The earth is a great island floating in a sea of water, and suspended at each of the four cardinal points by a cord hanging down from the sky vault, which is of solid rock. When the world grows old and worn out, the people will die and the cords will break, and let the earth sink down into the ocean, and all will be water again. The Indians are afraid of this.

When all was water, the animals were above the Galunlati, beyond the arch; but it was very much crowded, and they were wanting more room. They wondered what was below the water, and at last Dayunisi, “Beaver’s Grandchild,” the little Water-beetle, offered to go and see if it could learn. It darted in every direction over the surface of the water, but could find no firm place to rest.

Then it dived to the bottom and came up with some soft mud, which began to grow and spread in every direction until it became an island which we call the earth. It was afterwards fastened to the sky, but no one remembers who did it.

At first the earth was flat, and very soft and wet. The animals were anxious to get down, and sent out different birds to see if it was yet dry, but they found no place to alight and came back again to Galunlati. At last it seemed to be time, and they sent out the Buzzard and told him to go and make ready for them.

This was the Great Buzzard, the father of all the buzzards we see now. He flew all over the earth, low down, near the ground, and it was still soft. When he reached the Cherokee country, he was very tired, and his wings began to flap and strike the ground, and wherever they struck the earth there was a valley, and where they turned up again, there was a mountain. When the animals above saw this, they were afraid the whole earth would be mountains, so they called him back, but the Cherokee country remains full of mountains to this day.

When the earth was dry and the animals came down, it was still dark, so they got the sun and set it in a track to go every day across the island from east to west, just overhead. It was too hot this way, and Tsiskagili, the Red Crawfish, had his shell scorched red, so that his meat was spoiled; and the Cherokee do not eat it. The conjurers put the sun another hand-breadth higher in the air, but it was still too hot.

They raised it another time, and another, until it was seven hand-breadths high, and just under the sky arch. Then it was right, and they left it so. This is why the conjurers call the highest place “Gulkwagine Digalunlatiyun,” “the seven height,” because it is seven hand-breadths above the earth. Every day the sun goes along under this arch, and returns at night on the upper side to the starting place.

There is another world under this, and it is like ours in everything—animals, plants, and people—save that the seasons are different. The streams that come down from the mountains are the trails by which the people reach the underworld, and the springs at their heads are the doorways by which they enter it, but to do this one must fast and go to water and have one of the underground people for a guide. We know that the seasons in the underground are different from ours, because the water in the springs is warmer in the winter and cooler in the summer than the outer air.

When the animals and the plants were first made—we do not know by whom—they were told to watch and keep awake for seven nights, just as young men now fast and keep awake when they pray to their medicine. They tried to do this, and nearly all were awake through the first night, but the next night several dropped off to sleep, and the third night others were asleep, and then others, until, on the seventh night, of all the animals, only the owl, the panther and one or two more were still awake.

To these were given the power to see and to go about in the dark, and to make prey of the birds and animals which must sleep at night. Of the trees, only the cedar, the pine, the spruce, the holly and the laurel were awake to the end, and to them it was given to be always green and to be greatest for medicine, but to the others it was said: “Because you have not endured to the end you shall lose your hair every winter.”

Men came after the animals and plants. At first there were only a brother and sister until he struck her with a fish and told her to multiply, and so it was. In seven days a child was born to her, and thereafter every seven days another, and they increased very fast until there was danger that the world could not keep them. Then it was made that a woman should have only one child in a year, and it has been so ever since.

In the beginning there was no fire, and the world was cold, until the Thunders (Ani-Hyuntikwalaski) who lived up in Galunlati, sent their lightning and put fire into the bottom of a hollow sycamore tree, which grew on an island. The animals knew it was there, because they could see the smoke coming out at the top, but they could not get to it on account of the water, so they held a council to decide what to do. This was a long time ago.

Every animal that could fly or swim was anxious to go after the fire. The Raven offered, and because he was so large and strong they thought he could surely do the work, so he was sent first. He flew high and far across the water and alighted on the sycamore tree, but while he was wondering what to do next, the heat had scorched all his feathers black, and he was frightened and came back without the fire.

