he felt a sharp prick on his poor empty eye-sockets. “Who is trying to hurt me, now that I have lost my eyes? If I catch him I will kill him.”

Then the pricking still went on, till he was perfectly frantic. At last he caught the white fox by his leg and held him up and threatened to pull him to pieces. The fox prayed him to let him go, “for,” said the fox, “I will take you to a place where you can get some pitch and make eyes for yourself.”

Wie-sah-ke-chack would not let the fox go, but tied him with a cord, so the fox led him to an old pine tree, and there he found good white pitch and made eyes for himself; but his eye-lids were always red, and that is the reason why old people get red eyes from Wie-sah-ke-chack.

After his eyes were restored, he went on and saw a beaver lying asleep, and he ran and caught him by the tail, and put his fire-bag on a tree-limb overhanging the water, and forgot it there. The beaver he tied to his back and went to make a fire and cook the beaver. Presently the beaver gave him such a slap with his tail, and then another, that Wie-sah-ke-chack was glad to let him go. “Now, where is my fire-bag?” So he went back to where he had found the beaver, and there, in the water, was the bag. How was he to get it? At last the beaver got there, and laughed at him. “Look up, you stupid, and see where it is; but you won’t make a fire for me today.”

So Wie-sah-ke-chack had to go hungry. He pulled in his belt. He was so famished, and he was walking on very sadly when he came across a beautiful deer. “Now, here is my meat.” Then, calling to the deer, he said: “Good day, brother; let us play a while, and do you pretend I am going to shoot you, but I’ll only pretend.”

So the deer began to run up and down, tossing his beautiful head and springing in the air; the arrows would fall short, and Wie-sah-ke-chack would pretend to be vexed. At last he aimed at the deer’s heart and shot at his poor brother and killed him. Now what a feast he would have! So, skinning the deer and getting the fire ready and cutting the choicest bits and putting them on la pola sticks to broil before the fire, he did not know if he had better sleep first or wash first, so he said he would sleep after the feast. So he went to the water-side, and, bathing himself carefully and combing his hair, at length he was ready, and how good the meat smelt! So, going to two pine trees that were growing out of one stein, he got between them and told them to squeeze him till his appetite was better. The trees began to squeeze him gently, but firmly. Now, this good smell of cooking had brought all the animals to the feast, and they began, without ceremony, to eat the feast. “Stop! Stop! That is my feast. Here, let me go!” but the trees held him fast, and in his anger he broke all the branches he could reach and threw them at the animals. At last everything was eaten, and the bones picked clean, and the fire put out, and the uninvited guests dispersed, when the trees let him loose. These trees are called Wie-sah-ke-chack trees, as they punished him for his greediness. Now he fumed and raged, but to no purpose. Going along, he found a man who was hunting, but this hunting was new to Wie-sah-ke-chack. The man had a number of little men who hunted for him, and they had killed a large deer. He opened a large sack and called the little men to come back, and they all stepped into the sack, and he shut it up. Now, Wie-sah-ke-chack stepped out and said: “Good day, brother. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I am just hunting.”

“And what have you in your bag?”

“I have my little men, and they hunt for me.”

“Oh, how I wish I could have some hunters, too.” “Well,” said the stranger, “I’ll be glad to give you some; but when you are hunting, don’t let the little men go out of fight, or you will lose them.” So, giving Wie-sah-ke-chack some men and picking up the deer, the stranger disappeared.

How happy was our friend, and he strode off into the woods, quite happy. Presently he came into a large open glade, and there he saw a deer grazing, so opening the sack, he let the little men out, and they ran and shot the deer. He was so busy with the deer that he forgot to call the little men back, and they disappeared, and he was inconsolable. So he cooked his deer and ate it; and the next day, shouldering his sack, off he went.

The birds had all assembled before winter. They had called a meeting, and after the meeting they were to have a dance; but there was no one to sing for them, when suddenly they saw Wie-sah-ke-chack coming. What calling and shouting! “Come here, Wie-sah-ke-chack; how glad we are to see you, for we are going to have a big dance tonight, and want you to sing for us.”

“Hey!” cried he; “why, you have nothing ready for your dance.”

“Well, what must we do? “

“First of all,” said he, “you must build a big lodge, and put a division in the middle of it, and by and by the fat birds must dance on one side and the lean ones on the other, and then I must paint YOU.”

So they were all busy, and after the lodge was made, they came to be painted. Out of the sack the paints came, and the swan was the first to get ready; so Wie-sah-ke-chack painted him all white, with black feet and nose. How beautiful he looked. Then the wood-duck, with all his lovely colours on. It was a rare sight to see these painted birds. Well, when they were all ready the fat birds went to one side and the lean to the other, and then they were told to shut their eyes while they danced. Such fine songs Wie-sah-ke-chack sung! I have forgotten them now, so I can’t tell you how they went. By and by the noise of the dancing became less and less, and at last La Pooldo, the little water-hen, opened her eyes—and what should she see but Wie-sah-ke-chack killing her people and throwing them outside — only the fat ones, of course. So she got near the door and then shouted, “Wie-sah-ke-chack is killing us!” and as she ran out of the door he stepped on her back and almost broke it, and that is why the water-hen is now so clumsy when she walks. Then the dance broke up, and the birds that were left flew away. Now, there was a fine beach there—a long’ stretch of lovely white sand—and Wie-sah-ke-chack thought he would make his feast there, so he buried the birds, with their legs sticking up, and built a big fire over them. Then he lay down and slept, and when he awakened he went to bathe and refresh himself. What a fine appetite he had, and how be would enjoy himself after all the hard work! So, scraping the ashes away, he pulled up the first bird, and only legs came up—no body at all. Well, the fire must have been too hot. Then he tried the next bird, and the same thing happened; so he ran along, pulling up his feast, but nothing but legs came. Then he knew his feast had been stolen from him. It seems that the foxes had come down and eaten all the birds up whilst he slept, and then stuck the legs back again so as to deceive Wie-sah-ke-chack.

There are other adventures, but they are not clear in my mind, so I will not write them. The legend is that the person who can tell all about the adventures, of Wie-sah-ke-chack will live to be very old. So I leave my story, with great reluctance, owing to my inability to remember more, and having to face a short life in consequence.

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