Under the Totem-Pole Chiefs and Braves

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 125, 17 August 1927, Page 6

Under the Totem-Pole Chiefs and Braves

Letters to Redfeather are answered as under: Little Beaver: Greetings to this new Chief, a lover of the Great Out-Doors. It is a great pleasure to give you the hand of goodfellowship at the door of the Wigwam, and I trust that the trail may long know your footprints. I have quoted from your first letter in the Scouts’ Corner. Red Eagle: Very many thanks for your interesting letter with its budget of news. I should have liked to have peeped in on that, party last Saturday evening. I hope it was a great success. Deerfoot: The hand of goodfellowship and many thanks for your letter. I shall always be glad to have news of your troop. Little Scarlet Quill: I was pleased to hear again from this keen scribe, whose pen is always devoted to some worthy object. Your illustrations greatly appealed to me. Laughing Cascade: Many thanks for your letter with its Guiding news, portions of which I have used in the Guides’ Corner. It seems most fitting

that you and Glistening- Water should be friends. How could it be otherwise -when you have these pen-names? Little Grey Dove: I was delighted to have your letter and to hear of your success at school, both in essay writing and the fields of sport. Yes, if you send me your autograph book, I shall endeavour to leave my mark on a fair, fresh page. Fleet Wing: Greetings and welcome to this new Chief whose name is nowinscribed on the Totem Pole. It is splendid that you are about to become a scout. I hope the knotting and splicing articles have reached you. Sighing Wind: Many thanks for your letter, written in the true spirit of the Wigwam. This day shall I fare forth into the land of the Pale-face in quest of a trophy for the Brave who “trusts to the wonder-mind of the Great Chief who knows all.” A laugh and a good wish to this weaver of prize-winning stories. Eagle Feather: Greetings. O faithful one. Your long letter fell with a cheerful “flop” at the door of the WigIN THE STONE AGE It was mid-day, and the sun burned high up in the heavens, pouring heat upon the earth with a fierceness that drove all living things to seek shelter in the shadow of rock or tree. It was in the early days of the world, when men lived in caves or trees, before speech, as it is known to us, had been invented. Outside the cave the world was a blaze of white and green. From where he sat in the shadow of the overhanging rock Mo-ha could see a brilliant green and yellow lizard, flashing out and in among the flints and stones that lay some little distance from the cave. Mo-ha would have looked a very funny little boy to you to-day. Although he was nearly 12 years old lie was much smaller than a boy of nine or ten is in these days. He was covered with short, fine hair, the fa.ee, hands, and inside of the arms being the only parts of his body entirely free; his eyes were small, deeply sunk, and set close together; his nose was flat and broad, with only the merest suggestion of a bridge; his ears large and slightly pointed at the top. But, although so small, Mo-ha was much stronger than one would think to look at his thin legs and arms. He could leap farther and run faster than most men can nowadays. He could ‘ climb and run from tree to tree through the great forests that existed then almost as fast as you or I could walk along a nice open country road. Behind Mo-lia, half-asleep and halfawake, lay Nee-na, Mo-ha’s little sister, a year younger than Mo-ha himself. From time to time her eyes, which were large and very intelligent in their expression, would open and shut like a cat’s, talcing note in the brief interval of any change in the boy’s, attitude. Suddenly Mo-ha picked up a straight, sharp stick that lay close beside him and flung it at the lizard. Nee-na rubbed her hands together and laughed with delight. The sun had fallen down the sky for some time —it would be about four o’clock in the afternoon as we reckon hours now—when Mo-lia, accompanied by Nee-na, left the coolness of tlje cave and walked to where the stick he had thrown still remained, apparently stuck in the ground. ■When Mo-ha lifted the stick he was greatly surprised to see a stone —a flint —sticking on the end of it. A close examination showed a small hole in the middle of the stone, and into this hole the stick had accidentally found Its way. At first the significance of the thing —the first axe that had ever been invented —failed to appeal to him. Indeed he made a strong but ineffectual effort to tear the stone away, and it was only when he was swinging the newly-improvised weapon around his head with the intention of casting it aside that the possibility of the thing as an instrument of defence or offence occurred to him. He found a new impetus added to the movement as he whirled the stick round and round, bringing it down with a crash at last upon a fallen stump with a result that astonished him and momentarily terrified the startled Nee-na. The flint, jagged and sharp, had cut into the rotting wood as a knife might into a cheese. Mo-ha was delighted at the effect, and took the axe with him that evening when lie went —as was his custom

warn. I am sorry that your team did not emerge victorious from that football match, but 10, it is written, that occasional reverses add a greater zest to the game.