The little Screech-owl (Wahuhu) volunteered to go, and reached the place safely, but while he was looking down in the hollow tree a blast of hot air came up and nearly burned out his eyes. He managed to fly home as best he could, but it was a long time before he could see well, and his eyes are red to this day.

Then the Hooting Owl (Uguku) and the Horned Owl (Tskili) went, but by the time they got to the hollow tree the fire was burning so fiercely that the smoke nearly blinded them, and the ashes carried up by the wind made white rings about their eyes. They had to come home again without the fire, but with all of their rubbing they were never able to get rid of the white rings.

Now, no more of the birds would venture, and so the little Uksuhi snake, the Black Racer, said he would go through the water and bring back some fire. He swam across to the island and crawled through the grass to the tree, and went in by a small hole at the bottom. The heat and smoke were too much for him, too, and after dodging about blindly over the hot ashes until he was almost on fire himself he managed by good luck to get out again at the same hole, but his body had scorched black, and he has ever since had the habit of darting and doubling on his track as if trying to escape from close quarters.

He came back, and the great Blacksnake, Gulegi, “The Climber,” offered to go for the fire. He swam over to the island and climbed up the tree on the outside, as the blacksnake always does, but when he put his head down into the hole the smoke choked him so that he fell into the burning stump, and before he could climb out again he was as black as the Uksuhi.

Now, they held another council, for still there was no fire, and the world was cold, but the birds, snakes and four-footed animals all had some excuse for not going, because they were all afraid to venture near the burning sycamore, until at last Kananeski Amaiyehi (the Water Spider) said she would go. This is not the water spider that looks like a mosquito, but the other one, with black downy hair and red stripes on her body. She can run on the water or dive to the bottom, so there would be no trouble to get over to the island, but the question was, how could she bring back the fire?

“I’ll manage that,” said the spider, so she spun a thread from her body and wove it into a tusti bowl, which she fastened on her back. Then she crossed over to the island and through the grass to where the fire was still burning. She put one little coal of fire into her bowl, and came back with it, and ever since we have had fire, and the spider still keeps her tusti bowl.

Long ago, when the world was new, there were seven boys who used to spend all their time down by the town-house, playing the gatayusti game, rolling a stone wheel along the ground and sliding a curved stick after it to strike it. Their mothers scolded but it did no good, so one day they collected some gatayusti stones and boiled them in the pot with the corn for dinner.

When the boys came home hungry their mothers dipped out the stones and said, “Since you like the gatayusti better than the cornfield, take the stones now for your dinner.”

The boys were very angry, and went down to the town-house, saying, “As our mothers treat us this way, let us go where we shall never trouble them any more.” They began a dance—some say it was the feather dance—and went round and round the town-house, praying to the spirits to help them. At last their mothers were afraid something was wrong and went out to look for them.

They saw the boys still dancing around the town-house, and as they watched they noticed that their feet were off the earth, and that with every round they rose higher and higher in the air.

They ran to get their children, but it was too late, for they were already above the roof of the town-house—all but one, whose mother managed to pull him down with the gatayusti pole, but he struck the ground with such force that he sank into it and the earth closed over him. The other six children circled higher and higher until they went up to the sky, where we see them now as the pleiades, which the Cherokee still calls “Anitsutsa” (the Boys).

The people grieved long after them, but the mother whose boy had gone into the ground came every morning and evening to cry over the spot, until the earth was damp with her tears.

At last a little green shoot sprouted up and grew day by day until it became the tall tree that we now call the pine, and the pine is still of the same nature as the stars and holds in itself the same bright light.

Some people in the South had a corn mill, in which they pounded the corn into meal, and several mornings when they came to fill it they noticed that some of the meal had been stolen during the night.

They examined the ground, and found the tracks of a dog; so the next night they watched, and when the dog came from the North, and began to eat the meal out of the bowl, they sprang out and whipped him. He ran off howling to his home in the North, with the meal dropping from his mouth as he ran, and leaving behind a white trail where now we see the Milky Way, which the Cherokee calls to this day Gili-utsunstanunyi, “Where the dog ran.”

