  The Oneidas were a tribe of the Iroquois Nation which had swept north to invade the lands of the Algonquins, spreading death and destruction. After having beaten all the surrounding Algonquin tribes badly, the Iroquois tribes fell to fighting among themselves—the Onondagas, Mohawks, Cayugas, and Senecas, as well as the Oneidas. This constant bloodshed in the Mohawk valley in time weakened the tribes so that they were always in danger of attack from the revenge-seeking Algonquins. It was during this unhappy time that a young brave, Grey Squirrel, lived among the Oneida people. He was not an unusual Indian. He was of average build with average good looks and average abilities. He took part in only the things the average young man in his tribe enjoyed—hunting, fishing, trapping, and doing all the things they did. However, there was one difference that set Grey Squirrel aside from his brothers of the tribe: Grey Squirrel had never heard his name spoken by the chiefs of the tribe. All the other braves of his age had either heard the chiefs call their names while on the hunt, at a tribal ceremony, or while walking in the woods or swimming in the stream. So Grey Squirrel began to wonder whether he had ever done anything which, in the eyes of the chiefs, made him unworthy. He had fought in great battles, but he had never been cowardly. So cowardice could not be the reason. He had never failed to hunt well, to keep his wigwam warm and sturdy, and to see that there was enough food for all the family. He could see no way in which he had been unworthy of the chiefs’ notice. Often Grey Squirrel would walk by the quiet stream and ponder the reason for his being a brave forgotten by the chiefs. As Grey Squirrel’s heart grew troubled, he sought the wise advice of his father, Grey Owl. One evening, he approached his father’s wigwam and asked if he might speak with him about something which tormented his mind. Grey Owl invited him into his home and they both sat cross-legged around the small fire in the center of the wigwam. There was a long period of silence and then Grey Owl spoke. “What is it that troubles you so deeply, my son? I have often watched you wander from the village to the near-by stream and sit and ponder. I have watched you return with a downcast look from the hunt or battle when you should have been joyful that your bow had proven straight and true in whatever task you set for it.” His father paused. “Speak, my son, unburden your heart to your father who has loved you and guided you from babyhood to fine young manhood.” Grey Squirrel looked long at his father and as he watched his father’s eyes, his face softened and he said, “O wise and kind father, many years I walked the forest trails at your heels carefully watching every move, imitating all that you taught me to the best of my ability. Many, many hours we spent together beneath the sheltering branches of the towering oak trees, listening with our ears to the voices of the forest. You taught me how to listen and what to listen for, so that my ears have grown very keen. Today the deer may not tread the forest floor that I do not hear, nor the rabbit scurry for cover that I cannot uncover the entrance to his home, nor the bluebird set his wings for flight that I cannot immediately see his starting place. And yet, dear father, there is one sound I have listened for and have not heard.” Grey Owl had been listening calmly to all that his young son had to say. Surprise crossed his face with his son’s last words, and then a gentle smile came upon his lips. “Tell me, Grey Squirrel, what is this sound you listen so hard for but cannot hear?” “O father,” Grey Squirrel said, “I have listened for the voices of our great chiefs calling my name, but to this day I have not heard them. Am I not in favor with those who watch over our tribe and guide our feet along the safe paths? Tell me, father, why do I not hear my name spoken by them? I have listened along the forest trails or in the din of battle. I have lain awake in the quiet of my wigwam listening for just a whisper. All the other braves of our village are proud that they have heard their names repeated by the chiefs. I alone have not. What is wrong, father? I have come to you to seek your wise answer.” Grey Owl lowered his eyes to the ground as he searched his thoughts for the right reply. Then he lifted his head slowly and studied his son’s face. He began to speak slowly and kindly. “My son, you have made one very great mistake. Without having meant to do so, you have done the one thing which could have prevented you from hearing the chiefs call your name.” “Tell me, father,” Grey Squirrel said impatiently, “tell me what it is!” Grey Owl rose and walked behind his son. Placing his hands upon the young man’s shoulders, he said, “Because you have walked in search of their praise you have spent many hours expecting to hear them praise you. Do not listen so hard, my son. Live your life the best you know how. One day you shall be rewarded by hearing the voices of the chiefs who watch over our tribe. Do not be troubled any longer. Return to your wigwam and your family and continue to be a good husband and father. If you allow it to worry you greatly, it will soon hurt your whole life. You are young, my son. You have not been forgotten.” Grey Squirrel rose then, and faced his father. “Father,” he said, “your words are of little comfort. But I will follow your advice, for it has been wise and good through the years of my youth.” With that, Grey Squirrel turned and left his father’s wigwam. He returned to his own home and was greeted warmly by his good wife, Morning Star, who had prepared a fine meal for him. All through his dinner, Grey Squirrel thought carefully about his father’s words. But when he went to bed that evening, he decided that he should drive these troubled thoughts from his mind. The weeks that followed were very pleasant for Grey Squirrel. The hunting and fishing were good. Everything