Silver Dove: The hand of goodfellowship to this new Brave, who brings her gift of fidelity to the Wigwam. As I carved your name on the Totem Pole, a bright new shaft of sunshine lit up the evergreen leaves of the Friendship Tree. I, too, love the sound of lapping waters and the Great OutDoors.

Little Buffalo: So holiday time once more* looms ahead? I trust you will not forget the trail to the Wigwam when you seek the far forests that yield good hunting. Red Leaf: I was delighted to hear again from this Guide-Brave arid to have news of your recovery. You are most fortunate in having such a wonderful birthday. A cake with 16 candles is certainly important, but then turning 16 is a very important matter. Big Brown Bear: Very many thanks for your letter and the clippings, Big Brown Bear, also for the cunning, workable advertisement card. It kept me occupied for at least 10 minutes, to the exclusion of all else. I am delighted to hear of your good fortune. No one could be more pleased than your Great Chief. Red Star: Beside me as I write is a letter from Silver Heel, telling me of her visit to your teepee, and yet another from Silver Dove, who is a friend of yours. Can you guess her name? She knew you in Hamilton. All good wishes from the Wigwam. Blue Smoke Sign: Greetings to this clever Brave, who has found the trail to the Wigwam, and many thanks for your contribution. I hope your visits will be many and often. Flying Cloud: From the flap of the Wigwam this morning I scanned the heavens, and, in the track of the sunrise, perceived a rose-tipped cloud in a lofty stratum and to myself I said: “This is a signal. This streaming cloud is the herald of a letter.” And it was even so. Congratulations on your success in the English examination. I am not surprised.

Crooning Waters: Sitting Bull, the Sioux, has sung a little song for you. Are you still working with the palette and brush ? Singing Arrow: I was delighted to meet this faithful Scout-Chief and to give you the hand of goodfellowship at the Wigwam. Best wishes to St. Barnabas. Silver Heel: Many thanks for your charming letter and poem. I was delighted to read how you found the teepee of Red Star, for I had cried on the wind: “Where is Silver Heel?” and back came the answer: “Seeking a new trail. All is well.” Blue-fringed Moccassin: Far along the forest ways came a soft footfall, ever approaching, and-, shading my eyes with my hand, I caught a glimmer of blue. And 10, Blue-fringed Moccassin was again in our midst. Many thanks for your letter, extracts from which I shall use in the next Guides’ Corner. Grey Wolf: I was delighted to hear again from this faithful Scout-Chief, and to have the Avondale news. It was just too late for the Scouts’ column, but will appear next week. Hast heard of one. Great Eagle?—a new Wigwam Chief and also of your troop. Smoke Plume: Very many thanks for your winged message which flew unerringly to its mark. I am always glad to read the word of this little Guide-Brave. Silver Ripple: Greetings, Silver Ripple. I am glad that you have heard from Red Star. Tier letters are full of interest. The photograph- is now at the Wigwam and I shall keep it until you call. I have sent your message to the singer of songs, who still makes music for the children of the WigBlue Morning: Eyes of the Morning and Blue Morning should combine their arts, don’t you think? That is certainly a charming poem written round the theme of your drawing. I shall forward a copy of that Wigwam page. Greetings to my Wellington members.