A long time ago a man had a dog, which began to go down to the river every day and look at the water and howl. At last the man was very angry and scolded the dog, which then spoke to him and said: “Very soon there is going to be a great freshet and the water will come so high that everybody will be drowned; but if you will make a raft to get upon when the rain comes, you can be saved, but you must first throw me into the water.” The man did not believe it, and the dog said, “If you want a sign that I speak the truth, look at the back of my neck.” He looked and saw that the dog’s neck had the skin worked off so that the bones stuck out.

Then he believed the dog, and began to build a raft. Soon the rain came and he took his family, with plenty of provisions, and they all got upon it. It rained for a long time, and the water rose until the mountains were covered and all the people in the world were drowned. Then the rain stopped and the water went down again, until at last it was safe to come off the raft.

Now, there was no one alive but the man and his family, but one day they heard a sound of dancing and shouting on the other side of the ridge. The man climbed to the top and looked over; everything was still, but all along the valley he saw great piles of bones of the people who had been drowned, and then he knew that the Ghosts had been dancing.

The Rabbit was a great runner and a great boaster of what she could do. No one thought that a Terrapin was anything but a slow traveler, but he was a great warrior and very boastful, and the two were always disputing about their speed. At last they agreed to decide the matter by a race.

They fixed the day and the starting place, and arranged to run across four mountain ridges, and the one who came in first at the end of the race was to be the winner.

The Rabbit felt so sure of it that he said to the Terrapin, “You know you can’t run. You know you can never win the race, so I’ll give you the first ridge and then you’ll have three to cross while I go over four.” The Terrapin said that would be all right, but that night when he went home to his family he sent for his Terrapin friends and told them he wanted their help. He said he knew he could not outrun the Rabbit, but he wanted to stop the Rabbit’s boasting. He explained his plan to his friends and they agreed to help him. When the day came all the animals were there to see the race. The Rabbit was there with them, but the Terrapin was gone ahead toward the first ridge, as they had arranged, and they could hardly see him on account of the tall grass.

The word was given and the Rabbit ran off with long jumps up the mountain, expecting to win the race before the Terrapin could get down on the other side. But before he got up the mountain he saw the Terrapin go over the ridge ahead of him. He ran on, and when he reached the top he looked all around, but could not see the Terrapin on account of the long grass. He kept on down the mountain and began to climb the second ridge, but when he looked up again there was the Terrapin just going over the top.

Now he was very much surprised, and made his longest jumps to catch up, but when he got to the top there was the Terrapin away in front going over the third ridge. The Rabbit was getting tired now and nearly out of breath, but he kept on down the mountain and up the other ridge until he got to the top just in time to see the Terrapin cross the fourth ridge and thus win the race. The Rabbit could not make another jump, but fell over on the ground, crying, “mi, mi, mi, mi,” as the Rabbit does ever since when he is too tired to run any more.

The race was given to the Terrapin, and all the animals wondered how he could win against the Rabbit, but he kept still and never told. It was easy enough, however, because all the Terrapin’s friends look just alike, and he had simply posted one near the top of each ridge to wait until the Rabbit came in sight and then climb over and hide in the long grass.

When the Rabbit came on he could not find the Terrapin and so thought the Terrapin was ahead, and if he had met one of the other Terrapins he would have thought it the same one, because they look so much alike. The real Terrapin had posted himself on the fourth ridge, so as to come in at the end of the race and be ready to answer questions if the animals suspected anything.

Because the Rabbit had to lie down and lose the race the conjurer now, when preparing his young men for the ball play, boils a lot of rabbit hamstrings into soup, and sends some one to pour it across the path along which the other players have to come in the morning, so that they may become tired in the same way and lose the game. It is not always easy to do this, because the other party is expecting it and has watchers ahead to prevent it.

Once there was such a long spell of dry weather that there was no more water in the creeks and springs, and the animals held a council to see what to do about it. They decided to dig a well, and all agreed to help except the Rabbit, who was a lazy fellow, and said, “I don’t need to dig for water. The dew on the grass is enough for me.” The others did not like this, but they went to work together and dug the well.