was going well. The people of the village saw the sudden change in Grey Squirrel and the fact that he no longer appeared worried. Grey Squirrel felt better, greeting each new day happily. One day Grey Squirrel shouldered his bow and chose his best arrows. Bidding his family good-bye, he started toward the forest to hunt for fresh meat for his family. He trotted easily along the forest trail, stopping now and then to study the ground and look for signs of moving game. He had been on the trail for a while when he came to a narrow stream. Stooping to drink of the fresh, cool water, he stopped with his hand halfway to his mouth. He blinked his eyes and looked again into the stream, not moving a muscle. There, in a quiet pool next to his reflection was that of the head and antlers of a beautiful deer. Slowly the brave lifted his head until he was looking straight into the eyes of a magnificent buck standing directly across the stream, almost within reach. As Grey Squirrel straightened up slowly, the buck shied a little and backed off. Many thoughts passed through Grey Squirrel’s head, but the one which puzzled him most was why the buck shied only a little and then stood and watched him without any sign of fear after that. Grey Squirrel lowered a hand slowly to reach for his bow which he had placed upon the ground as he was kneeling to drink. Grasping the bow firmly, he fitted an arrow onto the bow string and took careful aim. The great buck’s eyes stayed his hand from releasing the arrow and made him lower the bow. His mind told Grey Squirrel that this buck would provide good food, but his heart told him to stop. Then he noticed that the deer was favoring his right hoof and realized that the buck had an injury. The leg just above the hoof was swollen to almost twice its normal size. Grey Squirrel dropped his bow and arrow to the ground, and with careful and even steps, waded across the stream toward the buck. The animal suddenly turned as if to spring into the forest, but his leg collapsed under him and he fell to the ground. Grey Squirrel guessed that the deer must have already used up his strength in escaping from whatever had caused the injury, had come to the stream to bathe the injured leg, and could go no further. Now the buck was struggling to rise and Grey Squirrel jumped quickly to his side. Firmly but gently, the Indian placed one knee against the buck’s side, one hand on the animal’s chest, the other on the buck’s neck to hold him steady. The animal was frightened and trembled. Grey Squirrel spoke softly to the buck and began to stroke its side, each time managing to bring his hand a little closer to the injured hoof. Finally the buck seemed to sigh and relaxed as though he understood that this man wanted to help him. Grey Squirrel leaned over to look at the injured leg more closely. The buck apparently had run into some heavy brambles and a large thorn had lodged in the soft part of the leg just above the hoof, which had become infected and had begun to fester. Grey Squirrel took his knife from his belt and pressed the point of the blade into the flesh beside the thorn. The buck’s leg quivered slightly. Then the thorn and a misty fluid spurted from the wound. Grey Squirrel took wet leaves and mud from the bed of the stream and laid them over the wound. All through this operation the buck lay still, allowing Grey Squirrel to do as he pleased. The animal continued to lie there quietly as though waiting for any more help the Indian might gave him. Grey Squirrel went back to the stream and, cupping his hands, brought some cool water for the animal. The buck drank it eagerly. A long time passed while Grey Squirrel kept vigil over the resting buck. Occasionally as he moved to another position, the buck would follow him with his eyes; when Grey Squirrel settled down again, the buck would put his head back on the earth and he too would rest again. Finally, dusk drew near and it began to darken in the forest. As if by signal, the buck arose, tested his injured leg, glanced at Grey Squirrel, and started for the protection of the dense trees. Grey Squirrel called and the buck stopped at the edge of the woods and turned to look back. He cocked his head to one side as if to say “thank you,” and then moved into the thick woods and out of sight. Grey Squirrel suddenly became angry with himself and shouted aloud, “What a fool you are, Grey Squirrel! There, before you, was food for your family for a whole week. But you let the buck make you feel sorry for him. You cared for his injury, and now he has left you empty-handed after a whole day of hunting, with only the story of a deer who let you pet him—as if anyone would believe you! You are a fool, Grey Squirrel!” Then there was a loud rustling near by. All of a sudden, Grey Squirrel heard a voice, calling his name. “Grey Squirrel!” the voice boomed, echoing in the forest. “Don’t be angry with yourself. I witnessed what you did today. Your tribe will honor you. It takes courage to travel in the forests alone in search of food. But it takes greater courage to forget to be a hunter when his prey is so easy a target because of an injury. You sacrificed time and food for your family’s table to help the injured buck. If you had killed the animal, you would have felt cowardly. Return to our village, hold your head high, and tell of your deed today. Do not worry if they do not believe you at first. Your heart is happy for your kindness. Go, Grey Squirrel, it grows late. I will ask the chiefs to hear your story at the council fire tonight.” In quiet wonder, Grey Squirrel stood gazing at Strong Heart, the great war chief of the Oneidas, who stepped out of the woods only a few paces from the spot where the buck had stopped briefly to gaze back at him. Lifting his bow from the ground, Grey Squirrel started back to his family and his wigwam. In his heart were a warmth and peace that he had never felt before. |
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