—to drink water with Nee-na at a spring some distance from the caves in which they lived. They Were half-way to the spring, when Nee-na, whose finer senses appreciated danger to an even keeper degree than those of her brother, stopped suddenly with a warning hiss. A heavy, musk-like odour met Mo-ha’s nostrils a fraction of a second later, and quick as thought, he sprang for the nearest tree, climbing so rapidly to the topmost branches that it seemed as if he were being dragged skyward by some mysterious, invisible agency. Quick as he had been, however. Nee-na had reached the farthest branches of a mighty palm-tree a little to the right, ere Mo-ha had climbed half-way up the great forked monster which had been nearest to his hand at the instant of alarm. The next moment the tiger was beneath the tree in which sat Mo-ha, the axe still in his hand, clinging firmly with all four limbs.

With one mighty spring the great ! beast flung itself upward to where the tree broke into two giant arms, which stretched outw'ard into something of the form of a great Y. The tiger’s claws fell short of the fork by a few inches, and here it hung for a second or two until the powerful hind feet got a firmer hold and propelled the j snarling brute toward the fork. Then Mo-ha did a foolish thing. He laughed loudlv and pointed a mocking finger at the head of the great brute. The sound of his voice roused the anger of the tiger, but Mo-ha laughed again, and, tearing off a small branch which grew beside him, flung it at the tiger’s head. The action increased the rage of the animal, and it struck the • branch on which the boy hung with its extended claws. Suddenly a great rage filled the heart of Mo-ha. He seized the axe in both hands, whirled it above his head and, clinging only by his knees and feet, brought it down with all the force he could command upon the huge paw resting on the branch. The tiger rose in the air. mad with pain and rage, turned completely over and clawing and biting furiously, fell to the ground. ... “He is dead! the striped one is dead!” sang Nee-na joyfully. And, sure enough, the tiger was dead. A boy and an axe had proved superior to old Sabre-tooth, the stiiped one, the terror of the human race. the city tree Bitter at heart, the city tree Strives to maintain its dignity. Feigns not to see the wiry fence That mocks his trunk’s slim elegance! Ignores his scrawniness of limb, And dreams himself austere and grim. Stares out upon a world of stone And wonders where his kin have gone. To such a tree can even spring Mean very much, if anything? —Joseph Moncure March.

The natives of both Africa and India have learned their diet by watching monkeys feeding 1 . If a monkey eats a plant the plant is good for man. they say, and experience seems to prove that they are right. The great apes and the monkeys are all subject to the diseases that afflict humanity, yet when at liberty they escape these ills.

STRANGE MEETING BRAVE GREETS BRAVE Many moons have passed since I have set foot on the Wigwam trail. But if I have not been to your home, O chief, I have at least been to the teepee of your faithful one. the ltitle Red Star. But let Silver Heel tell of the day when she first sought out the member of the Wigwam. The cold rain was beating mercilessly down on my te ?pee roof, keep - ing me awake. Suddenly I heard a soft, singing voice begin to chant: “To the sunset glow, Where all braves know. Parted tribes shall meet.” The wind changed. Alas! Silver Heel knew not where to go. Next noon as I tramped the Wigwam trail once more, I heal'd the voice again. In haste I left the well-worn path, and with fleet foot set forth in the direction whence the melody came. Alas! Once again the east wind played with the heart of Silver Heel. The west wind began to blow, and the voice could no longer be heard. Three hours of weary tramping, and I found the teepee of Red Star. . . .She was sitting with a birch-bark scroll on her knee and a marking-stick in her hand, wrting the songs of the birds, and the whisperings of the trees. She was chanting, in her sweet voice, some of the tales of the bold chiefs of her forbears. In my haste I stepped on a twig. With a snap it broke. The singing ceased. With \startled eyes Red Star was standing half in. half out, of her teepee. In a few minutes I had told her I was one of the children of the Wigwam. . . . Now, oft’ of nights you will hear two voices instead of one, singing in the moonlight: “Where the great trails run To the great god Sun, And the snow tires weary feet, In the sunset glow. As the Braves all know. The parted tribes shall meet.” —Slver Heel. THE OLD FIDDLER The sun was shining and the sky was very blue, but the wind was cold, and poor old Giuseppe pulled his coat round him and shivered. Although he had lived a long time in England he still longed for the warm, sunny Italy that was his native land: and when London was in the middle of one of its wet, foggy moods he would shut his eyes and see the sun slanting across an orange grove, and he would be happy again. But he had no friends left in Italy and no work to do, so, taking his fine old fiddle, his only relic of prosperous days, he had come to London to find fame and fortune.