They noticed by and by that the Rabbit kept sleek and lively, although it was still dry weather and the water was getting low in the well. They said, “That tricky Rabbit steals our water at night,” so they made a wolf of pine gum and tar and set it up by the well to scare the thief. That night the Rabbit came, as he had been coming every night, to drink enough to last him all next day. He saw the queer black thing by the well and said, “Who’s there?” but the tar wolf said nothing.

He came nearer, but the wolf never moved, so he grew braver and said, “Get out of my way or I will kick you.” Still the wolf never moved and the Rabbit came up and struck it with its front foot, but the tar held it fast. Now he was angry and said: “Turn my foot loose, or I will strike you with my other front foot”; still the wolf said nothing. Then the Rabbit struck the wolf with his other foot, and it stuck, and the Rabbit said, “Turn my foot loose or I will kick you,” and still the wolf was silent, and then the rabbit kicked with his right hind foot so hard that it stuck, and still the wolf said nothing; and the Rabbit said, “If you don’t turn my foot loose, I will kick you with my left hind foot, which never fails to accomplish what I want it to do”; yet the wolf was silent, and the Rabbit made his last kick and the foot stuck, just as the others had done.

The Rabbit plead with the wolf to let him go, and yet no response came, and, at last, when he found he was stuck fast with his feet, he said: “If you don’t turn me loose I will butt you with all my might,” and in his desperation, he struck with all his force, and his head stuck fast to the wolf.

In the morning all the animals came down to the well to drink as usual, and found the Rabbit stuck fast to the wolf of tar, and they began to discuss what disposition to make of him, so one suggested that they cut his head off, to which the Rabbit replied, “Please do cut my head off, for it is such an easy death to die,” but this aroused the suspicion of the animals, so that the fox said, “No, we will not do this for he deserves a harsher death than this,” whereupon they all agreed. Then the Wolf suggested that they burn him alive, to which the Rabbit said, “Please Mr. Wolf, have me burned, for that will be so easy,” but this did not please the audience, and another suggested that they take him to the briar patch, and throw him into the thickest part of the sharp briars to scratch him to pieces, to which the Rabbit said, “Oh, Mr. Fox, please do not allow me to be thrown into the briars for they stick and scratch me so much that I could never stand the pain”; and they all with one accord exclaimed, “Throw him in,” and they threw him into the briars, and the Rabbit sped away as fast as he could, saying, “This is where I was reared, this is my home, and this is all that I could desire.”

The Rabbit and the Possum each wanted a wife, but no one would marry either of them. They talked the matter over and the Rabbit said, “We can’t get wives here; let’s go to the next settlement. I’m the messenger for the council, and I’ll tell the people that I bring an order that everybody must take a mate at once, and then we’ll be sure to get wives.”

The Possum thought this a fine plan, so they started off together to the next town. As the Rabbit traveled faster he got there first and waited outside until the people noticed him and took him into the town-house. When the chief came to ask him his business the Rabbit said he brought an important message from the council that everybody must get married without delay. So the chief called the people together and told them the message from the council, whereupon every animal took a mate at once, and the Rabbit got a wife.

The Possum traveled so slowly that he got there after all the animals had mated, leaving him still without a wife.

The Rabbit pretended to feel sorry for him and said, “Never mind, I’ll carry the message to the people in the next settlement, and you hurry on as fast as you can, and this time you will get your wife.” So he went on to the next town, and the Possum followed close after him. But when the Rabbit got to the town-house, he sent out the word that, as there had been peace so long there that everybody was getting lazy, the council had ordered that there must be war at once, and they must begin right in the town-house. So they all began fighting, but the Rabbit made four great leaps and got away just as the Possum came in. Everybody jumped on the Possum, who had not thought of bringing his weapons on a wedding trip, and so could not defend himself. They had nearly beaten the life out of him when he fell over and pretended to be dead until he saw a good chance to jump up and get away. The Possum never got a wife, but he remembers the lesson, and ever since he shuts his eyes and pretends to be dead when the hunter has him in a close place.

When the Terrapin won the race from the Rabbit (see Myth Six) all the animals wondered and talked about it a great deal, because they had always thought the Terrapin slow, although they knew that he was a warrior and had many conjuring secrets besides.

But the Turkey was not satisfied, and told the others that there must be some trick about it. Said he, “I know the Terrapin can’t run—he can hardly crawl—and I’m going to try him.”

So one day the Turkey met the Terrapin coming home from war with a fresh scalp hanging from his neck and dragging on the ground as he traveled. The Turkey laughed at the sight and said: “That scalp don’t look right on you. Your neck is too short and low down to wear it that way. Let me show you.”

The Terrapin agreed and gave the scalp to the Turkey, who fastened it around his neck. “Now,” said the Turkey, “I’ll walk a little way and you can see how it looks.” So he walked ahead a short distance and then turned and asked the Terrapin how he liked it. Said the Terrapin, “It looks very nice; it becomes you.”

“Now, I’ll fix it in a different way and let you see how it looks,” said the Turkey. So he gave the string another pull and walked ahead again. “Oh, that looks very nice,” said the Terrapin. But the Turkey kept on walking, and the Terrapin called to him to bring back the scalp, but he only walked the faster and broke into a run.

Then the Terrapin got out his bow and by his conjuring art shot a number of cane splits into the Turkey’s legs, to cripple him so he could not run, which accounts for all the many bones in the Turkey’s legs, that are of no use whatever; but the Terrapin never caught the Turkey, who still wears the scalp from his neck.

A long time ago the Grouse had a fine voice and a good halloo in the ball play. All the animals and birds used to play ball in those days and were just as proud of a loud halloo as the ball players of today. The Turkey had a poor voice, so he asked the Grouse to give him lessons. The Grouse agreed to teach him, but wanted pay for his trouble, and the Turkey promised to give him some feathers to make him a collar. This is how the Grouse got his collar of turkey feathers. They began the lessons, and the Turkey learned very fast until the Grouse thought it was time for the Turkey to try his voice. “Now,” said the Grouse, “I’ll stand on this hollow log, and when I give the signal by tapping on it, you must halloo as loudly as you can.” So he got upon the log ready to tap on it, as a Grouse does, but when he gave the signal the Turkey was so eager and excited that he could not raise his voice for a shout, but only gobbled, and ever since then he gobbles whenever he hears a noise.

Some old men tell us that the Kingfisher was meant in the beginning to be a water bird, but as he had not been given either web feet or a good bill he could not make a living.

The animals held a council over it and decided to make him a bill like a long sharp awl for a fish-gig or spear.

They made him a fish-gig and fastened it on in front of his mouth. Me flew to the top of a tree, sailed out and darted down into the water, and came up with a fish on his gig; and he has been the best gigger ever since.

Others say it was this way: A Blacksnake found a yellow-hammer’s nest in a hollow tree, and after swallowing the young birds, coiled up in the nest to sleep, and when the mother bird found him there, she went for help to the Little People, who sent her to the Kingfisher. He came, and after flying back and forth past the hole a few times, made one dart at the snake and pulled him out dead.

When they looked they found a hole in the snake’s head where the Kingfisher had pierced it with a slender tugaluna fish, which he carried in his bill like a lance. From this the Little People concluded that he would make a first-class gigger if he only had the right spear, so they gave him his long bill as a reward, and he has ever since been known among all the fowls and animals as the best fisherman among them.

In the old days, when the world was new, the Terrapin had a fine whistle, but the Partridge had none. The Terrapin was constantly going about whistling and showing his whistle to the other animals, until the Partridge became jealous, so one day when they met, the Partridge asked leave of the Terrapin to try the whistle.

The Terrapin was afraid to risk it at first, suspecting some trick, but the Partridge said, “I’ll give it back right away, and if you are afraid you can stay with me while I practice.” So the Terrapin let him have the whistle and the Partridge walked around blowing on it in fine fashion. “How does it sound with me?” asked the Partridge. “O, you do very well,” said the Terrapin, walking alongside. “Now, how do you like it,” said the Partridge, running ahead and whistling a little faster. “That’s fine,” answered the Terrapin, hurrying to keep up, “but don’t run so fast.” “And now how do you like this?” called the Partridge, and with that he spread his wings, gave one long whistle, and flew to the top of a tree, leaving the poor Terrapin to look after him from the ground.