In the summer he was happy enough, though he knew no one who would pay for his talent, and so the fortune he made was only just enough to keep a roof over his head and supply him with the scantiest food. But he made some very good friends, and they were more to him by far than wealth. For as soon as the first sweet notes of the fiddler were heard the children would pop out of their poor little homes, or open the windows and call out a welcome to him. Then, as he grew to know them better, they would bring out their toys to show him and share their sweets with him. And their mothers, seeing the poor old man. would invite him in to tea. and he would tell them wonderful tales of his native land. Now, it happened one day that while he was playing a fine motor-car came along. After it had passed a little way it drew up, and a man put his head out of the window and called Giuseppe to him. “What are you doing here,” he said, “playing that music in the gutter? "Why man, you could fill the best halls in London! Come with me and I will make your fortune.” He opened the door and beckoned Giuseppe, who, with the dream of his earlier days before him, stepped in. So the poor old Italian became a famous man: and very wonderful he looked, with his long silver beard flowing over his violin, and his thin brown face, and his bright eyes looking anxiously round the vast audiences for a face he knew. For although he was touched by their enthusiasm he was very lonely.

The little children away in the mean streets cried when day after day passed and their dear Giuseppe did not come. Their mothers shook their heads as they chatted together. “He has died of the cold or been starved to death.” they said. Still Giuseppe filled the great halls, for people never tired of hearing him plav. But one night as he played a

greater loneliness than ever came over him, and in the middle of the applause he heard the voices of his little friends entreating him to return to them. The next day he sought out his rich friend, and told him he had decided to give up concert playing and return to the people who loved him. ! “You are mad! You are mad!” cried ; his friend. But Giuseppe only smiled. Fortune seemed nothing to him now that he had achieved his great purpose, the acknowledgement of his talent. The next day there were shouts of amazement and joy in the little street as the sound of Giuseppe’s fiddle was heard. The children cried to each other that Giuseppe had come back to them, and they hung round him lovingly. “Oh, where have you been?” they cried. Giuseppe laughed, but he would not tell them; but he had brought toys for each of them, and he had presents for their mothers. “We thought you were dead!” cried one, as she bade him come in. “I think perhaps I have been dead for a while,” said the old man as he took tea with them, and his mind wandered to the scenes of his triumph, where fame was but no love, and it seemed to him there was no real life where there was no love. And as Giuseppe walked back to his home he was a rich man indeed.

THE BIG BROWN DOG The Big Brown Bog used to be a country dog, and the Little Grey Cat is—just a little grey cat. The Big Brown Bog was a cattle dog, and is used to the open spaces of the country, green fields with drowsy sheep grazing on them: tall trees waving their plumed heads in the sunshine; thin curling smoke of a fire in the distance: and all the myriad scents of the country in springtime. Two years ago the Big Brown Dog came to the smoky city. Ho does not like the town though he is growing used to it now. He is always thinking deeply of his country home, and his mind goes back to days long past, when he had to bring the cows home, and he sits and longs lor just one bite at their legs to make them run. When he is out walking now. and he sees some cows, his ears will lift, he stiffens up. and he just tingles to go after them. His large brown eyes appeal to his master as though he would say, “What’s that dog doing? He’s no good—tell me to go and fetch those cows! These town dogs don’t know how to do it!” Two months ago came the Little Grey Cat. Insult was piled upon dignity when the Big Brown Bog found he had to share his bed with a little grey cat! The terrible audacity of that cat! It pats his nose; it dabs his head, and when he wags his tail the grey cat will pounce upon it. He remembers his position as a country gentleman, of course, and would not hurt the little cat, but now and then it is too much for him to bear, and a severe rebuke is administered. Sometimes the Big Brown Dog will sit and think, and think, and if I ask him what it is all about he blinks his soft brown eyes and turns his head away as though to say “It’s much too deep a subject for you to understand — I’d tell you if I thought you’d sympathise.” He is not unhappy, though: for has not his master told him that some day he will take him back to his beloved country? And when the Big Brown Dog thinks of this he does not mind the town at all, and even condescends to have a friendly game with puss. —Blue Smoke Sign. SONGS OF THE SIOUX Hark, a voice from murmuring waters. . .” ‘*Halt ye; who goes there?” Nothing answers, save a lapping on the shimmering air. Surely*ears were not mistaken? Hark, it comes once more, like the sound of muffled laughter from some secret shore. Can it be the small cicada singing in the tree? Nay. . . Again it mocks my wonder. Whose voice can it be? I have heard it in the 'Wigwam When the nights were still, crooning softly like a west-wind from some mist-capped hill. I have heard its constant singing by each stream and dale, like the sound of many voices floating down the trail. Halt! A tell-tale shaft of moonlight breaking from the sky, lights the path where Crooning Waters swiftly paddles by. Thus, when crescent moons are sailing through the trackless dome, Braves may see the tireless singer passing to her home; they may see her flashing paddle, revel in her song, if they watch the Big Sea-water where she speeds along. SITTING BULL. SPIDER SILK In Madagascar certain spiders are collected by the natives and taken to a spinning station in little baskets, from which they must be quickly removed lest they proceed to eat each other. The spinners fix 12 or 24 of them in frames so that they cannot move, and attach threads issuing from the spiders to a bobbin. The bobbin is then set in motion and reels up the silk till the spiders have no more to give. A spider will give about 1,000 yards each time. Tha spider silk has a beautiful colour and is very durable. One writer says that a thread of gold could not be more brilliant or of a purer yellow, and that the spider’s silk thread is finer and stronger than the thread of a silkworm, so that wonderfully fine and durable fabrics can be woven of it. 9 What chance alone collects, chance soon disperses: A noble man draws noble men around And binds them fast to him.

POT-POURRI Old letters tied with faded blue, A buckle from a satin shoe, A yellowed fan, a crumbling rose— What memories could these unclose? Frail little box of sandal-wood, Your secrets sleep as secrets should, Yet lo! from gardens of the dead. On feathered foot Romance has sped. —W. S. T. THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH “Now give us lands where the olives grow,” Cried the Xorth to the South, Where the sun with a golden mouth can blow Blue bubbles of grapes down a vineyard row!” Cried the Xorth to the South. “Now give us men from the sunless plain,” Cried the South to the Xorth, ‘By need of work in the snow and the rain. Made strong, and brave by familiar pain!” Cried the South to the Xorth. E. B. Browning.