The Terrapin never recovered his whistle, and from that and the loss of his scalp, which was stolen from him by the Turkey, he grew ashamed to be seen, and ever since then he shuts himself up in his box when anyone comes near him.

A Raccoon passing a Wolf one day made several insulting remarks, until at last the Wolf became angry and turned and chased him. The Raccoon ran his best, and managed to reach a tree by the river side before the Wolf came up. He climbed the tree and stretched out on a limb overhanging the water. When the Wolf arrived, he saw the reflection in the water, and, thinking it was the Raccoon, jumped at it and was nearly drowned before he could scramble out again, all wet and dripping. He lay down on the bank to dry and fell asleep, and while he was sleeping the Raccoon came down the tree and got some blue-pipe clay and plastered his eyes so that he could not open them and he began to howl and make a whining noise.

A little brown bird came along and hearing the Wolf crying, asked what was the matter. The Wolf told his story and said: “If you will get my eyes open, I will show you where to get some nice red paint to paint yourself.” “All right,” said the brown bird; so he began to peck at the mud and soon got his eyes open. Then the Wolf took him to a rock that had streaks of bright red paint running through it, and the little bird painted himself with it, and has ever since been known as the Red-bird.

The Pheasant once saw a woman beating corn in a wooden mortar in front of the house. “I can do that, too,” said he, but the woman would not believe it, so the Pheasant went into the woods and got upon a hollow log and “drummed” with his wings, as a Pheasant does, until the people in the house heard him and thought he was really beating corn.

In the Pheasant dance, a part of the Green-Corn dance, the instrument used is a drum, and the dancers beat the ground with their feet in imitation of the drumming sound made by the Pheasant.

They form two concentric circles, the men beginning on the inside, facing the women in the outer circle; each in turn advancing and retreating at the signal of the drummer, who sits at one side and sings the Pheasant songs. According to the story, there was once a winter famine among the birds and animals. No mast could be found in the woods, and they were near starvation when a Pheasant discovered a holly tree, loaded with red berries, which the Pheasant is very fond of. He called his companions, and they formed a circle about the tree, singing, dancing and drumming with their wings in token of their joy, and thus originated the Pheasant dance.

The Humming-Bird and the Crane were both in love with a pretty woman. She preferred the Humming-bird, who was as handsome as the Crane was awkward, but the Crane was so persistent that in order to get rid of him she finally told him he must challenge the other to a race and she would marry the winner. The Humming-bird was so swift—almost like a flash of lightning—and the Crane so slow and heavy, that she felt sure that the Humming-bird would win. She did not know that the Crane could fly all night.

They agreed to start from her house and fly around the circle of the world to the beginning, and the one who came in first would marry the woman. At the word the Humming-bird darted off like an arrow and was out of sight in a moment, leaving his rival to follow heavily behind. He flew all day, and when evening came and he stopped to roost for the night he was far ahead. But the Crane flew steadily all night, passing the humming-bird soon after midnight, and going on until he came to a creek and stopped to rest about daybreak. The Humming-bird woke up in the morning and flew on again, thinking how easily he would win the race, until he reached the creek, and there found the Crane spearing tadpoles, with his long bill, for breakfast.

He was very much surprised and wondered how this could have happened, but he flew swiftly by and soon left the Crane out of sight again. The Crane finished his breakfast and started on, and when evening came he kept on as before.

This time it was hardly midnight when he passed the Humming-bird asleep on a limb, and in the morning he had finished his breakfast before the other came up. The next day he gained a little more, and on the fourth day he was spearing tadpoles for dinner when the Humming-bird passed him. On the fifth and sixth days it was late in the afternoon before the Humming-bird came up, and, on the morning of the seventh day the Crane was a whole night’s travel ahead.

He took his time at breakfast and then fixed himself up as nicely as he could at the creek and came in at the starting place where the woman lived, early in the morning.

When the Humming-bird arrived in the afternoon he found that he had lost the race, but the woman declared she would never have such an ugly fellow for a husband as the Crane.

Moral. Beware of fine feathers.