LITTLE AN OLD LEGEND There were once two p brothers called Nopats, s They were orphans, and each other. Together they «« mg and fishing, together Vh *** *”'»<- or hungered, sorrowed or uZ.'***"at length Nopatsis who was jealous of their w .'^l other, and she determined Z^ Aka.yan out of the wig Want to One day this evil creator husband with the story' T had struck her. No patsU wait, and she should he morning he invited hi, J??? *«« come with him to a which they used to visit*? 10 is *»M thers for their arrows V e: was in the midst of a grpJi .“fe l water birds used to breld ,J The brothers set off ~ v and after some time— fo r ?h ««■ a large one—they reach.*?. I **'*, island. Each took <» .. Lhe lon*' Presently Akaiyan feather-gathering to see v— P fro ® t ing on the raft. amazed to hear his brotw*'/? 4 *V in a strange, liarsh Tone -nr 1 **’ stay there and starve vm,<*! it. . >ou desm. In vain did poor lkaiv a « he had done to arouse h,s anger: in vain did he sweir n*' was innocent of any crime ■£““ k > got smaller and smaller, and y was lost to sight. a at hs Poor Akaiyan was in desnair . had no tools with which hi*' *** bUIl ,a h i mself a raft or house could have swum the lake' "iL** little while he lived on the it! 1 which he killed bv stone it *** But winter was approaching.'' th? fled, and he was likely to cold. It seemed to Akaiyan'flTutv sun and moon had not hear* ?* prayers, and that when Nonatsi, ~ to get feathers in the spring he find his brother’s bones. ' But one gloomy afternoon, s, .. was roaming about the island suddenly met a little beaver Ts was something so intelligent in expression of its small, blunt that he was hardly surprised to h. it speak. “My father invites you to his hou.*said the little animal. ** Akaiyan followed him through path he had never discovered beinr until they came to a lartre house tm,of mud and sticks. Inside he a great number of the animals seat* about one who was white with as* “I am king of all the beavers in A world.” said he. “and I take you under my protection. You shall stay us till the winter is over, and tier you shall return to your own peonfe Because I am sorry for men’s ip- r ance, I will teach you things thr shall help them, and you shall * honoured in your tribe.” Akaiyan thanked him with tears ks his eyes. All through the bitter months he slept snugly among the furr animals, and ate of their store, aac learned the art of using healing herte. He formed a great friendship with the little beaver whom he had firr met, and who was the king's younger, son. One day the old beaver called Akzlyan to him, and said: —? “I can smell the spring. I can heir the waters lapping round your brother's raft. Creep out, and hide yourself in the bushes, and as soon « he comes ashore leap on to the aft and go home. Take whatever jk like from my palace.” Akaiyan thanked the king with t full heart, and asked to take his dear friend the Little Beaver. The king was sad, but he could not refuse grant the boon, and so he let there go. Akaiy an took the little beaver in his arms, and went out, and hid as he had been told. Sure enough, Nopatss soon appeared on his raft, and leapei ashore. As soon as he was out d sight in the woods Akaiyan stepp*: aboard, and set off for the mainland. Then he and LitUe Beaver to dered about from one place to another teaching the poor ignorant Indhw how to heal their wounds and cm their diseases. At last Little Beavr grew homesick, and they both returned to the island. A year had passed. No animal come to aid Nopatsis, and he had net the fate he had intended for his broth Little Beaver continued to live: wii his father, and Akaiyan j* tribe, but they often exchanged vss - and remained friends as lons aa ; lived.

ancient pottery I The Chinese sa.y that fine P 0”?; ! was made by them so long ago ai-»■ : 13. C., but ot this we have no reeo ™\ I is believed that porcelam was factured in China in 206 B.C.‘ ! it is known from proven exampjg, i pottery-making was an es^abUsbjl® ! dustry in Egypt many hun . lr ! years before it was heard of in CW . The Creeks were early manafchJUg ] but it is certain that the EOT" : are the oldest pottery- makers oi | historic peoples. BY BIRD POST In the hope that he might «oJ«£ ] mystery of the bird’s annual jo . the poet. Francis Thompson, «« j tached to the leg of a I used to nest in the oaves of a nowhere he was staying, a pieoe « I paper, with the words swallow, I wonder where J the winter?" . h-cjj» i Spring brought the swallo fJi . ! its old home, and on its leg 1 tened another piece of P a P r 0 I was written: •■Florence, at the # I of Casteddari. Cordial gieetinp ; the friends in the north. down through the AGES a A wonderful discovery made by the archaeologists ex I at the ancient Mizpah. north salem. . , WP n-pre An exceptionally fine and served Israelite house of wver v ! ago has been found I louW i i rooms, in one ot w hich ' re pot I large, four-handled e art, '^ W t . «>- Most wonderful of all, this P i bedded in the ashes of , th ? o a i-iiicl 'contains the remains of pu«i ■ must have been cooking to lff[ g. when the people of ti*e hou l never to return!

A QUEER CARGO A queer i-;irgo was j don the other day by th ied j Mahronda. The vessel dis- : rhesus monkeys from India p ur op*** tributed through various ‘ menageries and zoos. t -bin*** It is said to be the bigg * p ; of monkeys on r<K ‘° rd ; n J‘ l b of rice « passengers consumed 30i. boro 05 i every meal. Five babies the voyage.